Telling the Truth

connecting the dots of my life

Tag: Vulnerability

August 8, 2017

finding my way home

Through hazy unknowns
life tumbles, turns
I wake far from home
not knowing how or who
I’m to be

I search for long-gone milestones
landmarks north stars
The sky an empty void
of echoing questions
no answers
no explanations
no solace

I wander between knowing what I
think I know and fearing this
could be true
Truth so fragile
so easily pierced by life’s urgent
need for me to be
someone I am not

Life itself a great puzzlement of
interlocking pieces
leading somewhere
or nowhere
I’m never quite sure
A little light
a little meaning
a little distance
from the void of not knowing

Will this come round right?
Every book every scrap of history
every letter every pain
every sorrow every shame
every secret
wells up in me
competing for attention
Pick me!
I hold the key to golden answers
Can you help me find my way home?

I first published this poem on 30 July 2015. Today, two years later, it still rings true. Perhaps more so, given the last USA presidential election and all that happened before and since then.

I could smile and say God will work it all out, but that feels like abdication. A denial of my shared responsibility as a human being and as a citizen.

All promises to the contrary, my world was never safe or secure. Today I know that what passed back then for ‘safe and secure’ was, in fact, a mirage. Sometimes deliberate; sometimes the product of years of denial. Or false hope that saying something often enough would make it real.

Fake news is fake news. Fake history is fake history. Fake solutions are tomorrow’s problems passed on to the next generation.

Today we’re reaping a whirlwind that’s been in the making for centuries. No magic key will solve all our dilemmas. Still, I’m going to keep picking at the lock—one person at a time, one conversation at a time, one day at a time.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 8 August 2017
Image found at gizmag.com

5 Comments
August 5, 2017

Thirst

Thirst
consumes me
parches my soul
throttles energy
makes me wary
cautious
lest I lose
one precious drop

Hoarding
sets in like drought
grows and multiplies
invades every
vein in my body
sucks me dry
prepares me
for death

Gasping
I refuse
to relinquish
what is mine
by right and law
wrung from
this earth by
my own hands

Heedless
I rush headlong
into a desert
of my making

No one
looks my way
or offers
one precious drop

***

Here’s another option from the prophet Isaiah:

Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.

Why spend money on what is not bread,
your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me,
and eat what is good,
and you will delight in the richest of fare.

Isaiah 55:1-2 (New International Version)

I’ve been thinking about the way we seem to be turning inward. Supposedly protecting ourselves and our own, lest something terrible happens and we’re left high, dry and more vulnerable than ever. But I wonder.

Ironically, the best way to ensure disaster may well be to shut down our hearts and hang onto our assets, however meager they may be.

This isn’t about political parties, racial identity or religious beliefs. It’s about our common humanity. The capacity in each of us that’s capable of welcoming and providing hospitality to strangers. And the capacity to receive this from others.

It isn’t easy. We’re never promised success, safety or survival for ourselves or others. We are, however, promised the satisfaction of receiving and passing on small bits of grace and gratitude. Some of those tiny drought-proof seeds that grow only when they’re given away.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 5 August 2017
Image found at feelgrafix.com

5 Comments
July 28, 2017

hanging on for dear life

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hanging on for dear life
gnarled roots exposed
soil sifts away with
each new flash flood
no rock bottom in sight
turbulence guaranteed
in more than the air
reeking with harbingers
of hard times ahead
soil ill-prepared
for these upheavals
brittle dry sinews of our
vulnerability on display
slow motion relentless
yesterday disappearing
before our eyes can adjust
in this foreboding present

Every day my eyes are pulled to headlines and news articles that sometimes offer more than they can deliver. Instead, they leave me without comfort or enlightenment. Sometimes they destroy any iota of clarity I thought I’d achieved. It isn’t laughable; it’s tragic. Not because of the news industry, but because of what passes these days as news.

So here’s the news I’m counting on these days–good for me, good for you and good for the animals and mother earth!

Your love, Lord, reaches to the heavens,
Your faithfulness to the skies.
Your righteousness is like the highest mountains,
Your justice like the great deep.
You, Lord, preserve both people and animals.
How priceless is your unfailing love, O God!
People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house;
You give them drink from your river of delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
In your light we see light.

