Husband Love

To Jon on Valentines Day

Husband-love, this is God’s
Grace-gift to me,

For husband-love lives Father-God’s love,
making God real to me.

Before husband-love,

I knew pseudo-love—
Love that says “I love you”
But lives “I love self.”

I knew false-love in the name of Love.

I’d never felt Fearless love,

Love that sacrifices Self for the Soul of another,
Love that mirrors God-love: perfect love
That casts out fear.

So when You lived patient love,

waiting for this foolish-fearful heart,
to trust in real Love,
waiting five years,
weathering three break-ups,
two “Dear Jon” letters,
and my sloppy-hurtful words,  
always pointing to the One
who loved me best, loved me perfectly,
Slowly, I began to see:
this lived-out Love,
Rooted in sacrifice of Self,
Rooted in trusting God,
casting out fearful
grasping, pushing, pulling,
forcing of Self before Soul is ready,
this was
Real Love.

So when we finally said “I do” on that

Bright June morning, in 2002, this I knew:
I trusted You because You first Loved me,
And I wanted to love You too.

And you’ve lived Love through good times
And bad: through seminary days, joyful
birthing days and weary new-born-baby days,
through three miscarriages and the
shattering of family,
through joy and through pain, 
through this broken-fearful heart
learning
how to let go of Self
and love you,
love our sons,
love the God
who sacrificed his very own Son
for Love of me.

And it’s Your love—

Husband-love—
That points me to this greatest
Love.

And You—

my husband, my Love,
Are God’s
most precious
Grace-gift to me.

I John 1: 9 This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. ¹⁰ This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.

1 John 4:18 There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.

Loss

Baby at 9 weeks

We lost our second baby, not-yet-named.

Tiny head, hands, feet floated,

in gentle waters—life blood still, heart silent.

And little voices asked: “Why did baby

want to play with Jesus in heaven?”

Why?

But this time why dies on lips because I’ve learned:

Loss is Life.

Others weep deep losses

I may never know:

Mothers bury sons-with-names,

Children bury fathers, mothers,

Bodies twist with sickness,

Bringing death of dreams—

Bringing sorrow to living,

Life is Loss.

Families splinter.

Relationships with those not-yet-dead

shrivel-die before blooming.

Mothers reject daughters

Fathers hate sons

Selfish hearts corrupt what should have been,

what ought to be . . .

Life is Loss.

But now, as second baby

rises to “play with Jesus,” this I know:

Loss is gain.

Loss is hope.

Loss is joy. 

Loss opens blind eyes to blessing:

Three blond boys, named and growing,

Husband of ten years, love unconditional, thriving,

Sister-love deepening within family fracturing,

Holy Spirit family—forever flourishing

In our Father of Life.

Loss shatters delusion, the mirage of control,

Loss turns hearts to

He who holds all things in the

Palm of his hand,

Who knows the hairs on my head,

Who formed me in my mother’s womb

Who loves me in spite of me.

“I consider everything a loss compared

 to the surpassing greatness of knowing

 Christ Jesus my Lord,

for whose sake I have lost all things.”*

Becca

Death is a dialogue between

The spirit and the dust.

“Dissolve,” says Death. The Spirit, “Sir,

I have another trust.”

Death doubts it, argues from the ground

The Spirit turns away,

Just laying off, for evidence,

An overcoat of clay.

Emily Dickinson

Psalm 71:20-21
Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up. You will increase my honor and comfort me once again.

Psalm 73:26
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Lamentations 3:31-33
For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.

* Philippians 3:8

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.

Making He/She, We

Nine years ago today we said “I do,”
our he/she began melding into we.
Nine years ago we declared:
“I love thee freely, I love thee purely,
with all the breath, smiles, tears of all my life!”

Yet we learned--
the course of true love never did run smooth,
You said, “It’s ten minutes to everywhere!”
I protested, “We’re late for everything!”
I suggested, “How bout some hummus?”
You laughed, “Hummus, shmummus, bummus!”
You said, “Let’s read Ephesians before we doze.”
I said, “Ok . . . ” yawning,  drifting to repose.
You said, “I’ll be a trader-discipler.”
I said, “A what? Seminary was? . . . I do not concur!”

And God looked down and said,
“What fools these mortals be!”  
Me trying to stay she.
You trying to stay he.
This he/she melding into we—how can it be?

We asked: “How do I love thee?”
Embracing your he!
Accepting my she!
Loving our very own
We.

Making together–love, we-love
an ever-fixed mark that
looks on tempests and is never
Shaken.

Making together-love, we-love
strong as death
fierce as the grave
Unquenchable.

And I said:
“Follow your dreams,
And I’ll follow you,
Wherever.
Whenever.
However.”

And you suggested:
“Macbeth is playing in the park—
Out! Out! Damn Spot!—
Let’s see it,
under the stars,
sipping Riesling.”

I affirmed:
 “Your soul-caring
Ways—reading the Word
to me, to our boys,
and Praying.
Always Praying—
I love those Ways.
Never stop.
Never change.”

You offered:
 “Can I wash the dishes?
Change a diaper?
Watch the kids?
So you can go for a run?”

I prodded:
“Help me understand
Your trader-discipler
Dreams
Your heart
Your vision.”

You gave:
“Here’s a cup
of coffee.
Made it French Press,
just as you like it.”

We-love, together-love, says:
I love thee to the depth and breadth
And height
My soul can reach.


*Blue text=quotes/paraphrases of Shakespeare, Elizabeth Browning, Song of Solomon.