Fill this Canyon with Water, for I'm Diving In: Why the Baptized Wants a Baptism

Do you see that six-year-old girl, two older brothers on each side, marveling at the Grand Canyon?

That's me, Queena Joy Yoder-now Mast. Such a strange thing, to see a photo, and then to close one's eyes and see the whole scene again, not as an outsider, but from the inside, from my young mind's memories. What that young girl thought and willed and did now matter so much to me.

My 41 year-old self was at a baptism two months ago, and I thought a brand-new thought. I stood next to my son's friend as he was pulled up, soaked and smiling, and thought "I want to go all the way under... I want that so badly." I haven't stopped wishing for this, and now I'm signed up for our church's January 26th baptism and I find myself staring gratefully at the photograph of this earnest, sincere little girl, who is and who was me. What decision was I thinking about during that time of my life?

The artist in me must have already been active then; images and movies moved me deeply. (My wicked uncles rewound 'Charlotte's Web' over and and over when they realized the spider's death would make little Queena's eyes overflow every. single. time. Can you believe they did that?!) During a Sunday evening service we watched a movie called 'Dangerous Journey;' after the lights were turned on I went and tucked myself behind the pulpit at the front of the church where there was cross on the wall. I knelt, and it was as if I was actually the main character in the story, the feelings of the pilgrim all my own. 

Where are the places and what are the physical actions where you feel like heaven and earth meet? Kneeling still matters to me, and in the past year, praying by a window has also become a significant habit. I'm always looking for God's gifts that unite the kingdom of the sky and the kingdom of this world. Christianity has so much potential to be an 'embodied faith'--The body participates in taking the bread and wine, the mystery of marriage, in baptism, in 'laying on of hands,' anointing the sick and there are more examples, for sure.  I don’t know that I’m doing everything theologically perfect by revisiting a sacrament that I consider to have fully participated in when I was six years old. I do know that I have followed Jesus from an early age, and it seems to me he is asking me to pick up this well-known picture of baptism again.

My baptism 1989:

 My people are Mennonite--and if you peel back the layers, I am too, though the core of my faith isn't a certain denominational flavor. At the center of this complexity of deep belief and theology, upbringing and even uncertain wonder is a simple wish to know and be known, to submit myself to the triune God, to Christ and his kingdom come. 

However, at the age of six and having had this "at the cross" experience, I wanted to be baptized, and if you know anything about the Anabaptist tradition I had been born into, you know 'Believer's baptism' is a really important tenet of the denomination. My young age would have been an issue for many, but fortunately my parents respected and honored the sincerity of my desire.  

I was so young! And yet I can still clearly remember glass pitcher that sometimes held our family's Sunday-dinner gravy, my dad's hands cupped over my head, releasing the water three times after the accompanying minister's ablutions. It was a thrill, the water pouring down from the top of my newly veiled head, drenching my shoulders. The child in me found joy and a giggle at this mess in a church setting while there was a serious response as well, a sense of the sacred. 

My Baptism: 2025

Physical symbols have become more and more dear to me, and my first attraction to joining in this Sunday's baptism is because going all the way under the water expresses death so well. However, the long pour has also been a much-loved symbol. I remember how any bible story containing 'oil running down the head' after my baptism brought back a tangible, tactile memory. There is a great podcast that says, (essentially): there is a rich paradigm to being baptized–it's not like you are just dying to self and being brought back to life. You are also being rescued from the chaos waters, from oppression, danger and slavery. There are so many biblical narratives that can be brought to mind when baptism happens.

Maybe the best explanation for what I expect and for my 'why' comes from this unfinished painting. I have paintings that I spend years on, and this one I started when I was 38. I dashed more paint on it at 40, and I finally finished this week.

The richness of my interior life, the deepening layers of desire, the wish to be a brush-well-dipped, well, this is why I want to be baptized. Time allows us to grow and learn and pick up a painting we need to keep working on. I want to look back at this point in my life and have a tangible, physical reminder that as I looked to an unknown future, I trusted him completely to take me through whatever chaos and whatever challenges I had ahead. I am 'all in.'

