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