Psalm 36: 5-9 (New International Version)

Psalm 36 was written during politically troubled times filled with those who flattered themselves “too much to detect or hate their sin.” So-called leaders were failing to “act wisely or do good” and did not reject what was wrong.

The only antidote to evil and falsehood is truth. Speaking it, yes. Even more potent, living it. Daring to live each day in the light of our Maker—the only light in which we see light, whether we live and whether we die. The unseen source and goal of our dear lives.

Praying this day will bring moments of deep calm and clarity.

Elouise ♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 28 July 2017
Photo credit: DAFraser, October 2012, Hoyt Arboretum, Portland, Oregon
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Shallow

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July 25, 2017

In the finest tradition

In the finest tradition
of street money politics
abuse of power flourishes.

Daily
Weekly
Monthly
Before our eyes
In and out of headlines
Behind closed doors
Projected in a heartbeat
Tweets and twitters
An ever-present reminder
Of the cost to those
Who just say No
Or fail to do obeisance

A legacy
not easily
bankrupted
feeds from one
generation
to the next
exploiting
fear gone viral.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 25 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Traditional

7 Comments
July 24, 2017

Smell of fear

Smell of fear
Binds her tongue
Without
And within
Residue
Of storms
Long past
Hovering
Just beyond
Eyesight
Deep within
Her psyche
Spawning fear
Of her powerful
Voice locked
In neutral
Going nowhere

I always die a little when I speak in public. It doesn’t matter how confident or calm I sound on the outside. I shake on the inside, sometimes trembling physically when I’m finished. If fear were a fragrance, I would reek of it.

I’ve always chalked this up to being an introvert with thin skin. Afraid of what people will think of me and my ideas. Especially when I’m speaking in a religious setting.

Little wonder. My thinking and writing about God, the world and Christian faith aren’t always considered acceptable, much less mainstream by either more conservative or more liberal listeners.

Nonetheless, I think this fear runs deeper.

This weekend I had a small dialogue with myself about my voice. Especially my writing voice. I love it. Often, looking back at old posts, I’m moved to tears.

Nonetheless, I’ve been dragging my feet on the idea I floated well over a month ago. Dragging my feet while pretending to move ahead. Hoping to generate enough energy to begin working on an e-book of selected postings.

This past weekend, I hit pay dirt. Here’s what I wrote in my journal on Friday and Saturday evenings, lightly edited for clarity.

Friday evening, after lots of agonized words about getting nowhere.

Right now this is an undocumented project. Notes, but no measurable, incremental steps recorded….I say I don’t have to do this, yet I want to do it! What’s holding me back? I want to know. I feel a little stuck and frightened. Of what? I don’t know. Am I afraid of my own voice?

Then Saturday evening:

Yes! I’m stuck and I’m frightened of my own voice…Today I read through about 15 of my most liked poems and chose one to reblog—the Amy post about being weary of my life—her lament that’s so like mine. “You are about my bed.” Where I’m lying—stuck and frightened of my own voice.

I accept this truth and want to welcome it as a stranger…rather than denying its existence, and thus denying the dormant power of my voice….Was this one reason my father tried to beat my voice out of me??? Did he see something I couldn’t see? Something that frightened or threatened him and his voice? “You are about my bed.”

And Sunday evening:

Yes! I have a powerful voice, and have had all my life.

I’m sure I’ll learn more along the way. But this is where I find myself today, Monday.

Thanks for listening and reading!

Elouise ♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 24 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompts: Fragrance; Dormant

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July 21, 2017

Captured on camera

In the blink of an eye
Memories take me back
Surrounded by music
I want to stay here forever
Feeling the harmonies
The ebb and flow of
Joyful voices surrounding me
Filled with hope for tomorrow
Lost in a magic sliver of time
When all was right with the world
We were ambassadors
On a mission
Ready to die if needs be
My heart aches for what we lost
On our way from there to here
So many hidden wounds and
Untold secrets and yet
One concert after another
We entered gladly
Into His gates with thanksgiving
And into His courts with praise
Eager and ready for whatever
Tomorrow might bring

This photo was taken in 1962-63. It’s the Ambassador Choir—the concert choir of Columbia Bible College in Columbia, South Carolina (now Columbia International University).

