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.
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,
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.
