(as a tangent, i appreciate that advent precedes "ADVENTure".)
a few weeks ago, during the actual season of advent, i got to partake in a writing group. amy lyles wilson is the one who leads it. it was shortly after a trip to SBL, during which one of my professors told me i needed to actually write, because she believes that the way my brain functions is valuable. i think she's weird. but i also think she's brilliant, so i listened. i strolled into church a few days later and heard the announcement that one of the sunday school options would be the monthly writing group that amy puts on. so i went.
the prompt was about advent. it was from a devotion that i can't quite remember, but the words were good. "God of darkness and light.. make pregnant my hope.. I know there is a Bethlehem inside me.. we are a people of hope.. what do you hope for? ... where light shines with tender memories..."
this is what i wrote when i briefly pondered on the ideas of advent. (this is also what made clear the fact that my brain does in fact work differently)
can i tell you of my sacred ash ridden stories?
would you sit and weep with me while i laid bare my tender tempestuous soul?
because if you would, i could show you a gently ebbing tide
that still washes away the tiny fragments of terror
i could grab your hand
and show you the intimidating brilliance inside every violent flash
i would point in wide-eyed hopeful wonder to the coming hurricane
stirring in the distant waters
doesn't your skin tingle with the hope?
born on the warms winds racing across your face?
can you feel that hope?
i still see you walking there
unmoored and fearless
you've wept and been swept away from the harbor
and you survived
with great loss and barren caverns, you rose
and now
what is left to fear?
the steady carving dug out for you an altar where only the brave ones meet
marked
etched by wear & tear, but fearless
dancing in streams of wild uncertainty
singing, "i was struck but here i stand"
could you wash away the fear in your own life?
will you come to know this bruised and battered body
that you might run and jump, once more?
would you make the trek to Bethlehem
and face the desperate possibility of your own end?
and rise
oh to sing and dance and rise once more
to remember with calloused hands that no hand remains full or empty forever
that no man is an island
that within humanity, there is a tiny thread bare patch of hope
offered to those whose seasons have torn them to shreds
the needle might prick and puncture
but to be comforted and made warm by your own story once more is a gift no other hand could give you
would you risk once more the feigned protection of the thimble
to stitch together your pieces?
for the moment when the last patch is secure, or at least sewn
there is no greater hope
for the clothed now knows in triumph that this naked body has found cover once more
torn garments have not the last word because the stone was removed
the space left was defiantly hopeful in a way that could not be silenced
nor could it rightly be understood
so honor the remnants held together by patchwork
hold in high regard the sacred things stitched together
having softened them by the art of grief
breathe life into the hope of your story
even if it is still in pieces behind the tomb
