April Child

I took my Practical Writing class to a workshop given by author Sonya Sones. She had us write poetry using questions, similes, and with the theme of “firsts”. This is what I wrote obediently while my students wrote obediently. I had the distinct feeling for the rest of the day that I had held a baby. It was sweet.

April Child

Who is this?
Who will he be?
Is the name we chose
strong enough
blue enough
handsome enough
for him?
His tiny hands reach up and out
Away from me for the first time.

His thoughts are like the sweet crocus
That lies buried in the yard in winter
And blooms with the late snow.

His dreams are like the bright tulips
That hide in the garden
Until the first spring rain.

His words are like the fragrant hyacinth
That pushes up from under
Surprising us with fragrance and beauty.

What will he think?
What will he dream?
What will he say?

It is my first baby so I don’t know.

Justice, Love and Mercy

            Christianity is built on the fact that God is Just. Sin has consequences; sin has a price. Punishment follows disobedience; the price must be paid. BUT God is Love. God loves like we have never been loved, in ways we cannot fathom, in measures that cannot be measured. THEREFORE God is Merciful. Because he is just He cannot suspend the price that must be paid for sin. Because God is love He paid that price himself.

             His Love sent his Son to pay for our laziness, selfishness, false piety, greed, impatience, impurity, and all the other unloving things we do. The punishment for sin fell on the shoulders of God’s own son. Jesus atones because we cannot. Jesus’ blood is the fulfillment of law on our behalf for sins he did not commit but took as his own so that we might have eternal life. We do not, can not, fully understand the heavenly sacrifice in our stead. We cannot understand a God who would send his Son as the fulfillment of His own law. We cannot understand the immeasurable love with which God sent his Son. We will never be able to fully appreciate it until we see him face to face.

The Missionary Goes Home

In honor of Joe Bagby, our preacher while we lived in Sweetwater, Texas, I am reprinting this story from my book Poems, Prayers and Peanut Butter. It was originally written for “Abe” Lincoln a preacher/missionary from Lubbock. But it applies to Joe as well. Keep Joe in your prayers, he has only a few weeks until he goes home.

     All things must come to an end. Athletes hang up their cleats for the last time. Seniors must graduate. Champions must take what they have learned and move on to other championships. Coaches move. Younger generations take over the older ones.
     There was a man who dedicated his life to the mission of Christ. He took seriously the Lord’s command “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.” (Mark 15:15) He moved his family to a continent far away from friends and family as they all committed themselves to a new life and a new love. The Thai people became the missionaries’ friends and family as they became brothers and sisters in Christ.
     This man and his family worked hard, toiled long and poured their bodies and souls into this new land and their mission. There were many disappointments, but greater was their joy as the gospel of Christ advanced into the hearts of the people.
     The church was planted.
     Rooted in the grace of God and grounded in the love that fellowship brings, the church grew. It was watered and nurtured by God himself and this missionary family. Soul after precious soul was baptized. Babes in Christ matured into workers in God’s kingdom. Men stepped into leadership roles and their faith deepened. Women learned the subtleties of being the strong undercurrent of nurturing and progressing the work of the men.
     Time was up.
     It was time for the missionary and his family to go home. It seemed so sudden even though they had all known from the beginning that this moment would have to come. Packing big memories into small boxes, the family prepared to leave.
     There was the plane.
     A final glance backward and they soared toward home.
     In an instant, Thailand and the life they had enjoyed for many years disappeared. Their hearts longed for all the people on either side of this gap–those in Thailand and those at home.
     At the gate, every face that the missionary family had almost forgotten was there to meet them. Every handshake, every hug was familiar and loved. It had been so long, but time seemed to melt.
     Sunday morning came.
     Thai people sat stunned as they tried to mourn and move ahead all at once. Their attempts seemed feeble and half-hearted. Where they had learned confidence and faith, there seemed to only be despair.
     Then one voice sang the familiar song–the first song they had learned together. Other voices, broken and tearful joined in. The song would have remained unfinished had they not joined hands and simultaneously stood with faces turned toward heaven. Strength filled their hearts as they realized they could carry on.
     The missionary had simply gone home.

