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Phoenix Cluster: Photo by Chandra X-ray ObservatoryA Found Poem

In the Phoenix constellation,
5.8 billion light-years from Earth
the core of a galaxy cluster
is giving birth to countless stars.

Hundreds of thousands of galaxies,
suspended in hot gas,
held together by gravity,
are the largest structures in the cosmos.

In the center of these galactic gatherings
live supermassive black holes,
hurling and heaving high-energy particles
too hot for stars to exist.

A lesser cluster with a less effective black hole
overlooked for its lack of power and potential
has been discovered to be laboring away in secret,
forming stars at a furious rate while the bear and sister
supermassive substantial watches from afar.

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John opens Chapter 11 as the distant narrator, telling us that a certain man, Lazarus of Bethany, was ill. We, the readers, are then introduced to this man’s sister Mary, who is known for the extravagant display of anointing the feet of Jesus with oil.

Lazarus has another sister, and the action in this story starts with the sisters sending for Jesus, informing him that the one he loves is ill. To keep the energy flowing, as all good stories must, we are now expecting a deadline, a countdown, a race against time, maybe some sand storms, speeding camels, and shifty nomads to evade.
Jesus brings the narrative to a halt by telling his followers nonchalantly, “This illness does not lead to death.�� We breathe a little easier, and the disciples are relieved because they did not have to go back to Judea where certain death awaited them.

Jesus stays two more days and then decides they are going to Judea after all. Apparently, in the prequel to John 11, Jesus was nearly stoned by an angry mob for claiming to be one with God. The disciples are looking at each other like he is delirious with heatstroke. Jesus goes on to say a bunch of stuff about shadows and light and stumbling and sleeping, which I doubt any of the disciples actually heard since they were busy planning their own funerals in their heads.

There’s a location change, a scene change, and probably a costume change since they had been sweating a lot and in close proximity to camels and donkeys and shifty nomads.

Jesus and his entourage show up in Bethany and the greeting is not a pleasant one. Martha meets him before he enters the town to tell him none of this would have happened if he had just come when they asked him to. But, she also tells him, “even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.�� Jesus answers, “I am the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in me though he die, yet shall he live. Do you believe this?��

Mary enters stage left, and she brings with her a crowd of Jews who had been grieving with them. Mary falls at Jesus�� feet, and she makes the same statement Martha did, “If you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.�� There was weeping and disappointment and despair. They arrive at the tomb together and he tells them to remove the stone. Jesus prays loud enough for everyone to hear him, letting the people know he is doing it for their benefit, not his own, or even Lazarus��. Jesus then calls Lazarus out and the dead man staggers out of his tomb.

His rescue was already in play, before he fell ill, before he died, before he was buried, before he was brought from death to life. His rescue had always been in play. It is tempting for us to consider Lazarus the protagonist of this story, after all, it is his death that brought them all together and gave him is own chapter in the Bible. But he is not. This story, this feature, this epic saga is not about Mary and Martha and Lazarus, Thomas the Twin, and tag-along Jews.

The lead character will always be God. The rest of them, and the rest of us, merely have supporting roles. We are walk-ons, extras, doing hair and lighting, setting the stage. This does not diminish our involvement or importance in the slightest. Without these elements, these roles, the story could not be told in its magnificent fullness. It is always about Jesus, in his sovereignty, casting, directing, and producing this larger-than-life drama that we are bit players in.

This story of Lazarus is just like fifty others in the Bible with their tragedy and flawed humanity, tales of love won and love lost, reputations made and reputations ruined, kingdoms built and kingdoms conquered, walls built up and walls brought down. These stories parallel every aspect of our own lives, mirrors for us to peer into for a glimpse of ourselves. Jesus appears and says, “It’s not about you. It’s about Christ in you, the hope of glory. With every story, we are asked, like Martha was, Do you believe this?