There is another baptism image, and it's not water--Christ said "I have come to set the world on fire, and I wish it was already burning." His words remind me of this image from my sketchbook, where I am a small figure hidden in the burning bush. The coals that drop from unquenchable branches seem dangerous, but they drop like a surgeon's knife on the dead flesh, burning away the false self, the one I wish to bury, so that my true self can sit, or stand...

at the edge of any danger, whole, safe and at peace.

postscript—after the service:

I’m so glad, so happy. There is a certain vulnerability to baptism for anyone, and as I talked to people today I felt  pride creeping in, and one point thinking: “Do they know deep moral failure or backsliding wasn’t the impetus that lead me to chose to be baptized?” Hmm, why do we humans want to look as tidy as possible? I have already communicated my motives above, but let me say—while I was under the water God did remind me of things he wanted to leave in the water!

I have lived my whole life with high expectations (doesn’t that sound so nice). It was the word ‘critical’ that filled my mind while I was under. My hair is now dry, and I am thinking about how ‘joy’ was the word that gripped me as I wiped the water from my eyes. Can that long-standing critical spirit really just stay under the water and rot away like a neglected ill-grown fruit, replaced by joy?

Why yes, I believe it can, and will.

A Painted Prayer

A painted prayer

A star, fallen,

But still twinkling…

Trembles on a stalk, her former grand fire shattered

Into a blooming death. 

Why did she pass from the kingdom of the skies to

The kingdom of the meadow?

Strange dark flower—

Are you an angel of royal blue and yellow

Now grounded in the soil of suffering?

My art–this habit of giving too much importance to small and unremarkable things–

Proclaims (to you this day) the year of wrung-out Jubilee.

You who stand outside this canvas, 

Touch my quiet garden of glory, cultivated with thick, frantic rows of pain and paint.

Come inside to pluck the obliging star; use her petals to sooth like salve

Your self-mutilated ear. 

Lost stars that lend their shapes

To the grass of the field,

And the wicked ones that blinked their lights on and then off

Might one day be judged by forgiving artists as mere lightening bugs. 

Would that the path that moves the damned away from Gehina 

Be lit up by their bright butts. 

Someone unknown at Ignite (a monthly Hickory Ridge worship service) painted a bold black star on a canvas and then threw it away. I picked it up out of the trash and tried to turn the  star into a flower and copied a little of Van Gogh’s ‘Les Iris’ around the star/flower. At some point I wrote a few words on the back of the canvas, and then months later I painted some more, and thought of resident whose walls seemed to be asking for it. After I gave it to her on Thursday I finished the poem. It makes me happy, so I give it to you too.

Merry Christmas from a Gingerbread Window Sill

 

I think all the time about thin spaces.

What is a thin space? Picture a familiar window and the child that might be playing on the other side. She sees you watching her, and like the kid on “The Christmas Story,” she comes close and presses her snotty nose and face against the glass to make you smile. 

I sometimes stand at my kitchen window and think about what angels might be out there-or picture the face of someone who is gone. I reach my hand out and almost feel that I have touched the face on the other side, but cannot deny the pane that is there, keeping me from that which is beyond. 

Of late I have sat with many who are perched on this windowsill. This week alone I have said goodbye to four elderly people I have loved and cared for. They are now, I believe, in a reality that is sharper and clearer, brighter and more colorful than the one I now know. They have entered a space where the grass would hurt our feet because of how much more real and solid it is than our own.* It is the place I tried to draw in this mural with my daughters, where our world is chalked in black, white and gray, but the other is full of joy, light, color…and gumdrops! 

This faith does not change the fact that I can no longer joke around with those four residents, or give them supper, or touch their wrinkled skin. But in this environment of loving and losing so many, I take comfort in the story of Christmas! I know that in Bethlehem of Judah the window was opened. The barriers around our small reality were invaded by God’s greater, all encompassing reality, and in a miracle our minds can barely fathom, the DNA of a righteous teenage girl joined with God himself in an immaculate scandal of cosmic love.

Where is your thin space? Whether it’s the church altar, the chair by the dying, or the woods at Abbots Pond, I’m committed to run toward what I can now know in part, and I want to invite everyone I know to join me as I press my face into the dark glass.

