yes...but

found this poem as i was going through some old papers/bulletins/etc.
there's something about its simplicity, its frankness, that appeals to me. when all our pretty words are stripped away, this is the kind of language we hurl at God.

I don’t understand God sometimes
In fact he almost fools me
Confuses me
Fakes me
Freaks me
Turns me around to the point where
I have no clue which way is up
I don’t understand God sometimes
I don’t get why babies die
From lack of love
And people die
From lack of rain
Or from too much of it
I don’t understand why pastors get sick
Or parents die in plane crashes
God, I just don’t understand you sometimes
But then there are the quiet times
When rain sings on old leaves
Or geese paint v’s across the clouds
Or the night comes out dressed in stars
And I hear you whispering softly to me
I don’t understand you sometimes God,
But there are the happy times,
The worship times,
When you are closer to me than even I am to me
And I hear your voice mingled with mine
When I see worship-joy in student eyes
And I hear truth-words fall from young mouths.
-shane yancey


a night dressed up in stars, i wish for you,
becca

church

and yet again I begin to learn the meaning, or the definition, of things as I stumble across them in front of my eyes:

and this is church:
the arms that hold you when you weep.
words, prayer-words, chosen carefully at times and flippantly at others but always chosen with an openness about them, an openness that the holy spirit breathes color and feeling into.
the vulnerability it takes to weep in community, and the beauty of another person leaving her seat to hold the man who weeps.
the face of another observer, who sees this act of love and tears up herself.
my own tears, that have surpassed the burning lump in my throat and have made their way quickly down my face, over my mouth and chin, surprising me with their suddenness.
the stranger who hears my barely contained sniffling and turns to put a hand on my knee.
the long, hard hugs given during the peace-pass, the kind where belly brushes up against belly and you breathe together for a moment.
words, more words, words of permission whatever you are feeling, to own your own brokenness, and then words of blessing, words of admonishment to ‘be gentle’ with each other.

church is being so moved by the communion cup being offered to you, moved by what it means, and what these people mean, and what all of this gathering and singing and praying and speaking means, what all of it means.
radical, foundation-shaking love.
that’s what it all means. that is what is living and breathing in that very room, between so many raw, pink hearts, between so many walled-in hearts, love lives in that space between. and the gift of seeing that, of recognizing that, of being moved by that, even through blurry tear-lenses, is a gift I will never cease talking about, a gift for which I will never cease to be gut-deeply grateful.


gentleness, i wish for you,
becca

unfumbling

"She wondered as she watched him sleep safe in his own place far from her why she thought only of hurt. When she was near him, why did she cry. His lovemaking was good. Solid and certain. Unfumbling. Free, somehow clean. Like his neat apartment. Like his clean food. It was good. But though her body responded to him, he was very far from her, from any place she usually lived. His eyes, open or closed in sleep did not touch her, and while he fucked he said so little, nothing at all really addressed to her, just the formula utterances he’d learned by rote to say as he was getting off. And when he was through he turned and slept, and waking took her home. Politely. Smoothly. And she cried. She didn’t know what to make of this. Of his confidence. His desire. His isolate sureness. Like Stephen he refused to make her real."
-paula gunn allen, 'the woman who owned the shadows', p 81-82

I am fascinated by this quote. I think that the sexual dynamics that we create, perpetuate, and participate in are so telling when it comes to understanding our selves, our wounds, and ways we are healed. There is so much in this paragraph that I can't really begin to unpack it. But I wanted to share it.

peace,
becca

begin again (again)

i am thinking of switching to blogger rather than xanga for a few reasons...but suffice it to say, if you are new to this page, here's what this blog is not:
*a place for professional, perfectly composed pieces of writing
*boring and uninspired ramblings about what i ate today
*super and over-indulgent emotional entries that give you far more than you ever wanted to know about the inner workings of my mind
*impersonal commentary on the world

this blog is a variety of things, ranging from:
*prayers
*poems
*creative non fiction prose
*(someday) snippets of fiction
*letters to 'you', the vague and undefined reader of this thing
*rough drafts of creative writing
*a glance at this crazy world through becca-colored lenses

there. glad to get that out of the way.

here's my most recent post, and to take the writing rollercoaster ride that i've been strapped into over the past few years, click here, for archives.

just a lil somethin' somethin'
all week long, we run a marathon towards approval. and it rarely feels like the beginning of a race, when you've got tons of energy, and you've stretched, and you're feeling great. instead it feels like at the end of the race, when you're staggering forward and you feel like any muscle will give out at any minute. and in our exhaustion and fear of failure, we turn to our peers and sabotage them. we trip them up with our finger-pointing and judging. this place, these people, strive to communicate affirmation over approval. we often fail.
but the God who knows the depths of who we are still comes alongside us in the race and calls us to slow down, to walk away from trying to figure out who's in and who's out, to a path towards affirmation and love.
let us stop running, if even for an hour, and rest beside this God of love.

(acknowledging God's presence snippet (kind of like a call to worship, something we do before worship starts @ bsm)).

a respite from the race, i wish for you,
becca