The Israelites spent forty years in the desert crying out for rescue, Joseph endured 13 years as a slave, a victim of devastating betrayal, Daniel in captivity, fasted and mourned for 3 weeks, grieving over the sin of his people, Lazarus died and lay in his tomb for four days.

None of these circumstances were accidents. There was no arbitrary randomness. Although they occurred at fixed points in time and space, these events were in motion for ages before they ever came to pass. The rescue was already in play, for all of them, in every situation. Do you believe this?

We all have those times in our lives when our faith is crushed, and we tell God, “If you had been there, none of this would have happened.�� For myself, in the span of seven years, I’d lost a pregnancy, a mother, a brother, an uncle, a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, a church community, friends I trusted, health insurance, and a job, which culminated in an avalanche of bad experiences that threatened to bury me alive.

After C. S. Lewis’s wife, Joy, had died of cancer, he wrote in A Grief Observed, “Not that I am in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about him.��

For me, the sovereignty of God became something to be feared. Since God allowed these terrible things to happen to me, what else would he allow? During this time the one thing I found comfort in was a constant reminder of God’s attributes. God is good, can never be anything but good, and will only ever be a good God, regardless of the circumstances.

With every loss, setback, and betrayal, when I was believing that sovereignty means cold detachment, I was being asked, “Do you believe? Do you believe that God’s sovereignty is to be rested in and trusted,?�� Do you believe that God is good, regardless of the circumstances? Do you believe that he can redeem, rescue, and restore even your situation? Even you? Do you believe that he can find you in the desert, deliver you from slavery, restore your nation, raise you from the dead?

Resurrection requires a tomb. There can be no Rescue without peril. Restoration without loss would hold no meaning. Redemption requires captivity. Your rescue is already in play and has been since before time began. God can turn the hearts of kings, cause the sun to stand still, seas to part, water to come out of rocks, pillars of fire to lead people in the desert. Can he not part your seas? Can he not redeem what you have lost? Will he not rescue you from your lions, your Pharaohs, your Philistines, your Potiphar’s wife, your Pharisees, from faithless friends and watchful enemies?

Does he not heal twisted limbs, bring sight to the blind, lift up little girls from their deathbeds? Does he not restore what the locusts have eaten, empty tombs, and resurrect the dead? Has he not been planning your rescue from before you were born?

Jesus weeps for you as he wept for Lazarus. His heart is broken for your broken heart. He sees you, in your confusion, your lostness, your anger, your despair. Whatever tomb you are in right now, he holds it in his own hands and lets that darkness pierce his own heart so that light will shine through his own wounds, and bring you back to life.

He is the provider of loaves and fishes, teller of parables and maker of miracles, giver of overflowing nets, creator of feet that walk on water and hearts with doors that can be knocked on.

He is your God, your rescuer, your redeemer, your restorer, the One who gives you new names, new lives, new hope.

In Isaiah 58 we are given a promise:

And the Lord will guide you continually
    and satisfy your desire in scorched places
    and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
    like a spring of water,
    whose waters do not fail.
12 And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
    you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
    the restorer of streets to dwell in.

Even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.

Do you believe this?

I dont know what im doing and its driving me crazy.

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Review: The Moment of Tenderness
by Madeleine L’Engle

Hardback: Grand Central Publishing, 2020
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Liars, cowards, rescuers, and lovers. Characters you can recognize in the pit of your stomach and others you hope never to meet. The Moment of Tenderness introduces us to a lineup of memorable saints and sinners who remind us that humanity is flawed beyond belief yet worthy of redemption. The saints are faithful caretakers and longsuffering bit players who are achingly authentic and distressingly familiar. The sinners are jealous, combative, haughty, and overbearing; yet given every opportunity to redeem themselves and their choices.

Madeleine L’Engle’s granddaughter, Charlotte Jones Voiklis, author of the biography , has brought us a new collection of old stories. Papers and unpublished manuscripts were gathered from 3 different houses where her writing was stored. Much of the content in the stories are almost uncomfortably autobiographical, revealing Madeleine’s loneliness, fear of disconnection, and sadness during certain periods of her life as an adolescent in a boarding school, her young adulthood spent in Greenwich Village, and her early years as a mother and published author. You see glimpses of this in her novels, but this collection gives us unique insight into L’Engle’s personal life and brings her closer, making her more relatable and human.