     A small church in the States gained this missionary as their preacher. They loved his skill with the Word of God and drank from its milk whenever they were together. The preacher showed a compassion and love that was rarely seen among men. He could talk to anyone! In every conversation, he talked of Jesus….
     The church grew. Soul after precious soul was baptized. Babes in Christ matured into workers for the Lord. Men stepped up into leadership roles and their faith deepened. Women learned the subtleties of being the strong undercurrent of nurturing and progressing the work of the men.
     Time was up.
     It was time for the preacher to go home. It seemed so sudden even though they had known from the beginning that this moment would have to come.
     There was the end.
     A final glance backward and the preacher soared toward home.
     In an instant the world and the life he had enjoyed there for many years disappeared. His heart longed for all the people on either side of this gap–those in the world and those at home.
     At the gate, every face that the missionary had almost forgotten was there to meet him. Every handshake, every hug was familiar and loved. It had been so long, yet time seemed to melt.
     Sunday morning came.
     The little church sat stunned as they tried to mourn and move ahead all at once. Their attempts seemed feeble and half-hearted. Where once they had learned confidence and faith there seemed to be only despair.
     Then one voice sang the familiar song–the song they had sung so often together. Other voices joined in, broken and tearful. The song would have remained unfinished had they not joined hands in love and unity and stood simultaneously with faces turned toward heaven. Strength filled their hearts as they realized they could carry on.
    The missionary had simply gone home.

(C) 1999/2003 Elizabeth Jackson

The Handwriting of God

God has told us who He is in his very own handwriting! He has a standard, he demands justice, and he loves us enough to pay the price we can never pay.

“When the LORD finished speaking to Moses on Mount Sinai, he gave him the two tablets of the Testimony, the tablets of stone inscribed by the finger of God.” Exodus 31:18 LAW–the standard set forth by God, the holy, magnificient, gracious Creator.

Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin–Daniel 5–God’s judgment was written against Belshazzar for all to see on the wall of the banquet hall. Belshazzar because of his great sin would lose his authority that night. He had been weighed in the scales of justice and had been found wanting.

Luke 8:

“But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.
   “But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.’ Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.”

What did Jesus write? It is the unanswerable question.

Did he write the law “Thou shalt not commit adultery”? This time written not on stone but on sand to be brushed away by his slightest movement, the hem of his garment healing once again.

Did he write “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin”–You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting? This time knowing that his life would be the weight forever placed into the scales to fulfill the balance.

Or was he dirtying his finger, the innocent finger that had known no sin, symbolically to show how he would have the dirt of every sin laid on him as he was nailed to the cross of shame, to show that he who knew no sin, became sin so that we might become His righteousness. II Corintihias 5:21

   “At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’
‘No one, sir,’ she said.
‘Then neither do I condemn you,’ Jesus declared. ‘Go now and leave your life of sin.’”

The law condemned her. The scales of God’s justice demanded payment. Grace–the glorious blood of Christ–wiped out the debt of death she owed.

As it does for each one of us.

Revealing God’s Spirit

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness and self-control. Without the Spirit none of these can be present. With the Spirit none of these are really mine. I do not bear the fruit. I only tend the ground where it is grown. I can only be the one who presents the fruit. I can only reveal love. I can only demonstrate the joy that the Spirit gives. I am peaceful when I am revealing God’s Spirit within me. I am patient as the Spirit waits and hopes. When I understand that I stand back and “let God”, I am full of the Spirit’s kindness. I can be good at a spiritual level because it is the Spirit in me that is good. The Spirit reveals His gentleness through my actions. True faith only comes from the Spirit—true trust in God’s Riches, God’s Righteousness on my behalf, God’s mercy and grace. And self-control. When the Spirit is in control, I appear to have self-control because my “self” is controlled, not manipulated, not coerced, not driven, but loved and honored and revealed.

Sometimes my ground is weedy or dry because I haven’t tended it. Sometimes I try too hard and it is overwatered, overworked, watched too closely. It reminds me of when I used to plant carrots and radishes with my daddy. I was so impatient. I would dig the poor little plants up every day or so just to see how they had grown; and once, I even took a bite out of the root to see how it was going to taste! The plants couldn’t grow for my overzealousness. I don’t want to be that woman: the one who is “the sort of woman who lives for others—you can always tell the others by their hunted expression”. (C. S. Lewis) I want to be that woman who reveals joy, love, goodness, kindness. I want to be the kind of woman who is inviting and spiritual, who exudes peace and patience like a nursing mother. The one who is good because God is Good. The one who is faithful because God is Faithful. I want to be controlled by the Spirit who is God revealed.

Janus left the door ajar

For one of my Christmas gifts, I received a book about C. S. Lewis called Not a Tame Lion. If I had been a member of Lewis’s group the Inklings, I would have been more of an Owen Barfield character, a philologist, lover of words. I am also reading Barfield’s book on how history can be traced through language. I am fascinated!

I do not believe in the Greek/Roman gods, but I know we are steeped in the lore and have beliefs that are strangely tangled with those people who did worship Zeus and Hera and the lot on Mount Olympus. So many of our words still come from that time and those myths. January is named for the god of doors who had two faces, one to see the past and one to see the future: Janus. 

