Shipwright
I miss the sea.
God, I miss the sea.
Why did you make me love it,
put it in my heart
despite my childhood wanderings only
bringing it to my side once a year?
Why do I miss the journey among the darkened waves,
the stuffy fastcraft boat,
the deafening drone of the motors?
For it brought me home –
to my grandmother’s haven
and to a place where my identity
was wrapped in,
speaking a language I did not fully understand,
one I was a half-alien to,
and yet, welcomed by the arms
of distant relatives knocking on
narra doors: “Maáyo!” or “Maáyo?”
I miss the smell of the sea and the
pungent smell of fish and
the purple sinigang and
the orange taste of crab–
cracking open its claws and
feasting by the wave-caressed shores
at noontime or night.
The ship is but a vessel, a hallway
to places we settle in;
it is not a home,
and yet you’ve drawn my attention to it;
maybe my life here is but a ship
that will deliver me to Your golden shores
of spirit,
and of true reality,
of which this earth is but a shadow.
God, my God, you yourself took that ship
to our world.
Born into human skin,
naked, battered by sin, but not within,
only without,
you braved the journey and
exposed yourself in weakness.
You grew human ears that received the
soundwaves of Galilee’s lake-lapping
and closed heavy eyelids in the
rocking to-and-fro of Peter and James’
boat, savoring the hammock rocked
by the storm.
Perhaps, you, as a carpenter, once worked as a
shipwright,
contributing some flourish of design
or structural support,
perhaps you visualized the compositions well
in your human mind.
Truly, you were an engineer with a poet’s heart.
And so you tell the best stories and invite us
to embark on a ship of your crafting,
to follow you to the shores
of our final home,
a place you have prepared dearly for us.
Armenian History I
It was as if he had just walked straight out of a book
I was used to seeing older faces teach us, but here he arrived
With a young face, Darcy-esque curly hair, and furrowed brow
He had intention in his gait, this keeper of the past
I was used to seeing older faces teach us, but here he arrived
With a thick American accent and an Armenian last name
He had intention in his gait, this keeper of the past
“What do you know about your past?” he asked us,
With a thick American accent and an Armenian last name.
He looked at every one of us – we who had come from all corners of the earth –
“What do you know about your past?” he asked us.
And so he filled the whiteboard with the words we had inherited
He looked at every one of us – we who had come from all corners of the earth –
We who owned different languages and a myriad identities
And so he filled the whiteboard with the words we had inherited –
Even from me, an alien and a stranger in his own land
We who owned different languages and a myriad identities
Found ourselves in his young face, Darcy-esque curly hair, and furrowed brow
We loved him – even me, an alien and a stranger in his own land
It was as if we had just walked straight out of a book.
Potiphar’s Prison
I am grieving for what may not be,
To let go of all the solutions that I see —
Equations and blueprints and maps
Maneuvers and plan Bs and plain hard facts...
The insidious desires that masquerade as Your will
Need to be pruned and ripped out for what is greater still.
Now I cannot see. My tears blur my eyes,
for the shame of crouching under a closed door in the dark
has kept me from moving forward.
But now I let go... and trust you with all my heart.
For I know Your works are greater:
The ends and the means? They belong to my Savior.
I let my hopes go, like sand from my fingers
and look only to You — my delight forever.
-
Help me remain in this truth,
like how Davey held fast,
and not how Jack Kelly cowered in the dark.
Bring me out into the light,
speak Your words of life to me.
Oh, how I need Your words of life!
Help me look up to You,
to Your strength and Your might,
when my own strength is flagging
and emotions cloud my mind.
For You are both the path and the reward,
not any other earthly good,
accolade or command,
no, no amount of applause will do —
You are the passage and the goal.
So help me to rest in You,
and hide myself in You every day.
May this prayer become a vow, and
oh, Lord, give me grace to see it through.
The Man from Bethsaida
To see—
to be reunited with humanity—
to see the faces of the friends who brought me
to Him,
I see.
That He is Lord of all
that He takes care of things as small
as me.
I see
trees and leaves and seeds
and hands and sandals and smiles
on those who loved me
enough to hope against hope
and put their trust in this Man
who laid His hands on me —
ah, the way they held their breath
and hid their disgust
as He spat on my eyes —
the first try,
their hope flagging as I
saw only trees under murky water
blobs - shapes - shadows
light green - brown - grey
not - human.
I heard them groan, but He kept on going
He touched my eyes
and when I opened them again,
I - could - see.
And then I couldn't see again
because of my tears
and I was laughing and laughing
and He laughed with me,
and He took me in His arms,
and I was lost within His shoulders
and I could only see the dark of His sleeves
oh, I couldn't believe
I could see again.
but, by God! I - could - see!!
And He told me not to go home through the village
where people could see me —
for they did not believe
in Him.
They could see Him, but they
did not
believe.
And so
they could
not see.
I went back home.
I didn't need the hands of my friends
to guide me back, but,
I brought them anyway.
And the next day,
I went out to that little secret place of mine
by the trees
by the stream
where, for years, I only listened to the water
gurgling and flowing,
where I smelled of the leaves deeply
and learned the languages of the birds
and felt the grass under my two feet.
But now I can see the hues of sunlight,
flashing and sparkling over the leaves,
and the bees buzzing over the flowers
the million swirling colors of the brook
and the little fish jumping out the water
the flurry of the brown grasshopper who
jumps away from my feet,
and now I can't see again -
my eyes are blurred with tears.