Sacrament

Cheerio off the nursery floor.
Holy sacrament.
Placed into cupped hands—
Take.
Eat.
His body given for you.

And the wine now turned to water
Poured out
From the sippy cup that leaks.
Drink it, mommy.

A sacred moment—
Enshrined in the holy of holies
Behind plexiglas windows.
Has anyone been missed?

Cheerio off the nursery floor.
Holy sacrament.

Reflection

I am a lousy Christian.

I'm supposed to be some sort of new creation, someone who is different,
someone who is being transformed—
but I look in the mirror
and I see
me.

Tired. Dirty. Disgusted.
Knowing that my reflection
is not supposed to be like this.

I am ungrateful.
I complain and complain even though I know
That I am so privileged—to stay home with my children,
to write and play music and have a garden,
that I have family and friends who love me—
but I feel lonely and worn out and—
dare I admit it?
caged.

I am addicted to approval.
I need to be achieving things, need to be accomplishing things
so that people will look at me and be impressed—
that they will praise me and compliment me
and tell me how gifted I am.

I am a liar.
I ignore and fudge the truth
in the name of keeping the peace
and keeping people happy,
bending over backwards
so that I never receive someone's disapproval.

There is unforgiveness in my heart.
I hold it tight—against those who have hurt me—
against those who have hurt my family.
My heart will not accept them—does not want to welcome them—
does not want to be hurt again.

I am a coward.
I hide in myself, ignoring the little voice
that tells me what I should be doing,
because it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I don't speak when I know I should,
Letting unkind words and injustice continue
even though I see it and know it is wrong.

I am a lousy Christian.
I say that I follow Jesus,
but then go about my day—
too lazy to try harder and too proud to surrender,
but still not ready
to resign myself to the reflection
and pull up my chair to the table of the hypocrites.

Marbles

Clacking marbles, that's all we are—
Apathetic, bouncing off each other,
Passing by without a care or even waving.
Isolated, that's what we are—
Tombed in splendid homes with gates and shutters,
All-consumed with our own comfort,
Living in excess with bloody footprints
In our wake from those dehumanized for profit.
Selfishness concealed by friendly smiles and Sunday manners
Making us look good without the inconvenience of caring.

Victims of our fear, our walls become our prisons.
Sanitized to death, we lose our souls.

Could there be hope for more than this?
Our lives could grow together, intertwined
More closely than a twisting vine; our hearts
May choose to love—
Unswerving, wildly, recklessly,
Not bound by fear, but leaping headlong into life
In all its broken, dirty, pain-filled glory as
These grapes are crushed together—can't you see?
You were not made to be a clacking marble.