A few days ago, as I drove home from my new job, I saw a woman in the neighboring car hang her arm out the window to swing up on waves of drafts and then back down again in that carefree way I recall doing during childhood summer car rides.

Over the hours that followed, I thought long and deeply about the posture of open hands and arms that should follow us through life. That inspired the following poem. I hope reading it now blesses you.

When the doctor caught me, bloody,

My spindly arms stretched wide.

I had nothing to hide.

And I cried out, my first

World-heard noise of joyful

Praise, my first outward day,

My first way to humanly sing

Holy, holy, holy.

When the sun drenched me, glowing,

My hands automatically lifted high.

My heart rejoiced at the sight

Of sky blue, domed bright above,

And I reached up in love,

As my child soul sang on cue,

My whole body open to echos of

Holy, holy, holy.

When tears soaked me, trembling,

My arms, hands relaxed their clenching.

My young adult mind stopped insisting

I had all the answers, was fine on my own.

And I opened my hands to receive

Life, anew, outpoured upon me

When I grasped His gift and whispered

Holy, holy, holy.

When the light woke me, peaceful,

My arms were still open, embracing

The husband who’d loved me, facing

Me in beautiful, faithful shamelessness.

And I thanked Heaven for reminders

Of redeemed ones who seek Him firstly

So that even our loving now rings with

Holy, holy, holy.

When my life ebbs one day, future,

And you sit beside me-feeble,

Please speak words of praise over me.

Turn my cool hands upward and

Spread my arms to welcome passage,

Returning me to childhood — to infancy —

The places where I so sweetly knew

Holy, holy, holy.

For when I fly to glory, yonder,

I will stand again in sunlight

And twirl in angel circles, but

Now robed well in crispest white.

And I’ll turn to bow before —

And then embrace — my soul’s lover

With hands open, arms stretched wide.

Holy, holy, holy!

I love to bless my Paul with nourishing, home-cooked food whenever I can budget time to spare our budget’s strain with economical yet tasty and healthy food. However, I am gluten intolerant, and Paul grew up eating more pork than I did. So, I have had to exercise creativity in how I cook for us in ways that will please us both, stomach wise. Thus, my recipe for Porkini was born.

Today, I would like to share it with you. And hopefully I will do so in a pleasant manner…since I am personally driven batty by food blog articles that tell us about the writer’s family history five generations back and a dozen of their favorite cooking hacks before they get to the actual recipe!

How to Make Porkini

Step 1: In a 9×13 pan, lay out 4 center cut pork chops OR 6-8 thinly slicked pork chops. You may choose to add sliced mushrooms around the chops. Marinate for 20 min or more in light Italian dressing while you prep next steps.

Step 2: Slice two medium zucchinis in this way. First, trim off both ends of each zucchini, then cut each in half horizontally. Then, cut each half zucchini in half again, vertically, to form flat sides. Then, carefully slice into thin strips as pictured.

Step 3: Toss slices of zucchini with one or two tablespoons of olive oil and your favorite dried herbs. Set aside.

Step 4: Shred/grate one 8 ounce block of mozzarella cheese. (Preshredded can be used, but the melting effect will not be as epic.)

Step 5: Lay half of zucchini slices over the pork in a single layer, as pictured. Then, sprinkle half of the cheese over this.

Step 6: Repeat again with another single layer of zucchini strips and then rest of cheese. Bake in preheated oven until all is cooked through. I recommend baking at 400⁰F for about 22-23 minutes, or until meat thermometer reads 145⁰ for the pork. Zucchini should be tender but not mushy, and meat should be moist from dressing and zuchinni moisture.

Enjoy!

In a few days, we’ll celebrate another Mother’s Day. Those of us who have mothers still living may send our mother a card, call her on the phone, invite her for a meal, or otherwise show our appreciation. Those of us who have a mother who’s already passed on may spend time remembering our mother’s traits or actions. Mothers among us in houses of worship or our neighborhoods may receive a day off from cooking or a sweet bunch of flowers.

Yet, there are women nearby each of us who will be struggling this Sunday, just as they do on other days — missing their children. In thinking specifically about women who have lost a baby via miscarriage, from the earliest weeks and on through a pregnancy, I was inspired to write the following poem two days ago. Heaven knows their pain and holds their hearts, just as it holds their children. It is bittersweet but still a blessing to know that Heaven understands.

Mothers Too

She is a mother too.

She held life in her womb

And passed it out with blood,

Though blood came much too soon.

And with it, hopes and dreams

Slipped to the depths of seas.

Yet, feeling still, and faintly,

At times her raw heart seized.

Some people saw her loss

And rushed to brush it off

While others never knew

What her grief, silenced, cost.

But Heaven held her close

And felt her sorrow most.

Though it is later in coming by reckoning of the calendar, I’d like to share a poem I wrote several days ago. Inspiration drenched my heart over the course of Good Friday, but it took a bit for the words to cement in my mind. I hope reading it will bless you now. For the truth held within is applicable every day of the year.

