Yay, Lord

The Sacred Act that will stave the hunger of men

A basin, a towel, kneeling washing my feet

Blood red wine pours—

If the bread is not broken I cannot eat

Yay, Lord. I need to eat.

In the still night air, in tall grass

A path we cleave

Halts, turns the face I love

Solemn eyes look right at me

Yay, Lord, I’m listening

Thou prayest my faith fail not

Into prison, death I’ll go with Thee!

Master, I could never doubt or deny

Thou hast my life and loyalty.

Yay, Lord, thus it will always be.

I wait in moonlit silence

Thou departs through shadowed glade

Slumber falls my weary frame

Distant, racking sobs fade.

Yay, Lord, sob for me.

“Couldn’t thou lie awake, my friend?”

Startled, I rise from the ground,

His blood and sweat-dried skin

And me asleep, He found.

Yay, Lord, I fell asleep

He departs and returns again

Three times in all

Eyes of such love and pain

Wake me, as my name He calls.  

“Peter.”

Mobs and guards assail

No sadness, terror, too much

My sword lashes in defense 

His response: a healing, touch.

Yay, Lord, heal me.

Brutally, they take Him

The Son of God does not rebel

Falsely accused, tortured

Ceding, He enters Hell

Lord, go for me.

Alone, “Knowest Thou Jesus?”

To the crowd I sputter fear-filled lies:

“I know not the man”

And like that, my spirit dies

Jesus goes to die for me. 

I watch clouds churn black

Mere men sneer and chide

Thunder chafes the air

As my Master is crucified

Lord, I remember.

The testimony once I gave

Before the cock crowed thrice

I brand on my heart forever now

For “Thou art the Christ!”

Thou art the Christ!

Alas, common man,

I, Simon, return to the sea

Echoes….the voice of Him I love?

Resurrected? Can it be?

 Yay, Lord! Alive! 

Risen Master, lowly I?

Thou walkest towards?

He speaks, “Dost thou love me?”

Thou knowest: “Yeah, Lord”

“I love Thee, I love Thee, I love Thee”

Bitterness again shan’t I weep

Whatever Thou asks!  

 His reply, “Feed My sheep.“

Yay, Lord.  Yeah, Lord.

We need to eat.

Biblical References (if you would like to follow the original story):

John 13:1-17;

Mark 14:12-25;

Matthew 16:15-17;

Luke 22: 54-65;

Matthew 26:32-57;

Matthew 26: 66-75

Matthew 27: 29-54;

John 18:10-12;

John 21:3-17

Visiting Hours

Grinning, posing, pacing,
a caged animal in a zoo.
Speculated, calibrated.
Fool, you see what I allow you to.

And that warped perception
through your eyes of pride
Judging, confining, grouping
—it’s suicide.

But die if you will
—blind, in noxious fume.
For I am so much more
than this flesh costume.

Blood-Words: My Valentine

A theme of my life

It’s dark motif—

I’ll unravel, step in

My mind’s Chateau d’If

Maybe you’ll see

As I tear off my skin,

The burned, masticated

Flesh I’ve lived in

Don’t be alarmed

As I unveil what’s inside

My cloak was thick

--My pain somaticized:

Panic, hysteria

Drowning depression

Deluged in a famine

From non-expression

Suffocating, sweltering

Enveloping humidity

Bloated, choking

Tumid in timidity

I’ll slice off a callus

My soul’s pussing sores

It’s like Pandora’s box

--There are ten other doors

Issue after issue

The years I was dead

Is this progress?

Or hacking Hydra’s Head?

Congesting, curdling

By foiled felicity

Latent lucence--

Suppressed eccentricity

A monstrous muzzle

On every filtered facet 

A paralyzed puppet

In terrible tacit

As a child I learned

To protect myself

I find, 20 years later,

My voice still on the shelf

Because, heaven for bid

My opinion intercedes

So I bite my tongue

Until it bleeds

Fetid, foul feeding

Now blood-words as clots 

Gagging glass shards

As my esophagus rots

Mutilated MUTE-ation

Every second. Minute. Day.