The first five stories begin with “The Birthday,�� about a child on the eve of turning eight. We meet young protagonist Cecily Carey cold and shivering in her bedroom window as she experiences her first identity crisis. She expresses herself in a stream of consciousness, her thoughts tumble out of her in rapid-fire sequence, questioning her being and existence, ��. . . because the world had changed all of a sudden and it wasn’t hers anymore and she didn’t know who owned it.�� She feels small and frightened. As the story closes she cries for her mother from her bed but when nobody answers, she tells herself the truth about who she is and how she is loved and how she belongs. She gets up with bravery and confidence and takes care of herself. It’s a brilliant opener for the collection as it sets us up for a narrative journey through universal experiences of personal growth and hard-won maturity.

L’Engle continues her coming-of-age theme with children who are absorbing trauma from their parents, being bullied at boarding school, and humiliated and rejected at summer camp. The characters get increasingly older until “While in the Moon the Long Road Lies,�� ending with a young woman about to go to college, desperate to escape her stifling Southern town. The people who inhabit these stories are lonely and naive, longing for connection, for something more, something other. They are also stalwart and resilient. Unafraid of the rawness of their emotions, reminiscent of Madeleine’s most loved heroines like Meg Murray in  but most of all like Madeleine herself.

This was originally presented at Jesus People USA Covenant Church on Good Friday in 2013.

And Joseph took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock; and he rolled a large stone against the entrance of the tomb and went away. And Mary Magdalene was there, and the other Mary, sitting opposite the grave.

Matthew 27:59b-61

The two Marys. They had just watched Joseph place Jesus in his own grave. Sitting opposite the grave. In some translations it says that this was a garden. So when we picture this, our minds naturally imagine two women on a park bench surrounded by flora waiting for Jesus to come back to life.

Mark tells us the women were looking on to see where Jesus is laid. Luke writes that the women returned and prepared spices and perfumes. Matthew is the one who tells us the women are just sitting there.

I’m sure from the writer’s perspective it may have appeared as if they were doing nothing. But they weren’t. Mary Magdalene and Mary were most likely crumpled on the ground, holding one another, as they wept. They were sitting there because there was nothing else they could do. They did not have the strength to stand, let alone walk bravely home, while Jesus’s tomb disappeared in the distance behind them.

They weren’t waiting there, expectant with faith, for a front-row seat to the Resurrection. They were waiting there to finish the burial ceremony before the Sabbath passed. It was over. The Son of God was dead.

Jesus spent hundreds of years preparing his followers for his death. In prophecy and parable, he told them. He warned them. But no amount of words prepared them for this. They had given years of their lives to this man, this hope of the world. Jesus had died. Was buried. Betrayed them by his leaving. Their hearts went dark.

This image won’t leave me. These two broken women sitting outside the tomb. It’s too close to reality, too familiar to me. I feel a connection with these women, paralyzed by their grief, with no room in their hearts for hope.

I have lived for months at a time, years even, sitting outside the tomb. My life had come crashing down on me like Atlantic Ocean waves, the deadly rip current pulling me beneath the water, as I thrashed and panicked, thinking, This is it. This is the end. And almost wishing that it was.

I spent two years battling a despondency that threatened to consume me. The last six months of it I spent asking God, “Where are you?�� “What are you doing? You promised me that all things worked together for good, but this? This is too much.”��I was collapsed and crumpled outside the tomb, grieving, weary of living in a brutal, pain-wracked, sin-sick world.

All of us have felt that ache of emptiness or loneliness or lostness that forces us to ask, “Why are you not here?��

For some of us, it’s long years of surviving abuse and yet living every day with the damage done.