Recalibration: Light from the Narthex

This day — a Friday —

Was good in it’s way. Busy

And stressful, packed weekend

Ahead. Before the full-day rush

Ensued and my to-dos became

A blur, I awoke: my fingertips

Against my husband’s back. Skin

To skin in light so dim through

Dusty blinds. I savored that feather

Touch and marveled at the quiet.

This day — a Friday —

Marched on while I drove

About and stopped to load

My car’s trunk with groceries,

Flowers, household supplies. And

To load its tank with gas. All

Of that a growing strain with

Inflation’s scream. But, still, costs

Covered made my thankful heart

Smile towards the cloudless sky.

This day — a Friday —

Ticked by in tasks. Grading

Submitted essays — some final

Drafts still so painful to read.

“God bless my students,” I sighed,

“For they tried…I guess.” Then

There was music to practice and

Cleaning to do. And a dozen

Other things too. So I yawned a

Prayer for energy to do them.

This day — a Friday —

Declined towards evening under

Strains of viola-bass-piano as

I looked out over the sea of my

Family, their faces towards me,

Our voices harmonizing, celestial,

In a minor key. In their midst, from

My stage spot, I spied the cross,

Narthex stained glass, set aflame by

Western rays. I gasped, amazed.

This day — a Friday —

My forty-second “Good” trip

Around that illuminating sun —

Found me enlightened at the

Depths of my need and my

Humility. I was blinded,

Temporarily, by light so bright

And beautiful though the very

First such Friday was only good

Due to cross covered in shadow.

This day — a Friday —

Was good for me. But somewhere

A young widow woke up to stretch

Across the bed in her skin hunger.

And somewhere a mother cried

Because she had no food to

Offer her starving child. And

Somewhere a skilled teacher lost

His job unjustly, walked home and

Wondered how he’d now provide.

This day — a Friday —

Was not good for my Jesus,

Not as we understand the word.

He longed for dear touch and

Received torture. Hungered

For sustenance and tasted bitter

Wine. Laid down His rabbi’s

Duties and honor for branding

As a criminal. Dwelt and died:

Deserted, naked in the dark.

This day — a Friday —

I have stood in the glow of my

Blessings yet been overwhelmed

By sorrow for all those suffering —

And all our wrongs — so I pray for

Them to join me, to look into the

Light and yet also recall the

Nightfall at mid-day when the

Man of Sorrows redefined good

By knowing best our pain, sin, shame.

For a change of pace this week, here is a short poem I just drafted while reflecting on the following thought.

Each one of the blessings God bestows upon each one of us every day is unique. The blessings He has given you today are new and different than all that He has give you in the days before. Because, while He is unchanging, what we need from day to day may change, just as the degree to which we may need it can fluctuate. And He knows our needs intimately.

Each One, Unique

Frozen crystal wheel, tiny, light, and

Delicate, yet razor sharp, dances through

Air: frigid-stiff with breezy hints. It lands,

Stabbing my glove’s fingertip like

A dart thrown with minute accuracy. I

Marvel. Each flake, inspected, proves

Design’s plan and blessing’s beauty. It

Melts under heat from my up-close

Breath, but not before I have remembered

To thank Elohim for this moment, for this

Gift that will never be exactly repeated. A

Frosty exhale forms, rightly filled with awe.

• 

Shrouded in fleece and denim, I sit near the snow-crusted window while the heat vent seems to blow nearly continuously at my feet. The furnace has worked overtime within while the wind and ice have danced madly without. Now the last bits of clouded daylight fade into shades of ever-darkening slate.

On such a new year’s day, I contemplate time’s passage and hope for what may yet await me in faith, life, relationships, work…and how I might use the insatiable thirst to write more poignantly to bless my readers in new or renewed ways. To that end, I now share my plan for writing in the first months of 2022.

Blogs in the coming weeks will connect to a theme of Give More, Bless More. I will be exploring aspects of alternative ways to give and to bless as well as alternative ways to view how God has blessed us and how we can bless others. I hope you’ll come back week after week and join me for this thoughtful journey.

Until next week, and for today, I close with a brief, spontaneous poem-prayer:

“Scour me, Lord, and purify,

Like windswept land ‘neath snow and sleet.

Freeze selfishness and liquify

My frozen heart–’twas buried deep.

Then, let me learn and testify

What sacrifice brings blessings sweet.”

Rounding out a month of posts on purity: a glance at what it means to be pure mentally.

Who comes to mind if you think of the phrases Biblical woman and mental purity? Mary, perhaps? Or Lois? Yes, certainly.

But today I want to shine a quiet light on the woman from Luke 7. She was not respectable enough to be known by any other name than “woman who had lived a sinful life” among her neighbors in that community. But she was worth so much to Jesus that He would both love and forgive her — and that He would have her story recorded for a millinea-long display.

