My Child, A Lament for Peace

My child,
Never forget you are
a child of the Beloved,
rocked in her gracious arms,
held safe under his gaze.
You are a child of the Beloved.
Not one of you turned away.
Not one of you held closer
than the other.

My child,
You are sisters and brothers of
one another, one family in the Beloved.
The earth does not belong to you,
its land and fruits, all gifts to be shared,
gifts to be tended,
just as the Beloved nurses you.

My child,
you are a child of the Beloved.
Not one of you more precious,
not one of you more cherished
than the other.
Mother and terrorist,
teacher and gunman,
oppressed and the oppressor,
rest in the lap of the Beloved
swathed in forgiveness,
all made whole.

My child,
do not forget you are a child
of the Beloved, compassion
and grace rain down upon you
with boundless, unselfish passion.

My child,
Child of the Beloved,
in gratitude,
be a mirror of your Beloved.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

I struggled for a long time with how to write this poem. What form it should take? What exactly did I want to say?

I am a first grade teacher. Sandy Hook.

I live in Aurora. The Aurora Movie Theatre Shooting.

I live in Colorado. Columbine.

I am a United States citizen. 911.

The rest of the world has experienced terrorism for millennia, much longer and more intimately than I have. These current killings – Gaza and Ukraine – brought me back to the empty page.

I don’t know if it is due to my recent study of the Gospel of John with Fr. Scott Jenkins at my church. If it is the Celtic kirtan chant project I am involved in, with Macushla introducing me to the Irish lament. My recent immersion into Mary Magadlene, giving voice to her story in a monologue I wrote and will be performing later this year. Or my satsang friend, a mother, with a daughter in Israel and another friend, a mother, whose mother and father live in Palestine. It must be combination of all of these events and people that kept me from sleep this evening, muses that finally led me to this poem.

The insanity of killing one another must stop. I don’t know how, but I think it is summed up in a quote I read earlier this night from an Israeli. In response to a call for prayer from the Book of Isaiah, he said rather eloquently and simply:

“AMEN to Shalom over ego.”

I wish you peace this night and a blessing of surrender of ego.

 

 

Here is one of Macushla’s songs, “We Are Beloved of God.”

 

Parallel Lines

Photo from Every Day Poems at TweetSpeak Poetry

sometimes
it’s just the memory

the power of pain
traveling down the track

tourists and gift shops
walls and checkpoints

daughters and guns
there is light

two parallel lines
not quite parallel

a slight angle inwards
coming together

not fear and retaliation
but dialogue slightly inward

a beginning
finding the light

just a slight angle inwards
an encounter pulling away

from the memory
the power of pain

.
.
.
.

Today is Sunday. I finished my daily count of 2000 words for my current NaNoWriMo novel, The Lion Tamer.

I am enjoying the leftover good vibes from last night’s mass celebrating All Saint’s Day and Seinheim at the Church of the Holy Family.

And I’m wallowing in my daily addiction of Facebook cruising.

A photo from Tweetspeak Poetry caught my eye. It drew me back to a FB post I read a few minutes earlier.

Nadia Bolz-Weber, a local Lutheran minister, is visiting the Holy Land and I am enjoying the updates of her travels on her FB page. I admire those who are fearless and go where I would never dare and do things I don’t think I would even entertain the idea of doing.

Her piece touched me today. And when the haunting photo on Tweetspeak scrolled into my view, I knew I needed to use some of Reverend Bolz-Weber’s words to build a found poem.

So many of our problems today seem to come from riding the rails on parallel tracks and not noticing that we are going to the same place. Especially with the political season in full swing, we always seem to see the other guy as the enemy. We see those at work who don’t agree with us as the enemy. We see the car cutting us off in traffic as the enemy.

But we really are going to the same place.

We are here together on this earth as residents. All of us.

I wonder, if we would just angle ourselves in, just a touch, so those parallel lines come together, as those who founded the Palestinian Israeli Bereaved Families for Peace that the Reverend encountered in her travels, maybe peace could be a real possibility. Maybe we could see through the eyes of those struggling what it is really like, what the situation really is.

Maybe we would find the light to light our way.

Maybe. Just maybe.