*C.S Lewis, the great divorce 

Learning to Linger-a response to a Japanese Woodblock Print

Tsuchiya Koitsu: Ryuhashi at Night, Yanagibashi

Learning to Linger 

by Queena Mast

Poets know how to linger in the world between

dreaming

and this consciousness we share.

By sharing it we feel safe to call this space

“Awake.”

Awake oh sleeper, and

Rise to the truth that artists and poets, 

priests and prophets try to learn– 

try to teach.

That Death is not real,

though your life might be, in fact, death.

Rise up from the dead.

    Learn 

the power of an interior life

    the wisdom of action born in love

    The eternity wrapped into this moment of goodness.

Who are you to say that Koitsu’s action of building homes on paper,

brush constructing brick,

mind moving toward some distant vanishing point

heart highlighting 

the yellow of warm homes

peopled by gray shadows

        under red Chinese Lanterns…

Who are you to say that, in time, his night won’t matter? 

Does meaning fade like memories,

into the fog beyond this reality,

beyond his death and mine

and yours?

I say 

your action of simply noticing

a world drawn by an artist

will wake up that which is sleeping in you.

   

    You are the man rowing through a river of time, carrying a single lantern of light…

Soon you will join Tsuchiya and myself in that small houseboat. You will hang up your 

light with ours and we will talk and paint, drink green tea and sake, and write poetry 

together for 3, 456 years of friendship. How glad you must be that you paused, in this now, 

between reading a Facebook post and your work emails, to meander into this poem.

Degas's Tangles: Why to write poetry, even if you aren't any good at it.

Degas https://g.co/arts/DDMyuU3B5CMESWdt5

 So, you want to write poetry? Know this first. Writing poetry is a full-contact sport. Blood is involved--and terror--mixed with a bit of bravery and not a small amount of stupidity. 

I admit, the bruises of football or boxing could be too strong a metaphor for what poets do. However. Know this. You can, at the very least, expect to feel the pang of tangles combed out of your hair when you attempt pull out the poetry which is hidden under the surface of your self. 

So why do you even want to go to these raw places and offer yourself up? You will become a living sacrifice, and who wants that? There is no holding back, no halfsies, no secrets. A poet looks for the bright shining pinnacle of beauty pared down to bare primal forms. Once you begin to write poetry you time-travel back to the nakedness of the Garden. However, in this garden of your creation, you don't need to be ashamed, but you could be very, very afraid. Your words might never bunch themselves together in an acceptable bouquet of meaning. You are likely to be left holding your dead darlings in a handful of rotting frippery or worse, plastic chintz. How will you face that special kind of embarrassment when your deepest thoughts and emotions wave at the world on stems of laughable, sterile, forget-me-nots? 

And yet you still want to write poetry?

Of course you do!

And you should...because dead flowers are more lovely than non-existent ones. Also, should you fail, at least chintz reminds us of our grandmothers. Go toward that raw and fearful place. Write your little poems, expose some skin, share your imperfections. Post them, write them out by hand on scraps of paper, tuck them like tracts into the stalls of a few gas-station bathrooms. Send them to a lover. Or a stranger. Or your grandmother. 

Or me. 

Degas https://g.co/arts/eiSyp4cykqcCqRqv6

The idea of "Full Contact" comes from p7 Foster, Thomas C. How to Read Poetry like a Professor: A Quippy and Sonorous Guide to Verse. HarperCollins Publishers, 2018.

On May 19th, 1:00-2:30 I will be holding a class on poetry appreciation at the Greenwood Library. There might be some time given to share poetry you have written, should you join us. The library and I will be providing materials to create poetry/art notebooks, a practice I have enjoyed since I was about 20 years old. I don't feel qualified to teach a poetry writing experience, but I do know that reading and enjoying other writer's poems is the first step toward writing your own, and I can certainly share how much I like poetry. I would love to have you join me. Register here: https://fb.me/e/34F66gm0e

PS. I just need to temper the angst--Sometimes my favorite poems don't touch this raw and fearful places. For example the Sir John Suckling poem that I memorized this way (click here for more accurate quote ):

"Love is the fart of every heart

for when held in it pains the host,

but when released, pains others most"