I came to believe

I have to nothing to say.

Percolating poison:

My mind, insipid, inane.

Void of thought, emotion

A fear-dumbed brain

Trepid to speak

An idea that is mine

 My goblet of goblins,

Gargling gall-wine

This unwanted wonted,

Taught, taut tension

Bereaving, non-conceiving

Oh--Did I mention?

BOYS. Romance,

Oh my heart!  

My walls are so thick

I don’t know where to start

 “Just be yourself”

But I never have been!

--Shawled in shame

In a desolate den

That explains

Though I don’t understand

The narcotic nervousness

Alone with a man

I don’t need to expound

Those demons I won’t exhume:

The sadness of remote loving

From my chamber of gassed doom…

Unspoken, unexpressed

Self-manipulated, surviving

In a craven-cradled corner

Shadows thrilling, thriving

My broken life. My broken heart.

Torrid tears I weep alone

Accepting the possibility

That I may never be known

Crying ,acrid acid

Seep steep, calcify, FREEZE.

Rachael..

YOU CAN LEARN WORDS

To combat this disease.

The lie

That I must remain

Harrowed, hagged

Warped, One-dimentional

Hiding, fear-gagged

A silent serf to a

Metastasizing malady

Stripped of my voice,

Worth, individuality

That the hauntings of my youth

In my innocent, child-perception

Immured in a realm of

Destructive, self-deception

Don’t have to dictate

Who and all I can be

I am a Daughter of God

THAT IS MY IDENTITY

And the screams that my

Personality like a scab’s congealed

Must be hidden, hampered

Conformed, concealed

Those shilling shrieks:

That I’m not allowed

Depth, feeling

My true self avowed

 Are dunked in the ocean

As my reflection I stare

Inhaling salt, sunshine

And suddenly I’m aware

Of

Fishies in the sea

Darting all abubble

Sugared, brumal flakes—

Never a double

The lemon sun

In dancing diesel

The burrowing, spastic

Bloodthirsty weasel

Dazzling guts

Of a crystal geode

A frigid, forbidding

Arctic abode

Stout, jade cacti

In prickly annoyance

Giddy, swimming dolphins

In silver chatoyance

The fatal-feigning faculty

Of a putrid possum

The sunrise blush

Of each cherry blossom

Vital volcanoes

Blubbering lava, spitting smoke

Propitious hills sashed

In a dandelion cloak

Flocculent clouds

Their arsenals of thunder

Pondering God, His creations,

Make me wonder

That my Father

Whose power He pensions

The Designer of all—

Has bounded dimension??

From scrap to scope

Beyond grain, gorge, and galaxy

My Perennial Parent

Then of course there is more to me!

 I audaciously believed

That a child of this Genius, Glory

ME!! was inept, powerless

To write my own story

SETTING:

God’s spiritual offspring

Caged in a world

Offering counterfeit wings—

That I’m not divine

Give in to the animal in me

That power comes from

Money, appearance, sexuality

Bow to my appetites

Bid my conscience adieu

…And be a slave to my body?

--No thank you. 

That this corruptible receptacle  

Elements from the dust

With capped capability

Selfish, proud, yawed to lust

Has more potential, power

Than who dwells within??

My Spirit—sacred, divine

The Infinite Creator’s kin.

And these lurid lies

From a skulking fraud

That this brazen race offers more

Than the Almighty God

Who I choose as my Master

And trust His love heals

As I give Him my heart

To me, His He reveals

It’s broken.

Each person—the world’s

Past, present, aching tomorrows

--He holds it.  Jesus:

Our Man of Sorrows

We are carved on His hands

Though hand Him null, unpermitted

 He is neglected, abused

--Love unrequited

He is rarely obeyed

Rather intellectualized, confined

When He is more intelligent

Than all God’s children combined

The earth—

Her beauty and breadth

Can be a primary index

To His nature and depth

Generous, gentle, fierce,

Deeper than ocean’s plot

A man with such character

Would occupy my every thought

So why not Him?

