Thursday, April 18, 2013

Holy Hoarding


Reeling from a loss both real
and imagined, trumped-up and palpable,
she clutches programs and possessions,
discarding connections and relationships,
sure of only two things:

everything in the past was better;
nothing in the future will be as worthy;
not because she is shallow or selfish,
but because pain is so disorienting,
that her grieving heart cannot
fathom surviving another loss.

As the publications and furniture pile up,
space for her children diminishes.
History's inventory and cataloging
have become a consuming fire;
room at the table shrinks.

Stacking stones against a sea
of change, not seeing that all mortar
is a futile attempt to capture freedom,
and rigidity leaves no room for beauty or
for tide to sweep us toward the Universe;
avoiding the deeps where grace
shines as the only path toward hope.

Who knew that her groom's absence
would expose such vulnerability?
Whose idea was it to send
unpredictable sister in his stead?

Don't think for a minute
that you will do any better.
Pray for the day when
the whole family comes back;

not to indulge her for
another holiday ritual
whose power has faded
like old Polaroids in the sun,
as method is mistaken for message;

but to profess undying love
and wholehearted commitment
to yard sales, until there is room
for all generations at the table,
so bread and wine may once again
seal water's covenant blessing.

Until that dawning arrives,
hopeful sister-in-law hovers heart to heart,
fanning long-gray coals with truth
that time and space cannot contain.

She is our mother, our sister.
She is our church.


© 2013 Todd Jenkins

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