Another poem, begun in Sunday School in late fall 2006, when we were discussing the prophet Ezekiel’s vision of the resurrection of the dead and the healing of the Dead Sea:
The Valley of Dry Bones: Ezekiel 37
I am the valley of dry bones.
I am the fallow field, waiting, waiting
for the touch of the farmer’s hand,
for the sharp kiss of the plowshare.
And his breath is cool water
flowing out of the eastern gate,
pure and clear, carving a new wadi,
trees springing up like mushrooms
as the water soaks downward, downward.
And in the weeping of his earth
a sea is healed.
(c) 2006 [me]; all rights reserved. And as MimKnits says at the bottom of her patterns, be nice.
Nearly two years later, I am still not sure if this is a love poem or a God poem. I was about midway through my spiritual boot camp experience when I wrote it. Brother Abacus had made his brief, dazzling appearance [and unknown as yet to me, his disappearance].
I saw him at church when I went to help out Secondborn last week. He did not look well. I couldn’t tell if he was getting over something, or coming down with something, but he looked careworn. And any lingering traces of anger or sadness I might have harbored, just melted away.
I do not know why, when I have given my heart [even chastely, as in the last disaster] to a man and wisdom whispers to take it back, I do not get it all back. I do not know if this is a blessing, or a curse. I know that it feels good to no longer be angry or sad, to have the pain and frustration replaced with a tender if wary compassion. Or in the case of the children’s father, a weary compassion.
Something I shared with one of my girls yesterday: I heard something really neat in church [on Sunday]. It was about hanging in there during the hard times. And that when we are down in the valley, and we think that maybe God has forgotten about us, or is busy helping somebody else, but we just continue to do the things that are right, even if we’re not sure that they will lead to the desired result, or if our prayers will ever get answered in this life, the just-going-ahead-with-it-ness [Fourthborn would be so proud of me; must be the German blood manifesting itself] makes Him so happy and so proud of us. And it puts Him in a position to bless us. I found that very comforting.
I still struggle to manage my finances. I still struggle to obey. I still struggle to keep a house that is tidy enough for the Spirit to feel welcome. I still struggle to feed myself what my body needs for optimal health, instead of what is cheapest or easiest.
If the Savior were to knock on my door this afternoon, I’d invite Him in and clear off a chair and bake us some cookies. And then I would go show Him my closet, and the drawers in my room, and the one wall that’s finished. And then I’d let Him help me finish up the dishes while the cookies baked, and if He wanted to help me paint, I’d let Him. And I’d ask Him to help me do a better job keeping the commandments, and then I’d ask Him if He wouldn’t mind staying until the dance next Friday night and maybe lighting a fire under some of those brethren who have been going to the dances as long as I have, so that some of those good sisters could get married or remarried. [There’s nobody there, that I know of, that *I* would want.]
And I would thank Him for all the things that are going sweetly and peacefully in my life. I do that a lot anyway, but it would be nice to be able to look in His eye and tell Him.
And I would ask Him if He wouldn’t mind instructing the waterbugs to stay out of the duplex and to go pick on ministers who show “The Godmakers”, instead.
I wanted to see if I could move my bed without asking the kids for help. It is huge, and tall, and heavy. A bed to found dynasties on, a bed large enough for Ms. Ravelled and a 5’ x 8’ hooked rug in progress. [I know this because in 2000 - 2001 I spent nine months hooking that rug. I just rolled it up and kept it on the ahem, fallow side of the bed when I slept at night.] That bed probably weighs more than the refrigerator.
And by the grace of Heaven and the feisty determination of one middle-aged woman and the blessing of laminate flooring, I can! I celebrated by declaring that my Family Home Evening activity would be to hop in the car and take the clothes and the hangers down to the thrift store. Moving the bed really gave me an appetite, so I stopped at the bookstore for a paperback to read, and I went to one of my former haunts, a pancake house that’s open 24/7 and has the most amazing German pancakes, swimming in butter and hot lemon juice.
Adamas? I just finished the first row on repeat 11 of chart 2 and wound up a second cake of yarn. There will be spit-splicing sometime today if I do not miss my guess. And Knit Night, tonight; what a great way to start off the workweek!
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!