When others cards,

Bouquets, chocolates tower

I think of my Special Someone

Who created the flower

When I am tempted or pulled

I think of my Valentine

Scars in His palm, pleading,

“Rachael, be mine.”

When feeling numb, worthless

To my King I confess

He wore a crown of thorns

Yet inspirits, “Princess”

His mercy so personal

On my path of healing, hurting

My favorite smells--spring lilac

He sends, like He’s flirting.

Or when I catch cold raindrops

Liquid pearls adorn my wrist

I’m smothered from kisses

Of dawn’s first dewy mist

Roving through forest thicket

Tickled by aspens and pine

My own hand-made truffles:

Fresh berries from the vine

When the nightingale and sparrows

Sonorously sing

It’s not on my finger—

But I know that ring

When joyful sunbeams

Tango through the leaves

And warmly hug my heart

“Never let go, please.”

So holy, these impressions,

And places I roam

And the clarity: He who created

Would be He who atoned

That eve—His friends deny,

Run, sleep, loyalty closes

Blue twilight, an olive tree,

A bed of white roses

In the Sacred Garden, Gethsemane 

Terror, darkness imbues.

Carrying my burdens, sadness

So I don’t have to.

The Heavens mourn:

Tarring earth’s vaulted vase.

For the Creator, Jesus Christ,

Is redeeming the human race.

The roses are now stained red

The sky is no longer blue.

His blood-words drip:

“Rachael, I love you” 

Te Kā, Take-ah Hike.

        I can hear my computer buzz. Its sounds vaguely, faintly like crickets. I like crickets. One time I ate one. It was covered in chocolate. I won a $5 gift card at Coldstone because I agreed to have it mashed up in my banana ice-cream. It tasted like a crunch bar with a zingy aftertaste. I can still taste it. I can still taste the water I drank ten minutes ago. I can still hear Moana’s theme song “It’s calling me” dancing in my head. I see the silhouettes of her ancestors. I still feel how my heart ached—I felt it ache, like someone was wringing it as a wet rag to make all the feeling, sadness and compassion drip out. “Be patient,” I hear. Patient with myself when I can speak and share the messages of truth and love that are inside of me. I wonder how long it will be. I have so much to share. So much that I hear and feel and know. Not arithmetic knowledge or history knowledge, school stuff like that. But knowledge that comes from faith and fighting with faith for a long time. And not sure how to even begin speaking. I still find myself filtering everything I say. I don’t want to. I just don’t know how not to. I don’t know how to not be what I have always been. Or at least for ten…fifteen years. I don’t know how to say and speak what someone might disagree with. It’s a disease. An addiction. Of agreeing. Of protecting myself. But I don’t care. I don’t want to care. That is not true Rachael. I know who I am. I know I am a leader. And a speaker. I know I can love from a place that is more pure than this world. I know where that love comes from: God. The Father of us all.  It’s just tricky is all. Unlearning. Or learning what is healthy. After all the unlearning that is unhealthy. Sometimes it is exhausting: being trapped inside. And waiting until she, me, is free. 

            I liked Moana. I am babysitting. (Which, I hear little voices peaking out from upstairs when said little voices should be zzzzzz-ing. Hmm…). It was my first time watching it. I liked the end. When the shell of the lava monster came off and we realize it is the beautiful goddess. The molten crusted-rock falls once her heart is placed back in her. That is how I see people. That is how Christ sees people. (And any clear vision on my part is because of Him). What makes me sad is that many might watch that and feel a real sense of love, peace, and divine beauty but quickly discard that as a myth. That “the world is an ugly place,” or “you are what you see and there is nothing else.” When that divinity really does live inside each person. It’s hard to believe in such a noisy world where the visual stimulus is so oppressive. But that spiritual element—a more true identity than anything seen with the eyes—is absolutely real. I have come to know that for myself. I have hope that the love that people are dying to feel will be recognized as the never-ending love of God. I know that Love heals. I have felt it.