It was D’s senior year, my junior year. He was president of the choir; I served as accompanist to the choir. Mainly piano, and a little organ. D is on the third row from the top, 2nd from the left. I’m on the same row, 3rd from the right (with glasses).

We’re in the college auditorium, in front of the college motto and a huge globe of the world. Many students studied at CBC/CIU because they wanted to be missionaries. Among them were bi-lingual ‘missionary kids’ who came from all over the world.

Bill Supplee, our beloved choir and music director, was a stickler for getting things right. In the photo we’re grouped according to gender and height. However, each concert required a new lineup created by Mr. Supplee. We stood in groups of eight (eight part harmony for many songs), never next to anyone singing our part.

Getting it right meant on pitch, from memory, with no sliding notes or coming in early or hanging on late. Precision mattered. Articulation was paramount. Drawing attention to oneself by swaying or making head motions was absolutely forbidden.

This wasn’t about us, it was about the Gospel. Always presented in a carefully crafted sequence of music. The choir processed from center and side aisles onto the risers. Unison at first, breaking into eight-part harmony at the end. All to invite the congregation into the Lord’s gates with thanksgiving.

Each concert ended with a brief challenge to consider what God might want you to do in response, followed by a glorious recessional. The message was clear, and always well received.

Not clear, however, was how many of us carried hidden, unresolved pain from our childhoods as we processed down the aisles. Today I’m aware of stories I didn’t know then, and have shared my own. Many of our friends are already gone.

Still, I’m no cynic. I value the privilege of having been part of this spirited endeavor. It gave me the privilege of being regularly surrounded and held by music that kept my soul and my spirit alive. And, along the way, gave me the gift of knowing and falling in love with D.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 22 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Gate

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July 19, 2017

a grownup’s prayer

I want to be in tune with You –
Listening to my heart sing
Surrounded by music

Maybe You could arrange for me to live in nonstop song
At home in my skin, content, grateful and unafraid
Connected with those I love or haven’t yet learned to love

Would You kindly spare a few moments
to sing me back together?
I’d rather not have another operation.

***

A few evenings ago I was listening to choral music, singing along from time to time. A bit weepy though happy. Grateful for small gifts during the day.

It dawned on me that I’m most content, most at peace when I’m surrounded by music. Especially, but not only, grand hymns old and new.

So I dreamed a bit. What would it be like to live in nonstop song? And might my Creator be willing to oblige me? Without ungodly pain?

Coming from a grownup, the ungodly pain part seemed a fair request. After all, I don’t have as much time for fancy procedures as I used to have. Besides, who wouldn’t love to be sung back together?

Hoping your day/evening is filled with music that softens your heart and sings you back together.

Elouise ♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 July 2017

4 Comments
July 17, 2017

What’s for dinner?

Edible. Such a lovely word. Especially for hungry people, and especially if it’s offered as a banquet served on silver platters, with drum rolls and fine patriotic music in the background.

So what’s for dinner? Why are you so secretive about what’s on the menu? You say it’s going to be Beautiful, even Great! Much better for my health than the food I’ve been eating all these years.

Am I to believe you and your not-so-carefully scripted words, or my own well-honed gut instincts?

Do you have a complete list of ingredients? A nutritional profile for the long-term edibility of this fine feast you’re serving up? My gut won’t tolerate just anything, you know.

Poison in any form is inedible. Especially when cooked up in a private club-like kitchen with chefs and assistants who look strangely like each other, smile a lot, and keep saying what a Beautiful Thing this feast is going to be. Just what I need to Make My Health Great Again!

Really? Why is my stomach already churning? And what’s that stench in the air? Don’t you smell it? I haven’t even taken the first bite, and I’m already looking for the closest bathroom!

Are you going to force-feed me? Did your parents force-feed you? Do you force-feed your children? Your grandchildren? Your nephews and your nieces? Why aren’t there any exit signs in this  room?

Is it really too much to hold out for edible food? As I see it, a dry crust of bread shared with peace of mind would be better than this banquet of trouble.

With thanks to Proverbs 17:1 (Good News Translation)

Better to eat a dry crust of bread with peace of mind
than have a banquet in a house full of trouble.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 18 July 2017
Image found at pinterest.com
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Edible

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July 15, 2017

Something about prayer….

