Heart-in-hand (I)

I never really liked those old paintings

            of You

            with Your Heart

            in Your Hand.

They seemed exaggerated,

            too visceral,

            too graphic.

But here I am

            with my heart

            in my hand…

            beating, bleating, bleeding, bare.

My pain in plain sight—

            everyone can see,

            but no one understands.

Why the fuss?

"They´re not really yours, anyway.

They never were. 

They never will be."

And it´s true—I signed up for this:

Chastity, poverty, obedience.

I was not to get attached

            to any thing

            or to any one.

But I did. 

I am helplessly attached

            to them all.

Not because I need them,

            though I certainly do.

Not even because they need me,

            which they might,

            though they would hate to admit it.

But because You gave them to me--

The most un-romantic of wedding gifts:

                        a rag-tag,

                        radically detached

                        gaggle of girls,

                        some nearly as old as I,

                        most belonging to no one.

And I love them.

It makes no sense.

On most days they give me

            - absolutely -

            no good reason to love them.

They are loud, rude and mean;

            reined in

            from their Lord of the Flies behavior

            exclusively

            by means of bribes and threats.

They criticize us (as well they should)

            fearlessly and tactlessly.

They see through our pious overcoats

            and get right to the heart--

            good, lazy, loving, uninterested,

            --selfless or selfish--

            they call us out on it, every time.

Why?

It would honestly behoove them

            to behave, to make-nice, to kiss-up.

They would probably watch more TV,

            eat more popsicles,

            and go to the park more.

But instead they are honest. 

Brutally so.

I suppose they are Your children, after all,

            even more so than they are mine.

And they definitely get that from You.

And so they can´t help

            but bare witness

            to Your Truth,

            as inconvenient

            as that Truth may be.

It is their genetic marker,

            their connection to You,

            in a situation that would make

            even the most mystical of mystics

            doubt Your Very Existence.

Because, as much as I like to tout myself

            as honest-to-a-fault,

            we both know the truth:

I´m still much more concerned with

            - how it will sound -

            - what will be thought -

            - by whom -

            - and how I´ll look.

My honesty is conveniently perforated

            by great lakes

            of missing information

            that would incriminate me or…

            …make me Free?

So please excuse me

            if I walk around

            for the next few lifetimes

            with my heart,

            not on my sleeve,

            but in my hand.

Because this kind of love, and loss,

            is the most visceral, graphic,

            painful

            and perfect

            thing

            You´ve ever done to me.

And I will beg You,

            every day

            for the rest of all those lifetimes,

To give them to me for good,

            for keeps,

            forever.

And I´ll lift up mine eyes to the mountains,

            which will soon hunker

            slate blue,

            frigid,

            and so much closer,

            outside my frosted window.

I´ll plead with You:

            keep them safe,

            and honest,

            with their hearts in their hands,

            open to the Mystery

            and to the possibility

            that they´ve always belonged

           

            to Someone,

            and to His wife,

And that no matter how far away

We both might seem

            for the next few lifetimes,

            or years?

Or, dare I wish it:

            mere months or weeks?

Help them to know

            that they are Yours,

            and mine,

            here,

            and there,

            and There,

            wherever That might be.

Dearest of Bare Hearts,

            You know best.

You see the finish line,

            the course,

            the stamina,

            the why.

I only see their faces,

            feel their arms around my waist,

            hear their manic, screaming laughter 
            that whispers

            “help me, I´m drowning.”

But You see their hearts.

And You see mine.

And I know

            You know,

            as well as I do,

            (it may well be the only thing I know,

            in this lifetime,

            other than that You Are):

I am theirs,

            as much as I am Yours;

I want healing for their hearts,

            -now-

But You want them forever,

            and know the

            one-and-only

            way to get them,

            and me,

            Home             

            to Your Heart.