Extravagance: Mary and Her Gift

I gave this talk on 10/26/19 at a church called "The Well" in Greenwood, DE. You can see it on Facebook live if you click on this link: https://www.facebook.com/melody.sayer/videos/10217821421981405/ 

     Extravagance. This word quietly pulses in the background of the stories of the Bible, starting at the very beginning. A world is pulled out of nothing, flooded with light and given a lush garden full of animals and fruit and two beautiful people at the center. And also from the very beginning we see the brokenness that can come when this word is hemmed in by human greed and disobedience, when God’s extravagant goodness is exchanged for a serpent’s song and dance, when the abundance of creation is fought over instead of shared and given freely.
       I want to share a story of a woman who knew how to break out of that natural human inclination to cling to what is dear and expensive. She knew the value of Jesus and her response to his worth was to count her own luxuries, reputation, and dignity as worthless. Her name is Mary. John’s account is what I’ll quote, however, we can meet her in all four gospels. For example, Luke tells of a meal her sister Martha hosted for Jesus. In this account we find Mary in a jarring and surprising place for that culture—she is sitting with the menfolk, drinking in Jesus’s every word instead of bustling in the background like her respectable sister. Martha often gets a bad rap for not being at Jesus's feet too, but it is clear that both sisters loved Jesus. I often think of how Mary couldn’t have taken that place at Jesus’ feet had it not been for Martha’s initiative in making a place for Jesus in her home. However, Mary is the one who was willing to put aside social norms for the sake of being close to Jesus, and Jesus sticks up for her. He loves her decision.
      We see later in the book of John that Jesus has a special love for all three of this “Bethany Family.” In the story of Jesus raising Mary’s brother Lazarus from the dead the text explicitly says “Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus.” Some commentaries have suggested that there was some kind of familial relationship between them and Jesus. Whatever the case, his deep emotion and weeping at Lazarus’ tomb seem to indicate a special bond with these siblings and himself. The drama of this scene deepens as Jesus then calls Lazarus out of the tomb. You can just picture the surreal sight of a “dead man, hands and feet bound in grave clothes, face wrapped in a head cloth” coming out of a cave-tomb. It’s like a real-life Zombie movie, only full of life instead of death. I can just see a grateful Martha unwrapping the former corpse and a grateful Mary, once again, throwing herself at Jesus’s feet, but this time in shocked gratitude. They had expected Jesus to come and heal their brother before he died, and instead he took the stink of death away from Lazarus’ rotting body. This is extravagance.
      So now here we are at the story that forever defines Mary, so much so that Matthew and Mark said “Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.” Here’s the setting: in spite of being a fugitive and on the Pharisees’ “most wanted” posters, Jesus has returned to Bethany, a town only two miles from danger-ridden Jerusalem. It’s the quiet before the storm, six days before the Passover that will see him dead by torture on a Roman cross. These three siblings, who are some of his best friends, wanted to celebrate and thank him for his most remarkable miracle yet—the Lazarus-raising death-defying act where Jesus put power behind this audacious claim: “I am the Resurrection and the Life.” Now he is at a dinner party, and instead of being at the giving end, he is about to be at the receiving end of extravagance. Listen to what happens:
     Six days before the Passover celebration began, Jesus arrived in Bethany, the home of Lazarus—the man he had raised from the dead.  A dinner was prepared in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, and Lazarus was among those who ate with him.  Then Mary took a twelve-ounce jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard, and she anointed Jesus’ feet with it, wiping his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance.
But Judas Iscariot, the disciple who would soon betray him, said, “That perfume was worth a year’s wages. It should have been sold and the money given to the poor.”  Not that he cared for the poor—he was a thief, and since he was in charge of the disciples’ money, he often stole some for himself.
Jesus replied, “Leave her alone. She did this in preparation for my burial.  You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
When all the people heard of Jesus’ arrival, they flocked to see him and also to see Lazarus, the man Jesus had raised from the dead. Then the leading priests decided to kill Lazarus, too, for it was because of him that many of the people had deserted them and believed in Jesus.
     What was it like to be in that dining room? They were at the home of Simon the Leper, whose background we know little about. Could he have been the siblings’ father? Uncle? The bible is gloriously obtuse in filling in all the details, but this story has just enough to engage all of our five senses. Martha served up a feast, and you can be sure of that under her direction the table was a riot for one's taste buds, with mouth-watering smells wafting up from a multitude of dishes. The disciples must have been reveling in this chance to sit down to a proper meal after being on the run. You can just see them reclining, relaxing, enjoying the comfort we all feel when we are with our homies, our cliques, our close friends. I can almost see Mary on the fringes, watching her lucky brother who gets to be close to Jesus, longing to join the party. 
     And then she does. 
     Mary invades the men's space and overpowers their senses with the cloying smell of death—according to Judas, $24,000 dollars worth of Spikenard, a Himalayan funeral spice. She breaks her beautiful jar, kneels at Jesus’s feet and reenacts a scene they have seen before.
    I’ve mentioned that this story is told in Matthew and Mark, but there is another one, almost certainly told about a different woman, in Luke. Similar to Mary, Luke’s woman had an alabaster jar, but she also had a reputation. She was sinful woman with loose hair and looser morals. We 20th century readers can’t quite grasp the significance of her wiping Jesus feet with her hair—uncovering your head and letting down your hair in public was so risqué. I've read that this action might be similar to a woman in a long formal skirt hiking it up mid-thigh during a business meeting or in the middle of a church service. The respectable onlookers could hardly handle the situation, saying “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.” In contrast, Mary seems to me to have been respected—for example, people flocked to grieve with her when Lazarus died. What I cannot prove, but suspect, is that Mary knew about Jesus’s response to this immoral woman’s anointing, and that  that knowledge sparked a dream of showing Jesus a similar depth of abandon and love. Mary’s willingness to break social norms, to be vulnerable and perhaps impulsive, and, above all, to desire intimacy with Jesus at all cost is scary, but so attractive.