For others, it’s an addiction, secret and shaming, that leaves us despairing of ever being free.

The death of a friend, a parent, a child.

Job loss. Financial hardship. Failure.

Marriages on the brink, infidelity, separation, and divorce.

A child who lives in your home and yet feels lost to you.

Parenting a special needs child.

The ravages of chronic illness.

The suffocating shadow of depression.

How many of us here are living in this wilderness of waiting? None of us expect to end up sitting outside a tomb believing that our story is over and there is no happy ending for us.

But the tomb has to be there. And we all have to spend some time sitting outside it. It’s where repentance finds us. Where we finally, reluctantly reveal our brokenness. It’s where healing happens.

It’s the place where waiting and wisdom collide.

Without the tomb, none of us would be hurled onto the shore, rescued. Without the tomb, the story would be incomplete and worthless. Without the tomb, we would have no need for a God who overcomes the grave. Without the tomb, there would be no place or reason for resurrection.

Life doesn’t end at the tomb, or even inside the tomb.

The tomb is the pinnacle of the most unlikely of fantasy stories—a man who comes back from the dead because he loves his family so much, he couldn’t bear for them to believe that he would abandon them. He wanted his children to believe that they were worth dying for, and even more, worth defeating death for.

The tomb is a gift that leaves our hearts so desolate that only the resurrection can heal them.

J. R. R. Tolkien created a literary term for this: eucatastrophe, from the Greek meaning good destruction. Destruction with a purpose, a meaning, that brings about an eventual good. He describes eucatastrophe as �� the sudden happy turn in a story which pierces you with a joy that brings tears. . . .because it is a sudden glimpse of Truth. The Resurrection was the greatest ‘eucatastrophe�� possible in the greatest Fairy Story.

“But the ‘consolation�� of fairy-tales has another aspect . . .  the Consolation of the Happy Ending. . . . or more correctly of the good catastrophe. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies universal final defeat. ��

Tolkien’s eucatastrophe is at the heart of the Gospel story, and Jesus gives his followers a rare opportunity to experience the “sudden and miraculous grace�� of prophecy fulfilled by the Son of God.

He himself is the good that comes from the catastrophe.

And we have the rare opportunity of living in the aftermath of that good destruction, of living in this grace that is permanent and unchanging, personal and eternal, a story we have been written into, for even though we ourselves experience loss and despair in all our stories, He has overcome the world for us, and He will make our joy complete.

Welcome to my temporary writing home.Seven of Nine. Badass and Beautiful.

a few months ago I noticed that links to my blog were ending up on a Kratom landing page. Kratom is an herbal extract that comes from the leaves of an evergreen tree (Mitragyna speciosa) grown in Southeast Asia. I have never used or recommended Kratom and was very indignant about my page getting redirected there.

While I am building my new page this will serve as my home page. I know it’s crude and archaic which hurts my heart, but I figured the more time I spend on making it perfect, the less time I would be writing.

I’m using this as a whimsical spiral notebook in which I record pithy quotes, prayers, memories, essays, book and music reviews, pop culture theories, lyrics, and poems. I’m hearkening back to a simpler time when writing was actually fun, wordsmithing frippery that brought me joy. The title came to me in the car while I was listening to “Killer Queen�� on the radio. “Dynamite with a Laser Beam.�� I’ve always loved that phrase.

I’m hoping that my words can reflect that dynamism again.