            There is one lady who comes into one of my Harris Teeter stores. She is not well. Her body is disfigured. I see her bones pushing through her skin. Her baggy size 0 jeans are held up by a belt; her femurs and tendons with minute flesh are swimming inside.  Her body looks like a scarecrow and the skin on her thin face is stretched like Saran wrap. Though her lips move I see the clear wrap tighten around her throat and mouth like she is being strangled by a vacuum sealed bag of her own perceived worthless-ness. When she smiles though…I would give all I have to see her smile. I would give all I have so her reality isn’t one of abuse and horror. How she is, has been treated, and how she treats herself now (because of her experiences) is written on her body. She asked me, after I hugged her (I don’t know if she gets many hugs from anybody), “do you have memories that, if you remember, they will destroy you?” That was a heavy question. I wondered how long she had been carrying it. I replied I did. I told her though of Jesus Christ. Of His love. And how He has helped me forget. That as I spend time with Him, and how preciously He treats me, I change. Am ennobled. Become more beautiful. More intelligent. More confident. More peaceful. He has put my heart back into me, free from hate, bitterness, and pain.  I told her how much He loves her. And suffers when she suffers, AS she suffers, and can hold her through it. That there is hope. I saw light come into her eyes as we spoke. That is when she smiled. We hugged again.

            Then I went into the bathroom and cried for her.  

            Here I am two weeks later, at a random lady’s house, crying as I type the memory. I think of the lyrics of a Josh Groban song, he is quoting the Lord, Jesus Christ, from Isaiah. “I have heard my people cry. I have set a feast for them. Who will I send? –Here am I, Lord.” I imagine myself saying that. Raising my hand real tall, Dory-style, “send me!! Send me to help! I want to help so bad.”

            I know Jesus is with us. God hears the cries of His people. And pleads with us to turn to Him. So He can send us. Send you. Send me. To recognize and love those who are dying inside. And bring them to Christ. Our Healer, Master, and Friend.  

            And, just like in Moana, person’s scabbed, callused, molten shell will fall away and reveal someone truly divine.

           

            My friend from the grocery store, her smile…I wish you could have seen it.

What Happened to you, Ethan Craft?

A spiky haired man wearing VERY yellow pants just hugged me.  The lemon-scented cleaning spray, yellow. Jose’, Pedro. I can’t remember his name. He works for the apartment complex. 72% of the time I’m not a huge fan of his vibes. I can tell he is good on the inside but I have to look really hard sometimes.

            We chatted cordially, “It really got cold, these past two days.”

            “Yeah. Brrr. .. yessiree. Cold. “

            “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

            “Yep…yep….you?”

            “Yes.”

             “Ooooohkay…well…happy new year!”

            *hug*

            He iniciated it. I didn’t want to hug him. I don’t get slimy, scumbag vibes from him, I just didn’t want to hug him. But I did. Ick. Dangit. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I just reach out my hand for a handshake? That would have been OBVIOUS the hug rejection, but that ‘s okay!! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO RACHAEL OR SAY ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO. EVER. Yes, that is true. Thank you, Blog-Rachael-version-of-me for the wise words. It is difficult though (I reply to my blog version self) to break the patter of pleasing others because it has been apart of me for so long.

            There was another man today at Harris Teeter. I was restocking bacon. He was maybe late thirties to early forties. He had dark skin; it was an olivey-smoky copper-light brown. He was dressed poorly. But I didn’t notice that at first. Were they jeans or sweatpants? A soiled hoodie with a once-creamy-white, wool hood. Picture a Derice Bannock -Ethan Craft hybrid who aged 20 years and now lives under a bridge. What other grubby clothes was he wearing? Hmm. Can’t recall. I looked up from my bacon and smiled at him. He smiled back. He had the best, well, the top three, best smiles I’ve ever seen from a man. Ever.