     Back to this feast in John 12. The origin of this perfume drives me crazy with curiosity. For the immoral woman it is easy to imagine her acquiring the Nard from some lover--a well-traveled man who was eager to reward her well for her expert services. For Mary I wonder: Was her alabaster box a secret? Why didn’t she anoint Lazarus when he died? Was it a family heirloom, and if so, did her brother and sister share in this decision? Was this an impulsive decision or was it well thought out?  Whatever answers I might make up, the fall-out from her actions was real. The air practically cracks with tension as Judas lights into her. “How could you be so foolish with such a valuable thing? What a senseless waste of money—so much good could have been done had she given it to the poor.” Once again, Jesus sticks up for her. He knows that Judas doesn’t value him, that Judas is about to sell him for a fraction of the worth of this oil. In deep contrast to Judas’s attitudes Mary’s actions essentially said: The least of Jesus is worth more than the best of me (Piper). Jesus's dirty feet are infinitely more valuable than my lovely hair--a part of me so glorious society demands that I cover it up. 

     Jesus knew that Mary had the quality of actively listening to what he said; that more than perhaps any other disciple she understood that he was going to die. Small amounts of nard might be used cosmetically, but no one used that much nard unless they were preparing a body for burial. Now, thanks to Mary, Jesus smelled like someone who was headed to their tomb. Significantly, after his fragrant anointing, the chief priests made plans to kill Lazarus and Jesus. Passover and the cross were six days away, and that fragrance would linger as people shouted 'Hosanna' around his donkey and as they cursed him at Golgotha.

     There is so much about the character of Mary that I like, and I love the impact her actions seemed to have on Jesus.  At some point after Mary’s anointing Jesus said “Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity. Anyone who wants to serve me must follow me, because my servants must be where I am. And the Father will honor anyone who serves me.” (John 12:25) Was Mary’s service burning in Jesus’s memory as he spoke these words? I certainly think so. I also think that, in a way, in the Upper Room, he copied Mary’s servant position among a rabble of fishermen and zealots who, at that time, were constantly jockeying for power and position. Could it be that Jesus wanted her attitudes imprinted on the twelve disciples’ minds and hearts? I believe that as he washed their stinking feet, he wanted the future leaders of his church to be reminded of this woman’s beautiful lack of dignity and her willingness to serve at untold cost to herself.

