Later You Will Understand

Perched on the counter beside her,

chattering of lands far away,

I watched her fill the kitchen sink

ankle deep with warm suds.

Then came the invitation.

Peeling off socks, I slid aching

arches into their bath,

where they met with the tender

touch of home – love wrapped

in hands shaped to serve.

It wasn’t the first time

my feet had surrendered into

welcoming hands,

but they were much tinier

when guided carefully 

from her womb, 

a “little footling breech”

who just couldn’t wait 

to meet her Mama.

As I pat my own feet dry

an ocean away,

a similar yearning 

is lodged in my heart – 

these past nine months

a different kind of waiting – 

not for birth but to feel

again her touch.

Savoring new hope 

in feet freshly washed,

my heart is drawn to 

the Savior who knelt,

the full extent of his love

poured out by hands which

cleansed both feet and hearts.

Spoken in the language 

of basin and towel,

his invitation called 

the beloved to yield

sullied feet and clamoring 

control to the hands of the 

shaper of stars and seas.

Sliding upon splashes,

his words danced forth:

“Later you will understand” – 

this love a mystery

spreading deeper still

as souls soak in its

boundless basin.

Perhaps those same words

floated in the air 

of her kitchen as she

followed the example he set,

tenderness transferred to

once tiny feet by my mother’s

caring caress. 

Like his dear friends

in the upper room,

I realized not what she

was doing. Only later,

across the sea,

would I understand – 

the love flowing with 

water through her fingers

bound us together

forevermore.

© Halle Thompson

September 26-October 24, 2020

“You do not realize now what I am doing, 

but later you will understand.” 

Jesus in John 13:7

Drawing by @trustandsee

Yellow Day ?

She told me today’s a yellow day.

I wanted to believe her -

that under the gray veil

pressing down the corners

of the sky and my lips,

dying leaves hold

sunshine on their backs

They might be soggy

from a long rain,

nostalgic for the crisp

crunch of before

or for days when

a golden orb warmed

their tender leaflets,

newborn fresh

Green was coursing

through their veins 

as they fluttered carefree

in the balmy breezes,

unaware the arc of their 

existence was bending 

downward

But now the bite of

autumn stopped it fast,

emerald giving way to gold

as they felt their fragility -

theirs calling out to mine

amidst raindrops streaking 

the windowpanes

She carried three of them

in her outstretched hand,

fingers exploring textures

as heartstrings were gently

tuned toward light -

hers and mine

Yes, a yellow day - 

when tender hearts 

join leaves aflame

to play a symphony of hope

October 13, 2020

photos by Oskars Sylwan, Rodion Kutsaev, Max Böhme & Roman Kraft on Unsplash

Unfinished

The world is full of unfinished poems.

The early lines flow like creamy honey,

ink spread across the page

like softened butter on

loaves fresh from the oven.

I feel the elation

of a puzzle-piece well-placed,

the joy of alliteration,

lines well-paced.

But then comes a time

when the pen runs dry.

The garden hose has kinks

and the dahlias are drooping.

The stack of scratch paper

where I scrawl my poems

grows ever thicker.

I wonder if this one

will end up there, too.

But perhaps that stack is 

not a graveyard but a

greenhouse --

A safe space for new-sprung sprouts

to send out roots,

unjudged by voices of haste.

I read that dahlias may droop

in times of stress --

Who doesn't when faced with the

unfinished poems of our lives?

But the secret of their sagging

stems is this:

water sent from leaves

to strengthen roots.

So when we feel that all our

poetry has turned to stammering

and the puzzle, once so thrilling,

is far from done,

Meet me in the greenhouse,

warmed by sunlight,

where a tender gardener

will write the lines to come...

October 4, 2020

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash

Stand In Horseshoes

For the kid whose family just moved to town,
for the girl who wonders who she'll sit with at lunch,
for the boy who just got picked last again,
--- stand in horseshoes ---

For the porcupine who bristles at the first sign of danger,
for the parrot who mimics so she'll never be known,
for the tortoise who finds life's safer in a shell,
--- stand in horseshoes ---

For the young mom whose children make her feel less alone,
for the empty-nester seeking purpose now that kids are grown,
for the widower who never imagined life without her,
--- stand in horseshoes ---

For the darting mind longing to belong,
for the wandering soul searching for home,
for the crystalline heart who can't risk another shattering,
--- stand in horseshoes ---

For the woman who dons an invisibility cloak while yearning to be seen,
for the man whose jokes mask a black hole of solitude,
for the one whose parched lips thirst for the cup of water
        your hands can hold out --

For hearts to start healing,
it doesn't take much. 
Just open your circle and
--- stand in horseshoes ---

September 17, 2020

I owe the title and concept for this poem to Aime McGinnis, who posted this quote on facebook a while back: 

Also: Horseshoes are better than circles.
Leave space. Always leave space.
Horseshoes of friends > Circles of friends.
Life can be lonely. Stand in horseshoes.