For Melissa HawksWe pay our bill and say goodbyeto the others, scouting out a placeto sit so I can tell you about that movie.There is a bench outside the doorand the sun is shining full on itso we sit, bathed in warm gold.I mention the movie and the conversationcatapults back and forth in timeLast year, next monththis happened, that is going to happenand all the life in between is hard to talk about.There is hesitation and some halting starts,deep sighs, closed eyes.But you keep talking, looking upand around, asking out loud,"Why am I telling you this?"as the story hurtles its way out of youinto the light between us.The incidents and images piled uplike a tangle of dirty laundry at our feetbut I don't mind, I'll never mind.We squint when we face forwardit's too bright not to,but when we face each otherour eyes are open and we sharethe fits and starts of healing, in hushed tonesfor fear of scaring them away,or maybe we are afraid of scaring each other away.I ask questions to keep you talkingI know there is so much more in thereAnd when is a better time to strip downthan in the blinding sunwith someone next to youwho won't leave you alonewith the sadness and the loss,but will say, "I know. I know."We talk of poetry and writingand right there on that benchwith the bad jazz strainingthrough the outdoor speakerwe read some spoken wordback and forththe tentativeness gone,replaced by syllable and syncopation.We revel in the lines that tell whole historiesin a few spare versesand the filaments thatreach out, draw us togetherand we are no longer separate,apart, but we are one broken heartstruggling for the next beatwe inhale for the next stanzalike a bellows and when we let it out there is nothing frighteningnot a thing that tears asunderonly tendrils of lightswirling around uslike refracted raysand when they settlewe are reflecting fireand all that is brightand clean and sovery now.

For Mike

How do you write a love poem?

Do you begin with “How do I love thee?��

Or “My love is like a red, red rose?

Echoing hundreds of years of star-eyed sentiment

in iambic pentameter, odes, and sonnets?

Or do you write of love like a revolution,

sea tomb, or pilgrm soul?

What gift have I to offer my words

to history’s remembrance of romance?

My words are stilted,

and I hesitate, stammer, blink, I claw

for words to match these ageless verses.

How do I love thee?

I start with whole words,

like devotion, passion, smitten.

And even though a sonnet

will never stand on so small a foundation,

I can assemble these letters and words

to create a sentence complete

with the pronoun I,

verb am, and special

possessive adjective yours.

This poem was originally published in the eBook Love Poems Deconstructed, edited by Tammy Perlmutter, Timothy Gallen, and Jim Woods.

All Shall Be Well: Awakening to God’s Presence in His Messy, Abundant World by Catherine McNiel

Originally published in The Englewood Review of Books.

I co-founded Deeply Rooted, a women’s worship and arts gathering in Chicago. In May, Catherine McNiel kindly agreed to speak when someone else had to cancel. Thinking about how to introduce her, I asked if I could read a paragraph from her upcoming book, All Shall Be Well: Awakening to God’s Presence in His Messy, Abundant World, instead of reading a scripted bio. She had only one copy there and I had the honor of being the first person to read aloud from it. I skimmed through the book looking for a paragraph that would capture the audience. I barely skimmed Chapter 1 when I landed on it. 

��. . . do not mistake hope for safety. Hope breaks us open. Hope is never naive to suffering, is synonymous not with optimism but with courage. Hope knows with certainty that life overflows with both beauty and pain, and we cannot know which will rise to meet us. Trembling with possibility, hope sidles up boldly to despair, nestles close, and puts down roots. These two—hope and despair—stand always side by side, each determined to outlast the other. If we choose hope, we must join the standoff, with hearts and hands wide open, fighting the urge to fade into despair.��

That quote came at the perfect time for myself and many other women at Deeply Rooted. It had been raining for weeks, dark, wet, and depressing, then we’d have a day with a high of 84 and a low of 45. It was like meteorological whiplash. Chicagoans had lost all trust in Spring and we were battered by betrayal.

McNiel’s clarion call to hope broke us open, rescuing us from passive, mystical emotion to stalwart courage in the face of the unknown—and our own longings. An invitation to flourish, to join the standoff, which is exactly what her book encourages—bringing to mind Henry David Thoreau’s famous words In Walden, “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life . . .”��

In the first pages, the author introduces us to the Gardener, wearing overalls and mucking about in the dirt with loving intention as he creates the first living being. This sets the stage for her following sections, each based on a season and a season of life, focusing on God’s unchanging transcendence and immanence. She takes us into the very heart of Bible stories that have shaped us, employing striking metaphors and poignant homespun epiphanies help us see ourselves in those adventures and misadventures.