     How does all this apply to me and you? We know Jesus’s physical body is no longer with us; he said as much to the dinner-crowd in Bethany: “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.” Where is Jesus today? How can I be like Mary—who was actually able to physically care for Jesus? I think Jesus’s model of foot washing in the Upper Room answers this question. I can serve my brothers and sisters. I can call them worthy. I can take that which is most valuable to me—my time, money, reputation, social standing—and do whatever it takes to honors them. And the dividend of caring nothing for my life is the paradoxical gift of extravagant, eternal abundance.

My apologies for incomplete citations and any glaring comma issues. I know they are there, but I wanted to go ahead and post this.

Percolating Poetry--QM

'Chaos Theory' '04 by Queena Yoder

I'm writing a poem, wrestling with the thing, begging it to ripen into something grand.

I want to pour my poem into people's cups like rich coffee, dark and bitter, a kind of legal drug that will keep them up all night. I want to give them the gift of Poincaré's coffee, drunk before the magical night about which he said "ideas rose in crowds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination." With that shot of caffeine he saw order condense out of chaos (page 192) and--if only I could pull the words together--I think that's the kind of poem I'm writing.

Right now I fear the order will never come, that my poem will betray me, and that polite readers will surreptitiously toss even more than the dregs into the bushes. Or worse, I'm afraid that I won't be willing to pour out the rawness and ache I've brewed.

I need to finish this poem.

 

(In lieu of my own unfinished poem, here is a gem I found on page 196 of the book cited above.)

The Writer

Richard Wilbur, 1921

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back, 
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

From New and Collected Poems, published by Harcourt Brace, 1988. Copyright © 1969 by Richard Wilbur. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Briggs, John, and F. David Peat. Turbulent Mirror: An Illustrated Guide to Chaos Theory and the Science of Wholeness. Harper & Row, 1971.

I read more of Annie Dillard's book before falling asleep last night.

When I read Annie Dillard's writing I feel like I'm walking the in between world of waking up from a wonderful dream, floating in that first-awake moment. Consciousness begins for me as I stare deeply at the wrinkles of my sheets and at the freckles and tiny hairs on my arm while remembering those beautiful images that will fall into forgetfulness when I arise to dress and met the day. 

Her words go down to some place of wonder and joy in my heart, a place that often surprises me with emotion. Here is a quote from page 139 in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. She is talking about the intricacies of this globe we inhabit:

"What do I make of all this texture? What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been set down? The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember calling, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek."

I have been let in on a fractal made of spoons and cups and lighted windows, a dizzying fractal of three pretzels sitting on a white paper plate, a fractal where I look forward to the sight of two pines trees at the end of Old Furnace road every Tuesday and Thursday evening at 5:27. The smallest piece has been blessed, the tiny diamond on my ring finger, the slant of light glinting on my pillow, and the cracks on my splintered phone. I'm so full of life today, and so full of the ache to bring others into this texture of joy.

This morning I prayed again for all those displaced by war. They are the ones I really wanted to write about today, and I've tried again and again to write something that would express how I feel for them, but all my words come out like cardboard. So instead, I turn to Annie Dillard's words and the hope that in all this complexity of our crushed, organic, and beautiful world the misplaced will find a place for hope. 

Writing in my Astrostar --QM

As I promised, I've been writing at least 5 minutes every day. My words haven't made it onto this blog yet, but they are sitting in pencil in my Chinese notebook and in my head.

For the last 24 hours the refugee situation has been almost constantly on my mind and heart. I have a vivid imagination and can easily put myself in their shoes. I can also imagine and understand the fear that drives much of the attitudes that I hear about second-hand (I've been staying away from Facebook and the news because I hardly know how to handle some of America's responses).

I want to operate out of love, not fear. I would love to have a refugee family at my dinner table, resting at my home, helping them to learn English, and learning from them how to cook their amazing dishes. Today I sat in my car after dropping off my children at school and, instead of writing, I prayed. I pray every day for those misplaced and homeless by this war, but today I begged God to let me somehow do something for them--to practically show love and compassion and kindness.