We don’t know her exact sin(s), but we can guess what they likely included. And yet, no matter what she had done or what had been done to her, she certainly ached, as shown in her sacrificial display, to scour her mind, heart, body, and soul of what she had done, of what had been done to her.

Here, in her story, we seen a beautiful domino effect of truth. Perhaps mental purity is the most miraculous purity of all. And it is the one that must be sought and granted every day of our lives in a fallen world. Because the person who craves it cannot undo what they have done or unsee what they have seen or unknow what they have known. But the bitter tears that have flown down can be collected to baptize that mind, and the redeeming gifts and blessings that come after can slowly but surely staunch the craving to renew that mind to what it was meant to be.

And now, a final short poem in the series:

~ Purity 4: Woman (That is Me) ~

Does the salt in my tears

Sting the scratches on Your toes

The way it burns up from my soul? I need

These tears to say what my mouth cannot:

A prayer that You would choke

Memories of horror and missteps I took,

That You would uproot those weeds

And let a grove of olive trees —

Peace-filled branches —

Sprout up in their place. Pour back

On me sweetness and kisses so that

I will again dance: renamed, renewed.

She was not virginal in her purity. Not completely. Not like the younger maidens working near her to glean in the master’s field. She had been married before; she had been known.

And she came to him in the dead of night, where he rested, in obedience to her mother-in-law’s advice. Advice that put her in a very prone position. He could choose to further mar her reputation or he could choose to respectfully protect it.

And he could have chosen another woman from among so many. A younger woman. A non-foreign woman. A richer woman. A previously-unmarried woman.

But he saw her. And he chose her. And he protected her with his own robe, his own presence, and later his own follow-up actions. Until he could bring her home as his bride.

The woman he loved. The woman he saw as beautiful and pure. The one he had been waiting his whole life to meet and cherish.

Today, in honor of this couple and the renewal of physical purity through the eyes of love, a third short poem.

~ Purity 3: Ruth ~

Numbing-cold. The sandy soil,

Chaff-dusted, nipped at my skimming feet,

Bare after my sandals slipped off

Against my palms, to cancel flapping

Alarms. Shivering, in my fear-hope,

I lay at his feet and prayed he would wake

On his own. And ask that I stay — that only.

Nothing more. Unless there could be more.

But how could there?

Unless he covered me?

Yes. Unless he covered me…

And then He covered me!

So, ever after, I was to be His: clean.

Next in this series on purity, we pause to consider the power of beauty via emotional purity. According to Genesis 12, Sarah was exceptionally physically beautiful, even as she aged. Yet, she is more fondly remembered and rightly praised in 1 Peter 3 for her projected image of one with a gentle and quiet spirit, living in a proper and good sense of humility and obedience. Certainly she laughed and doubted and jumped the gun. But in the end, she learned how to master her feelings and accept her assigned place in life with hope.

This sounds foreign to me as a modern American woman. But when I dig deeper, I see this is not just an antiquated cultural demand. No. According to Peter, such submission shines from a pure heart, from an honest-core self that wants good and chooses service for the sake of those who are loved. Will there be fear, negative reactions, and mistakes? Yes. But inner beauty lights a woman’s face and shines through the storms of life (and marriage) like low car beams glowing through a dark, snowy drive.

We do not know exactly what Sarah looked like physically. But it doesn’t really matter. We know the essence of her heart: a much more enduring legacy.

So, a poem in her honor…

~ Purity 2: Sarah ~

Queen of this house,

This moving, growing home:

Collection of tents-servant memories.

I have presided with smiles, tears, screams.

Princess of my Father,

Living to love my master:

Challenge of ever-changing complexities.

I have blossomed through bitter to sweet.

Naming the feelings, seeing the fears,

I stand up on choices, cling to what’s dear.

And see a face so beautiful in my mirror.

Growing up, I quickly came under the impression that the central focus of purity as a virtue had to do with sexual chastity or keeping one’s body and thoughts clean and unblemished in that area of life. While that certainly is important to consider, especially in our evermore-desensitized culture, I now stand on the cusp of marriage in these last few weeks of singlehood and ponder what it will mean to approach my husband as a pure bride in each sense of my person: spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically.

In that light, four times over the course of this month, I want to share a piece of word art and a short poem to highlight the life of each of four different women from the Bible. In each case, focusing on one of those aspects, I hope to think differently about who they were, who I am, and who each of us (men and women alike) is meant to be.

So, this time, I begin with the mother of all mankind. Not the first woman who usually comes to mind when we think of spiritual purity, is she?

Perhaps she should be…

~ Purity 1: Eve ~

Initial fruit tasted strangely sweet

On my tongue

But felt bitter-heavy

When it sank into my bowels.

Slow burn of something foreign

Had begun with me,

In me.

Third stirring felt strangely bitter

In my heart

But tingled sweetly-light

When it washed over my womb.

Deep joy of something granted

Had begun with me,

In me.

Heaven saw my kiss of death

But kindly placed in me this Seth

And restored my purity,

Once more setting my spirit free.