Daddy and Father-God

I’m one. Bald

and chubby, sitting

on your shoulders,

in pink jumper,

yanking tufts of

Beatles-like brown hair

as you slouch

against 70’s sunflowers

pasted to the kitchen wall,

your pebble-grey eyes winking

at woman behind camera.

And I don’t know God—You

are God.

To me. 

I’m four. Strapped beside

You in cockpit,

flying over Texas,

thinking I’m the real pilot

floating below heaven,

wondering if I can see through

cloud ceiling to God. I know

about God now. You told

me he’s up there.
Somewhere.

But I’m rolling through

lower heaven,

can’t catch Your

slate-eyes to ask

if I can touch God.

I’m seven. Cuddled

with sisters in

flannel nightgowns,

lulled by husky hum of Your

voice reading Little House

and I’m dreaming of Laura, of

Ma and Pa

in prairie grass.

They’re praying

to Father-God

for life.

I curl naked toes

under pink nightgown,

wondering if I know God.

Does he know me?

But your ash-eyes don’t look UP

So I don’t ask You. . . .

I’m nine and it’s Christmas Eve.

You’re sitting next to snapping fire

cracking nuts,

fingering guitar strings,

singing about

“That Marvelous Toy” that went

"Zip" when it moved and

 "Pop" when it stopped, and

"Whirrr" when it stood still!”

And I’m wishing I could

snatch the moment into

my pocket and pull

it out in the dark night

to savor the forever-family

feeling.

And I’m wondering why

Jesus-God birthed to death

for Me,

yet I can’t feel Him close.

Your granite-eyes are

fixed

on strings,

So I don’t ask You. . . .

I’m twelve. Sitting in the

den with all Five kids,

listening to the voices of  

Tom Sawyer and

Huck Finn,

imagining the death of

Ann and Dan

as the red fern of

love grows

between death.

And I’m wondering again:

Where is this God who

lives in my heart?

Who is this Father-God?

Does he love me?

But Your lead-eyes

stare at black words marching.  

So I don’t ask You.

And I’m thirteen.

And you’re working.

Working.

Stopping  

to preach how

God-girls

dress nice and Beauty

is fleeting.

I just need GOD-LOVE.

And I want GOD-LOVE.

But where is GOD?

And I’m eighteen

Leaving for Northwestern,

so happy

to be

leaving

the family,

leaving You.

but Not.

Cause you are still God.

To me.

15 years later,

4 miles close yet

FAR as East from West

I remember your

granite-eyes,

stone-eyes,

lead-eyes,

and I know You

are not God,

never were

God.

And I see

how I made one-flesh—

You and Father-God—

twisting God-flesh

into granite-cold

Man flesh,

making Father-God

untouchable

in upper heaven.

But, You, Daddy,

Aren’t Father-God.

And I’ve asked God—

“Come down from

upper heaven

so Far.

Come
skin-close,

scent-close,

breath-close.”

And Father-God says

To me.

“Because she* holds fast

To me

In love

I will deliver her*,

protect her,

because she knows my

Name.

When she calls, I will answer.

I will be with her in trouble.

I will rescue her and honor her.

With long life I will satisfy her

And show her my salvation.”

*Psalm 91 and male pronouns switched to female.

Naming and Becoming: Birth

Isaiah--March 23, 2010

Waddling down the hospital hall,  I feel the muscles round my protuberant belly tighten, squeeze until the pressure wraps round my back and I think the baby will just pop through my white, blue-veined skin—“hee, hee, hoo . . . hee, hee, hoo . . . hee, hee, hoo . . . .” The squeezing lessens, fades, and I straighten, waddle towards room 119, the birthing room—the get-this-baby-OUT-NOW room.

And this baby’s been floating too long, 40 weeks and 8 days too long, just like his brothers, and I want to see if he’s brown like Josiah, like me, or blonde and blue-eyed like Micah, like Jon.

I hear light, athletic steps in hall behind me, Jon running in from parking red mini-van.  Knowing better than to touch me he says, “which room?” I point to 119 and he walks beside me the last couple steps. Inside 119, I lean against the cool, metal bed-arm, breathing through another contraction squeezing that baby down. A blur of blue enters room, walks to bed and says,

“When you finish this one, Hun, get in bed and I’ll check you.” I nod between hee, hee, hoos and focus on nurse’s fingers as she slips on rubber gloves, one pencil-finger at a time. Then as I roll my whale-ish self into hard, slanted bed, nurse moves to check baby’s progress into this world. Nurse’s head pops up quickly from bed end, walks to door, yells down hall:

“We’re complete in here! Get the doctor!” And nurse asks me, “Were you planning on an epidural?” I shake my head “no.”

Jon relaxed-laughs: “She was at the gym an hour ago, just had to finish that work out! We almost didn’t make it in time!”

And my belly tightens, and it’s all a rainbow of colors and voices. Doc is in surgery and can’t make it. Nurse velcro’s a monitor on my arm, feels arm for a vein--I’ve got plenty, big and blue, just like my mother’s. But there’s no time to poke needle in vein. Baby’s coming. I’m gonna push. I’m gonna push. A doctor comes, not my doctor, and I push and push and it hurts, the ring of fire, the curse of Eve—why did she eat that apple!? Fire and burn, and tingling in my face, arms, legs, and the thump, thump of baby’s heart pounding in my brain. Then a scream, not my scream. And he’s on my belly, all white and slippery and rooting, and he’s blondish and big, like Jon, like Micah.

“What’s his name?” says nurse in blue.

“Isaiah.”

Isaiah, his name, and it means “the Lord is salvation.”  

As I caress white-ish skin, slick with birth-water, I wonder:  Will he live his name?  Will he know the Lord’s salvation? Isaiah.  

And in the dim light of birthing room, naming happens, like Adam naming in the garden, we name our son.

And with the naming, the becoming begins.