on fifty shades

when did the umbrella of humanity

shade our eyes to fifty

doves lighting then falling still beside watery brooks

bathed in milk

fragrant with spices and balsam

tender like banks of sweet herbs

stained fifty shades of bloodred

yearning to inhale the scent of fifty unspoiled lilies distilling sweet myrrh

two in union

only

male and female

husband and wife

hands and body

pure

as ivory innocence strong

as steady as pillars holding

faith and trust and gentleness

upon fine respect and harmonious submission

to the Maker of the gift

Who creates the

exclusive

and excellent state

majestic

as the cedars

speech sweet and prose gentle

never foul four letters

never cursing the altogether

lovely of his beloved and friend

how very fair

the

unbound

the

unchained

the

free

eyes trusting

protective as the doe

lips like a thread of scarlet

mouth lovely

tongue tamed

hearts ravaged by courage

I looked for him among the debris of fifty million broken souls but could not find him

I went to the cities and into the streets and broad ways and sought the pure original gift

but I could not find

amidst the shades of gray

black and white

wrong and right

blurred

by whom and what our wretched insatiable souls seek

lost hands groping through fifty shades of self

consuming and consummating

fifty shades of demise

until at last I returned to the Watchman

the Watchman who went into the city, pushing past fifty shaded alleyways

and fifty chains that bound me

loosing the violence causing irreverent slips of the soul

and when the Watchman found me and gave me

my one love

I held him and would not let him go

until the pureness stirred

awakened

restored

shades and shadows

bowing to light

illuminated

and

right

lovely

and

good

and worth the

fight

*****

poem contains excerpts from the Song of Solomon

and is

dedicated to survivors

of sexual abuse and trafficking

who know too well how words on pages, images on screens and actions of those who would control contribute to the destruction and devaluation of the gift God meant to be pure and good and true and safe

*****

may the Lord continue to break chains and bring light and peace and hope to infinite shades of wrong, evil and injustice everywhere

*****

artwork by Dena Lowery

near the feet: a poem for survivors

all alone

ever

among us

uninvited

and

ignored full of

shame deflecting

pity

a harlot by

choice a harlot

by force a harlot

just the same

her story

no one wants

to hear too much

for them

to handle

but

everyone wants

to whisper

clicking

tongues think

they know her

struggle

her fear

don’t look

back forget

the past move

on

give up

get over

go away

still she stays

she stays to heal

she stays to hear

she stays to remember

the grace

the touch

the taste

the forgiveness

she stays

to find

her

way

near the only feet

that

saved

her

Jesus

***************

“One of the Pharisees asked him over for a meal. He went to the Pharisee’s house and sat down at the dinner table. Just then a woman of the village, the town harlot, having learned that Jesus was a guest in the home of the Pharisee, came with a bottle of very expensive perfume and stood at his feet, weeping, raining tears on his feet. Letting down her hair, she dried his feet, kissed them, and anointed them with the perfume. When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man was the prophet I thought he was, he would have known what kind of woman this is who is falling all over him.”

Jesus said to him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“Two men were in debt to a banker. One owed five hundred silver pieces, the other fifty. Neither of them could pay up, and so the banker canceled both debts. Which of the two would be more grateful?”

Simon answered, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most.”

“That’s right,” said Jesus. Then turning to the woman, but speaking to Simon, he said, “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”

Then he spoke to her: “I forgive your sins.”

That set the dinner guests talking behind his back: “Who does he think he is, forgiving sins!”

He ignored them and said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

Luke 7:36-50,The Message (MSG)

About face

I used to think the voices were true.

Until I lost my son at the football game Friday night.

See, my mind is a place where accusations echo, telling me I should be ashamed of myself (for you-name-it); I’m damaged goods; I’m not a good enough mom, wife, worker, friend (you-name-it again). This phenomenon is a constant hum of shame, and it resonates through the minds of many folks who suffer injustice, especially when wounded repeatedly and at a young age. It takes a long time and a lot of practice to hear the truth of who God says we are. It takes a lot of try-try-again to learn how to push back the voices of bitterness . . . voices that tell me to hate and that forgiving someone shows weakness . . . voices which are not from God but from the blackened ashes of hurt.

Sure makes healing a challenge. Makes trying to better those broken places a near-impossible task, because the shame and blame make us want to turn more inward instead of unfurling our hearts into the hand of the gentle pruner.

Until Friday night, that is.

When I lost my son.

The evening was perfect: a cool, starry night with throngs of townsfolk gathered to watch the high school football game. At half-time, I reminisced about my own days spent in the marching band (please don’t stop reading now that you know this about me). I remembered how many times we practiced doing an about face, where in two smooth moves you turn your body the complete opposite direction. A few touchdowns later, and the game let out. It was homecoming night, and as such, every-man-for-himself as hundreds crowded through the single gate to the parking lot.

When everyone stopped, my son didn’t notice.

He kept going.

Now, in 13 years of parenting, I’d never lost one of my kids. Not at a shopping mall. Not at Target. Not anywhere. (And frankly, that in itself is a miracle.) I’d never felt the fear and panic, running up and down my arms like prickles of ice . . . my lungs turning inside-out as I struggled to even inhale . . . the black ink of panic closing in around my field of vision as I tried in vain to distinguish the freckles and messy hair of my son from the maddening mess of people standing around me. The stands were almost empty, and the once-bulging parking lot sparse. Small groups of friends laughed and talked. Football players emerged from the locker rooms into the arms of waiting parents and sweethearts.

“How can people just stand there?” I remember thinking. “My son is lost and I’ve got to find him! Help me!”

Just as I was about to call the police, we found each other. Both of us burst into tears, the agony of wondering-the-worst exploding from the calm facade I’d been trying to use to push back images of him being stolen or squished by a carload of teenagers. My son’s concerns about his mama not coming for him melted into a chin-quivvering cry, “I thought you were right with me, mama!”

And we clung to each other in perfect relief.

On the drive home, the mix of adrenaline and gratefulness pummeled against my heart. Faces of people I can’t forgive and people I run from and people who hurt me very, very badly flooded my mind and I heard God say, “The way you felt tonight about losing your son? Soak that in. Think on those emotions. Because that is exactly how much I love those people you find so hard to forgive.

“The difference between the way you love your son and how I feel about those people you hate?

“I love them infinitely more.”

And just like that, God used a brief moment of utter despair and threatening loss. My heart flipped. The most immovable places of my soul did a complete, knee-buckling about face.

“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” is all I can manage to respond.

How He loves us all.

Oh, how He loves us, indeed.