Janus left the door ajar
For Old Man Winter and Father Time
Who sit long hours by the fire
Laughing and smoking
Forcing us to creep home through their fog.

Janus left the door ajar
For the Baby Cupid
Who grasps the februs in one hand
And goes out gathering arrows for his quiver
Forcing us to wander toward each other.

Janus left the door ajar
For Mother Nature
Who lays her apron across the kitchen chair
And goes outside to plant crocus and daffodil
Forcing us to smile with wonder at Spring.

Janus left the door ajar
For Avril, Maia and Juno
To come to tea in the midst of Mother Nature’s bounty
Wearing their best and flaunting their brilliance
Forcing us to applaud the show.

Janus gently shuts the door
Against two Caesars who butt their way in
Then Janus finishes counting
Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten while leaves fall and snow begins
And then opens the door once again.

Why did our Father throw Jesus?

One Sunday afternoon when our oldest son was about three years old, he asked, “Mama, why did our father throw Jesus?” And that started a brainstorm of grand proportions. I had to think back through Sunday dinner conversation, the sermon, the prayers. “What do you mean, Trenton?” I asked. “Like Cully sang at church today,” he answered. I had to sift through the songs we had sung.

To God be the glory, great things He has done;
So loved He the world that He gave us His Son,
Who yielded His life an atonement for sin,
And opened the life gate that all may go in.

Refrain

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord,
Let the earth hear His voice!
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord,
Let the people rejoice!
O come to the Father, through Jesus the Son,
And give Him the glory, great things He has done.

“Oh!” I said, “O come to the FATHER THROUGH JESUS the Son.” I found it!
“Yes,” he said.

Naomi Shihab Nye has written a found poem of all the things that her son has said to her. It is called “One Boy Told Me.” Here is what one boy or the other has told me:

If you are not invisible, are you outvisible?
Why did our Father throw Jesus?
You are the lovedest.
October: Do you think Nana has made those Christmas cookies yet?
Love you infinity!
I am your puppy.
We were just playing firemen.
If the suburban goes, I go too.

…and just today from my sixteen year old
who is in my sophomore English class:
I’m glad you are here
and then…
Way to go John Steinbeck, Way to put a black mark on all mankind.
(My thoughts exactly…)

Who are the “less-fortunate”?

We pray from Thanksgiving through Advent into Christmas and also forward into the New Year and Epiphany for God to bless the “less-fortunate”.

I think we are all equally blessed, equally fortunate. The Creator has given us heaven and earth. Salvation through his Son. The watchful care of Spirit, the heavenly host, the great cloud of witnesses. But I also think we are equally tempted by our greatest vices. I think those who are rich are tempted with prosperity and those who are poor are tempted by poverty.

And who has the greatest temptation?

Out of their great need, the poor are more likely to reach out, reach up for help. They know that salvation is out of their grasp. They cannot save themselves. Cannot alone clamber out of the pit. The wealthy do not seek help. They believe they have saved themselves. Cannot see that they, too, are in the pit.

Our prayer is better said: “Please bless those whose temptations are heightened in this season of Your Greatest Gift. Please give to the “less-fortunate” the heart of a poor man to seek salvation and find Your Hand.”

My faith and the Bridge

A small rough hewn bridge spans a rushing creek in upper New Mexico. If I gather my courage and say aloud “I have faith in this bridge!” and stand on the bank what good is my faith? I am still on the side I want to abandon. I have two choices: faithfully cross the bridge and stand safely on the other side or plunge headlong into the torrent and attempt to save myself. If I plunge in, I am wet and cold and swept away. If I prove my faith I gain access to the other side. However, neither my faith merely spoken or my faith stongly proven saves me. It is always the bridge.

If I look very closely, I might see that the bridge, rough cut, wooden and scarred, is in the shape of a cross.

West Texas Symphony

A fuchsia boa
Stretches across shoulders
Of blue-orange sky
As Night waltzes with Day
Un-chaperoned.

Pelted by grit and chaff
From dying, sighing wind,
Mechanical Dinosaurs–
Continuous Metronomes–
Heads tethered:
Bobbing,
Legs Spinning:
Pumping,
Silently bringing to life
The Old Ones
Marking Time.

Staccato bark–mocked by Coyote
Electric pump (low bass) strains
To produce pizzicato mechanical Rain.

Melody of wind chimes–Harmony of Crickets,
Piccolo trill (Birds sailing home.)
Nature’s Lullaby…

The fuchsia boa slips from Day’s shoulders
Revealing diamonds.
And Night lays her down to sleep
In soft sand and star song
As the Dinosaurs mark time.