Tuesday, September 20, 2005


Tonight I dreamt of my grandmother. And she was come to me from God’s presence. She was young, joyous, and knew Scripture—well. She sat across from me and leaned on her arm as she looked into my eyes, and questioned about this darkness. I evaded her, she pursued. Then gave me Hebrews 8:1 and James 5 as she knew I would not surrender my position. We spoke of other things, I got a notepad to scribble messages for liz, geen and then she left me in her house, her only house, the one where all my days were lived, where I knew safety, comfort, where I had refuge.

Then in the blue room, my mom, sister and I were there with grandpa. He had on tan slacks, a large tribal belt buckle, black belt, and a button down white shirt with pinstripes. He wore cowboy boots and moved swiftly. He was young. He carried with him a ball of yarn. He was crocheting. He sat at the kitchen table just outside the blue room crocheting while we settled ourselves in the room. I laughed because this was grams’ pastime in life. Fashioning warmth, comfort, style one skein at a time. Hours upon hours she would sit and crochet. I know now these were prayer shawls, mantles if you will, she draped us in illness and health in robes of prayer. It seems grandpa has taken up that heavenly occupation. And I was tired, so lay down on some gray yarn. The skein he was working from was cream and blue variegated. I could not tell what he was making, but imagine it consisted of soldiers. Among the many things my grandma taught herself, was crocheting. she taught us how to make chains and soldiers and pair them to make blankets—or anything we wanted really.

Gramps lay down beside me and his presence reminded me of when we were young, and I would sleep between him and grams. Aunt Jane and Uncle Tony were there because they were always there, an unchangeable constant of my early years I would not have otherwise. They kept their silent vigil in their respective rooms, serving, loving, being. Gramps lay down to sleep beside me and I awoke.

It occurred to me how easily we hang our hopes upon one person. Whether right or wrong. We fashion our future from dust. And they cannot live forever. They, like our beloved Lord, must die. Just as we. But there has only ever been one Man worthy of such trust. Our inward bent is idolatry. Making little temples and altars wherever we can to gain favor.

Yet the only worthwhile favor we have ever needed, was ours before we knew we needed it. It is no longer the stuff of temples and altars, but of hearts and fire. The Indwelling King laid it all down for our redemption, relationship restored. A priceless, unmatched gift many cannot allow themselves to receive.

And I imagine Mary spending her Sabbath revisiting Jesus’ last tormented hours, walking the streets, seeing the scenes, hearing the jeering crowds. And weeping wordless.

death shroud


red hot
cool to

the silent

the temple
a shell of

the veil

the courtyard

the whipping post

the blood stained
i walk
You stumbled
a pulp

the agony.

O my Lord
Your words
come to me
in this

three days
the temple
cannot be
rebuilt it
has fallen

lone hill

Eloi Eloi

Eloi Eloi

we are lost

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