McNiel’s astute observances bring to the fore concepts and calling we easily overlook or subconsciously bury, sacrificing presence and intention on the altar of busy and clutter. The busyness we take on as a way to disengage in order to produce more and better, and the clutter that results in our hearts and minds as we feverishly stuff it all down until we have “time�� and “space�� to face it. 

For example, our natural human reaction to push back against mystery and unknowing instead of abiding in them with a sense of wonder and expectancy. Or our tendency to unsuccessfully attempt conquering the chaos in our lives—whether it be an uncontrollable toddler in the throes of a tantrum that could be measured on the Richter scale, or the constant enervating iron-sharpening-iron encounters with those God has given to us to love and care for. 

“It seems that God thrives and rejoices in the pandemonium of living things bumping constantly against each other—and believes that we do too. Anyone who has attempted living both alone and in a crowded household knows that much fulfillment comes out of relationships, but also a great deal of clamor and crazy. We flourish through jumping into the crazy, by surrounding ourselves with creation and burgeoning abundance.��

At the end of each chapter McNiel presents an opportunity to deeply and personally engage her ideas through Cultivating Intimacy, Wonder, Abundance, and Endurance, just a few of the section titles. She gives us suggestions about purposefully engaging your senses with nature along with looking inside and reflecting and developing new habits that inspire transformation. 

I found these spiritual exercises and disciplines, based on St Ignatius’s ancient Prayer of Examen, both grounding and dynamic. His own words about his reason for creating the Examen is to help us “develop a reflective habit of mind that is constantly attuned to God’s presence.�� The author’s interpretation and execution of the Examen is powerful in its simplicity and depth. 

In the chapter on abundance and purpose the author writes about the theological and philosophical concept called telos, a Greek word meaning “end purpose, or goal,�� and its connection to the purpose of summer, “all living things dash toward  becoming.�� According to Mark McMinn, for ourselves, it speaks of “finding the natural and purposeful end of what it means to be fully human.�� One of the questions McNiel poses for us to contemplate is, “What sort of telos are you heading towards?�� while calling us to “sit in the cacophony that fills your life in this season. Acknowledge that God is in these places too. Ask him to reveal himself to you even in the chaos.��

Recurrent themes in the book center around our attempts to “wrestle God into a formula,�� becoming at home in the unknowing, surrendering control for deeper faith, “sacramental beholding,�� and wastelands and wildernesses that bring life out of death. Her words don’t come off preachy or pompous nor do they downplay tragedy and suffering, instead, they’re a precious invitation from a friend to dig hard, notice everything, and revel in our own humble creaturliness. 

Her imagery and descriptions bring to mind A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver’s poetry. The author draws on deep spiritual truths to spark us to action. reminding us that there is beauty waiting to be discovered in everything; lengthening nights, the long-awaited thaw, the daffodils that break through packed dirt to lead us into Spring. 

I began reading All Shall Be Well on my vacation to the East Coast. Both weeks in two different states were supposed to be lousy with rain. Amazingly it only barely rained two out of 18 days. I’m blowing through the beginning chapters about Spring so I can get to the heat and sun and light. 

McNiel does not disappoint with her captivating descriptions of summer lushness and pageantry, so much so that I began craving nature like a junkie jonesin�� for a chlorophyll fix. The sun’s rays warming up my skin felt like a healing elixir flowing in my veins. I wasn’t even put off when a blackbird attacked my head while I was reveling in the woods. It was enough just to be alive in it all. I’ve even sent her pictures of the various places and revealed beauty I’ve encountered as a result of responding to her prodding to get out and take it all in.

McNiel’s invitation has continued to capture my attention through each seasonal chapter whether she is writing about the autumn of midlife or the winter dormancy of older adulthood. Her title, taken from a prayer of Julian Norwich’s, promises that “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.�� Whatever your “all manner of things�� is, there is hope to be cultivated, rest to surrender to, and intimacy to awaken to.