My history with prayer is all over the map. I’ve probably heard more prayers than I’ve heard sermons. Too many to count. On the other hand, I’ve always struggled with prayer. Here are two posts talking about my childhood struggles with prayer: here and here.

Last year a friend gave me a slim volume of poems by Mary Oliver, a winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. The volume I’m reading is Thirst.

What caught my eye this week was the first stanza of a longer poem titled “Six Recognitions of the Lord.” I’m still taking in the first stanza.

I know a lot of fancy words.
I tear them from my heart and my tongue.
Then I pray.

When I read these simple words, I feel lighter. I grew up hearing and trying to replicate, in my way, prayers that would be polite and proper. Yes, I spoke from my heart no matter when I prayed. Yet I also felt unbearably self-conscious about my prayers, especially about the words I used.

It didn’t matter whether I was praying privately or publicly, I feared my words wouldn’t live up to what God expected to hear from me. Or that they would be used by others to judge my spiritual formation.

Looking back, I know my family upbringing contributed to some of this. Whether by design or not, my prayers to God felt like baring my soul to whomever was listening. I feared someone was grading, judging or scrutinizing me. Would I pass the test?

Mary Oliver’s words are to the point and liberating. They’re also primarily about personal prayer, not public prayer. Though they may apply there as well.

The best analogy I can think of would be a child talking to a trusted parent or caregiver. Freely, without shame or hiding. With no need to impress anyone. Not calculating or careful about choice of words or what the other person might think about what I’m saying.

God just wants me to show up, talk and listen. Listen and talk. Using my own words. No matter how I feel today about God or myself.

First, Mary Oliver invites me to tear all fancy words from my heart and my tongue.

Praying your Sabbath is filled with childlike joy and delight.

Elouise ♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 July 2017
Artwork found on Google at http://www.royaldoors.net

15 Comments
July 15, 2017

Meet my Ms Moxie

I was only 8 or 9 years old when Auntie Rose Payne waltzed into my life. Well sort of. Even though she was very short, Auntie Rose dominated everything when she entered a room. She had a nonstop smile and sparkling eyes. She also delivered, unrequested, nonstop cheery comments, spoke loudly and often, and didn’t seem to care what people thought about her.

From my perspective, this was astonishing. At first I could scarcely understand a word she said. Worse, I couldn’t help sneaking frequent peeks at her lame leg that carried her along in huge lurches. One of her shoes had super-thick soles. But even that didn’t give her a level, evenly matched, pain-free stride.

I still see her walking ahead of me, swinging along in her off-beat gait. Her overloaded purse hangs from the crook of her right arm, a large Bible clutched tightly in her other arm. She swings along unevenly, rising and falling as her body ascends and descends with a jolt. Strange-looking orthopedic shoes help a bit, but don’t resolve her gait.

Never once did I hear Auntie Rose complain or see her downcast. That wasn’t her style. She preferred upbeat and onward Christian soldiers! In my presence she never stopped smiling, and she never stopped calling me ‘Love,’ even though she also knew and called me by my first name.

Auntie Rose was a polio survivor, an immigrant from Australia, and a visiting home nurse. She was bright, savvy and adventuresome. Unafraid of anyone or anything. When she entered a room she commanded attention. Especially if she spotted or even heard about anything that was out-of-order in our behavior.

Auntie Rose and my mother hit it off from the beginning. They bonded. Both lived with the crippling effects of polio, as did my sister Diane. Both were incorrigible extroverts. And Auntie Rose had a way of making everything fun or looking on the bright side even when it seemed bleak.

About ten years after D and I married, we visited Savannah and happened to run into Auntie Rose. She was just leaving church on a Sunday morning. She hadn’t changed a bit; she’d just grown a bit older. We stood there chatting about our wedding and what we were now doing in our lives.

As we moved on, Auntie Rose stopped several lively young boys who’d just come out of Sunday School. She smiled at them cheerfully, called them “Love,” and gave them a proper refresher on how to walk safely on public property!

I’d like to think some of Auntie Rose’s moxie rubbed off on me. Not just as the adult I am today, but as the little girl I was yesterday. Even though it sometimes got me into trouble.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Moxie

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