             I was literally thinking in my head “You sir, have an amazing smile.”

            Then HE SAID TO ME, “Great smile.”

            I stammered, bashfully, “ Thank you.” And he, WHILE STILL SMILING HIS AMAZING SMILE said, “No, thank you.”

            The crazy thing is, he was totally sincere. I felt it. I know when someone is not, and he was genuine. Meek, even.  It wasn’t fake charm, it was two comfortable sentences exchanged in passing.

            I glanced up, real subtle, of course, a few seconds later, and he was standing next to his daughter (I assume). He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked totally different. Tired. That is when I noticed he was dressed in worn close. He reminded me of my older brother. Maybe why I loved him. SHINING, BEAUITUFL SPIRIT AND SMILE then it was like, wait…you’re a regular human being beat-up by the world and covered in dirt.

           

            And I think… which is the mirage? Which is the illusion?

            His radiating light and genuine goodness was more real than what my eyes saw following: grubby, poor, and baggy. Even now I have to work really hard to recall how his appearance looked when his smile feels imprinted on my brain. Kinda like after I watch a firework explode and I close my eyes and its silhouette is sketched in vapor on my black lids. I’m not speaking of romantic love. Just love.

            I met a woman named Mary today. She was maybe 65 years old with gray hair and some less gray hair that would soon be gray hair. It was cut shortly like my mom’s. She was thin like my mom. But had such a sweet presence. She told me her name. I told her I love that name so much because it reminds me of Mary who was the mother of Jesus. We smiled at each other. I felt my throat get tight when I mentioned the Savior. I was feeling really tense minutes before. In my whole body. My skin felt tight, like the chocolate syrup that gets poured over ice-cream and immediately turns into a hard shell. That was my skin: concrete. Some women were talking about things I didn’t want to hear and I felt painfully uncomfortable. I felt sad because I didn’t know how to act. I love those women. They know that. I bet if I just asked if we could change the topic they would have understood and it wouldn’t have been a big deal.

            I felt fear. Fear to speak. I didn’t want them to laugh at me…or my innocence.  I wondered if I would always feel this timid forever. It’s not who I am. But when I met Mary, and saw my mom in her sweet eyes, and told her why I love her name, and said the Savior’s name reverently, I felt all the fear go away. I felt so much love. I felt that I would and could be the woman who is inside of me. That I don’t need to be ashamed. That I don’t need to live in fear anymore. Fear to just be myself. Kind of a funny fear, huh? It’s not one that pops up with 8 legs on my bathroom ceiling, though not a fan. (Haha…I didn’t mean to make a pun. Fan wings can be called legs, right?). It’s not one that hovers and looms and promises imminent death if pushed over/off a tall height. This one just stays. A cold shadow. A chilling umbra, tomb. Historically, it has been especially bad if I have a crush on a boy. But remember, I’m not ready to talk about that subject yet. :)    

            And that is why I am writing. A half an hour of, perhaps, nonsensical thoughts. Me just being me. I trace back my fears and anxieties, BIIIIGGGGG ones, and it all comes back to that fear: that somewhere, somehow, I learned, or misunderstood that I, me, just me, is not enough or worth loving. That if I act my true self, all my thoughts, emotion, and dimension. I cannot be loved. Isn’t that sad? It is a lie, OBVIOUSLY. A big one. I believed it for a long time. My whole life, really. So I hid. And still find myself hiding. I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want it to be just God and me anymore. That’s how it has been for so long. And I am sooo grateful He has been there for me and always will be! But I think loving, Heavenly Father wants more for His precious daughter. Lots more.

            I think so too.  So I am fighting. By writing. Until I can speak. And be, without fear, filter, or shame. And the woman I am—really am, in all of my power, expression and beauty—can be free.