- Glennon Doyle, June 3, 2014

Photo by Leon Liu on Unsplash

Skyward

Swept skyward in waves

of colored light

My soul rides frothy

swells to their crest

Rocked in cool silence

by the dance of

golden-blue billows

capped by rose silhouette

(poem inspired by the stained glass window by Jacques Godin in the Église Saint-Trémeur, Carhaix-Plouguer, France)

August 12, 2020

Sprout Song

I love the crackling sound of soil

soaking in water freshly fallen,

where newborn sprouts, skyward stretching,

glisten with beads of liquid light.

 

What is it in the human spirit that

longs to protect these fragile shoots –

to peer into their earthen pots

and cheer their growth with pulsing heart?

 

Perhaps an answer lies within

seeds still dormant in our heart’s earth,

long ago fallen from pods of promise

into fertile ground awaiting birth.

 

These seeds within house mystery flowers

whose germination we both fear and crave –

what might our kernel-sheltered longings

become if they climb to taste the day?

 

Will they meet a brisk wind that knocks them flat

or have time to grow roots to give them strength?

Does a chance to blossom outweigh the risk

of a late frost’s cruel and deadly kiss?

 

Curled in darkness the questions lie thick,

like soil piled in mounds upon those seeds

who’ve all but forgotten that, at their core,

they were shaped and crafted for so much more.

 

But the sprouts upon their tenuous stems

sing down and call our souls to dare:

“Come, oh come into the light –

leave angst below and breathe new air!”

 

And so we heed their beckoning song,

echoes of the still, small voice within,

whose waves of love assure us now

that even bruised reeds he will not break.

 

New courage pulsing, upward we climb,

splitting shadows along our way,

safe in knowing that whatever may come

we grow in the garden of the eternal Son.

April 26 & July 29, 2020

Turn Aside

Reaching in brambles

beside the sliding stream,

in fading daylight purple

fingers pluck their prize –

juicy red lumps turned

dark by sunlit days,

now gathered one by one

for an evening snack.

 

Intent but still aware

of passersby,

I see him see me

bent upon my task –

a fellow cyclist quite

content to stroll

as Sabbath gift ebbs

to its weekly close.

 

As he in turn leans

down to taste the treat,

a knowing smile is

born within my eyes –

savoring the joy of

helping others see,

my heart gives thanks

for those whose eyes

changed mine.

 

Along this same path

several weeks before,

still chattering their

delight in baby ducks,

my two young teachers,

Moses-like, turned aside

to gaze at “this great sight”

gracing a bush.

 

Perhaps my sandals

should have been

stripped off

upon what I soon

found was holy ground –

a promise of deliverance

from the rush,

when blackberry juices

dance across my tongue.

July 26, 2020

He must Crescendo

I've been blessed by the opportunity to serve for a number of years at Crescendo Summer Institute (CSI), a master class and festival for talented young musicians in Tokaj, Hungary. 

It is always a highlight of my year, thanks to the wonderful people and breathtaking ways God works there. 

Unfortunately this year, due to Covid-19, CSI can't be held in person, but there will be an online program to remind us that "Apart, we are still together." On the eve of CSI 2020, I'm reminded of this poem I wrote on the final morning of CSI 2019.

4 August 2019 – Sunday Morning by the Tisza River

Like the river sliding silently past,

     two weeks of CSI have come and gone.

And before I go, my heart pauses with wonder

     at the thousand points of light held in

     the space of days, spread like winking diamonds

across the surface of the sun-speckled river,

     filling a field with fireflies on a summer night –

The light of a smile shared

     A hand squeezed in blessing

Bursts of laughter around a lunch table

     Tears met by a caring friend

Freedom come – and coming

A Soul in stillness staring up at the stars

     in the inky blue night sky

Notes flowing from the depths of an artist’s heart

     as a teacher passes the flame to one who will carry it onward

And in it all we are held in the sweeping arms of the Father,

     at rest even in our work.

He must Crescendo and we must decrescendo.

(Beat Rink, the founder of Crescendo International, shared this idea during Creative Church, adding a Crescendo spin to John the Baptist’s words in John 3:30 – “He must increase, but I must decrease.”)