Words to what there are no words for....

How do we honor loss in our culture?

It seems to hem us in from every corner of our lives...no one is untouched by death.

And yet- doesn't it seem that the care and process of honoring the dead, of honoring the death within us is treated as if they are table scraps...

How may we, as mourners pick up these scraps and elevate them to our table. Allow them to be present with us...clear a place for them, so that we may feast on them as memories, suckle on them as painful as it may be-greet them.

What would it be like to take the ONE SECOND that we are allotted to grieve and multiply it to a lifetime? What would it be like to be a people who remember? How do we honor the dead? Where is the place on this earth for grieving? Where is the designated aisle that I may find to walk down... where is my place in this world as one who grieves daily? Where is my flag I should wave- that i can pass to you?

I am in Seminary because I deeply desire to enter more deeply into the way of my own grief, walk in that way and meet up with God there. It is there that i long to grasp His hand and ask others to join me there. I want to sing there, beautifully, as we craft a way together to cry out "why God why?!", shaking our fists in the air, crying out, yelling out and yet still holding hands full of red roses that symbolize hope. Together we will point to the moments of redemption and call them out, cheer them on as powerful!

This is why I study....

Today I had a day of deep grief...

and this poem below is an attempt

to put words to what there are no words for...

grief.

mourning

death....

may you all journey deep within the walls of your grief and come out grateful...

(please note that this poem is written with the intent to be spoken...so- will you please do me the deep honor of imagining me actively engaging this - of course with all the right poignant pauses!! :))

roaches desecrate the wood

that once

fed the fire

so they walk 3 miles further

and three miles back

to bake the bread , that feeds the ache within their stomachs

the screaming started at 1am

when the child remembered

the smell of that morsel that at one time had fed her frail frame

she had forgotten

the goodness of its taste

the wonders of it matriculating on her tongue

the way it makes her feel in her toes

when the warmth wanders just a bit down

past her belly...

the hugs she throws up in the room

when she feels whole

like parts of her are full enough to fill other parts

you see- she walks everyday.

everyday she wakes and walks

to soothe the torment of her empty vessel

to make flames.

to make flames for her family.

to stare at the empty eyes of the people

across from her she once knew..

to chew on the remains of the days

that held laughter

and dreams

these are the memory days

the days were she imagines the desert

to be full of daffodils

daffodils that grow grapes.

the memory days

hold within them

visions...

the clouds become his face

and they reach out for her hand

folding each finger back, ever so gently until only the pointer remains

And he thrusts it up for her, towards the sky

running/ leaping/ galloping

she runs across the mountain top pasture of her dreams

as if her finger is a flag

a flag that says

mourn.

she runs. and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs....

until, her sorrowing heart weighs her to the ground

her heavy body forms itself a place in the sand

her fingers buried deep within...

...she scoops up the handful-watching carefully as it pours to the ground

whispering to each small glimmer:

“its okay”.