The inside of the Statue of Liberty

In the 17th century Edmund Burke said something like:

Evil Triumphs when Good Men do Nothing

Another famous quote has been reverberating in my head these days:

³⁴ “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. ³⁵ For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, ³⁶ I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’  
....
⁴⁰ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ (Matthew 25 NIV)

I know this issue isn't simple or easy, that there are reason for fear and that it is complicated. But let us do everything we can do to avoid getting to the place where we xenophobic Americans need to take down this plaque, or maybe the whole green lady, in order to accurately reflect where our heart and practices are toward those in need of refuge.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Sitting in the Driver's Seat for 5 Extra Minutes on a Rainy Tuesday--QM

I have been bemoaning the small margins in my life--where has the white space to write, draw, read, study for my PRAXIS exam, and even keep up with my laundry and dishes gone? This morning I had Thoughts to Capture on my way home from taking the kids to school. As luck would have it, a friend gave me a notebook a week ago which has been stashed in the pocket by my drivers seat. I wrote this journal entry, and thought "I could do this Monday through Friday--I have a predictable quiet 5 minutes every day if I want, out in the driveway." So friends, hold me to this for a month--I will sit in my car for just a few moments before the rush of the day, and write.

     Driving through my sleepy small town, I pass by the blur of the familiar houses and tidy porches. The rain mists on mailboxes and sidewalks I never notice but recognise keenly with my subconciuos.
     Then I cross the railroad tracks and my own dear house peeks around the corner of the Methodist church. My once bright yellow mums are now black circles against the white of my home, the garden has turned brown except for a few valiant red zinnias (on whose account I keep the tiller away), and the formerly cheerful jack-o-lanterns are now macabre with sagging, oozing black faces.
     I love my messy, untidy life. Moss grows from the edges of my garage door, my laundry room fills more quickly than it empties, and my bathroom--well, lets not even talk about it.
     I'm not perfect, but for the most part I believe I'm choosing well in how I spend my time, though sometimes I tremble at all I might do, but don't. Now, however, its time to leave this van--the windows decorated with beads of rain, the smell of coffee newly spilled on the rug--to leave my pencil and notebook, pick one of those brave flowers for my kitchen window sill, slip a rainy day music CD into the computer, and do the dishes.

The Mind's Muddy River cannot be Dammed --post by QM

Annie Dillard's words from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek page 32-32 are in italics.
 

Painting By Alexandra Ross

My heart burned, unexpectedly.
Isn't that always the nature of a burning heart,
Those two dense men traveling to Emmaus, 
they remembered the ache after the fact.

The literature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise.

I had spent the day in a stupor, just sick enough to be lazy without feeling guilty 
and not so sick that I couldn't enjoy my laziness. 

I was enjoying a solitary lunch--
Sunday's Vietnamese Chicken soup,
Ginger Honey Lemon tea
And a piece of Lindt Chocolate.
Of course a book needed to be a part of this repast,
The calm before I stormed the needs of my chaotic laundry room.
I propped Annie Dillard's 'Pilgrim at Tinker Creek' in front of my steaming bowl.

The world's spiritual geniuses seem to discover universally
that the mind's muddy river,
this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash,
cannot be dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might lead to madness. 

I felt the minute details of my life swirling by, 
the detritus of 'ought' and 'should' that keeps me always occupied.
Suddenly I couldn't see. I smelled the sharpness of fishsauce and ginger, 
and the sweetness of the chocolate still lingered in my mouth, 
but the Emmaus Ache stole my vision with tears. 

"Launch into the deep," says Jacques Ellul, "and you shall see."
 
Today a friend wrote a peppy and thought-provoking little message on Facebook that went something like this:
Why limit yourself??? ...Why do we sometimes think..."My dream is dead...that's no longer for me"? That's a lie. Many times we are better positioned when we are older to take on that dream and realize it!! So dream big! 

I have been thinking about my dreams ever since. I want to 
paint,
write,
speak, 
get my master's in teaching English as a Second Language,
welcome people of all backgrounds into the church,
help immigrants and refugees learn how to communicate with Americans, 
keep a well organized house,
continue to love on my kids and husband,
be hospitable, and
make more meals like that Vietnamese Chicken Soup.

Another, final dream: to learn the Secret of Seeing and to draw other into that joy.
To return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour the laurel blooms. And to return from the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name.

Litanies
hum in my ears;
my tongue 
flaps in my mouth
Ailinon, alleluia!
I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.