Like A Rag Doll Awake

There is beeping, a scrim of gauzy curtains, a wall of glass. She wakes up utterly disoriented, not surprising considering what has happened.

The worst of it she will simple…not…remember. Like a gift from her battered brain, this amnesia.

But for now there is this: where am I?. Her bedroom wall had a letter on it–signifying the name she was called. Wooden letter painted. Gone.

Not her. Not her room anymore. Her battered cerebral cortex must rise, like Lazarus, and summon the powers to comprehend–where am I?

Oh. And there is this–eventually the nurses, doctors, physical therapists will be kind to her, a family of sorts. Today not. Today the first ministering human in this alien environment will act as though her corporal reluctance to pee in a pan in a bed like a cat in a cage is an offense and a bother–like failing the simplest of tests.

Florence N. will badger her to urinate, threatening her with the unknown quantity of catheterization never to know that when it does happen and the pressure on her spindly, nearly broken body is relieved she feels only relief.

Only blessed relief.

Em and Tru in the Window

There is a house in Columbia, Maryland that sits on a fault-line in the multiverse.

In laymen’s terms that means it is on “venue of reflection.” It reflects, down to the stained glass door and hummingbird feeder, the house inhabited somewhere else in the universe by Emily and Truman.

They have lived there for a long time. Or at least since lunch. They have little use here for clocks, planners, memory, or historical accuracy.

They bicker gently, like an old married couple. But unlike their other “truer” selves, they fear nothing.

It is quiet here. The sun is always yellow, painted in the sky with crayon (yes, like a Van Gogh imitation drawn by a precocious child.)

They brew coffee, or at least Tru does, adding to it his customary chicory and repartee, only to be waved away by Emily, who keeps her eyes on the hummingbird family at the feeder as she tells him–

Tea, dear. I think I’ll have tea with one of those… French cookie named after a girl…the ones in the tin we keep above the knife drawer…the ones we both love.”

Beguiling Jesus

I realized this week I needed wound care–heart specifically, the kind that comes with prayer.

There is great grace in facing my weakness, my need for Jesus, but bad stuff happens. Sometimes it feels lobbed at a person.

All afternoon I told myself to see Jesus helping Peter walking on the water–in a terrible storm.

I told myself–don’t take your eyes off Jesus. Tonight I listen as a storm blows in–first wind, lightning, thunder then sheets of rain.

Blessing in a drought. Not so fun on an open body of water.

Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus. Anything can happen.