CoffeeConvo

The bittersweet conversation mingles between sips with the steam from our coffee. I have two hours to pleasantly kill before work- no better way to spend it than at Starbucks with the queen of coffee herself. The extra hot vanilla latte has never tasted so good. I think of how many times I’ve sat at this square table across from her in the little café, and how many times I will after this morning. We’ve covered so much ground here. And an average stop-by java bean consumer would never suspect the miles traveled in one sitting between the two of us- riding life bareback and not knowing what will be next, rather, talking it through one morning at a time over a cup of coffee and crisscrossed legs beneath a wearing table. I can feel it already though- the cold draft of something different this time, and I know it’s not just someone walking in and letting the outside sweep through.

“I still can’t believe you’ll be in Italy during the last summer I’m here.”

For once in my life this is the last thing I want to talk about right now. I both welcome and fear next summer. I anticipate the joy of returning to Italy, in a way that stirs the lingering passion in me for missions, for reaching my lost home. I await with eagerness the jolt of jet wheels on the ancient Italian turf, and the hum of the singing language, and the familiar faces I long for desperately. But with it I sense sacrifice. What will you make me give up to go, Lord? One last summer with my friend. I swallow down the thought with another sip.

“You know it’s not exactly easy, Kati. It’ll be strange coming back and you’ll have already left. But I’ll drive down to Newburg to see you as soon as I’m over jetlag. Promise.”

I give her a wink and she smiles, but the grin fades quickly.

“Mandi, I don’t know anymore...”

“What do you mean? I thought George Fox was the perfect school for you?”

“Nearly perfect. I’ve been looking elsewhere, too. I’ve applied at some California schools, and some in Washington. I guess I just feel the need to keep searching ... I hardly know what for.”

“I’m certain it’s completely normal to feel unsure of where you want to go, especially entering your senior year of highschool. Just take it a day at a time.”

Advice I need to learn from myself. Kati twists her cup around doubtfully.

“Easy for you to say; at least you’ve got a plan.”

A plan? Hardly. I want to be a missionary, that’s all I can say with utmost certainty. Everything else spins like a thousand grains of sand trying to land on a beach. The ocean is wide but the shoreline is thin. I explain to her and she understands, still, I sense so much doubt. Unspoken fear of the unknown rests behind her eyes where no one can see, but it’s there.

“Things are changing so fast and so drastically. Sometimes I want it to hurry up; sometimes I want it to slow down. Know what I mean?”

Of course I do. I live those thoughts, but I’m learning how to maintain them realistically, and she is too. But she doesn’t need lecturing right now- I can tell from the nervous sway of her foot clad in brand new tennies, and the anxious gaze out the window beside us. Definitely time to lighten the conversation.

“Hey, why are we worried about this? Haven’t we always wanted to be nuns and live in a convent together?”

She laughs. Hard. Welcome back, Kati. But the seemingly imperishable smile fades again.

“Yeah, except you’ll go off to Italy next summer and fall in love with some drop-dead-gorgeous Italian man and then what will happen to that plan?” She laughs at her own wit, “a hopeless romantic can’t be a nun!”

“Whoa, okay first of all, I may be a romantic but not a hopeless one. Second of all, I’m not going to fall in love with some Italian guy. Talk about the perfect way to kill my goal.”

She knows me well enough to know that. Still, rolling her eyes sarcastically, she takes a sip of her coffee.

“So maybe not in Italy, but you’re bound to meet someone.”

“I’m not going to ‘meet’ anyone. I’m convinced that if he’s not here, he’s not anywhere. It’s why I don’t feel the Lord calling me away to college- every plan for that has failed and it’s conveniently working out for me to stay. It’s strange, Kati. Something’s keeping me here...”

“Yeah, and something’s kicking me out of here. Why do we have to go in two different...”

“I’ve got a grande decaf extra-hot no-foam ristretto latte!”

Suddenly I remember the one obstacle in conversing within the Starbucks atmosphere. The baristas, I’m sure, are trained to shout out the order calls so that everyone in the café can hear what drink they just finished making. We both laugh and grab our purses to go. I don’t want to. There is still so much to say, so much to nail down, so much to talk through with ears that understand. We hug tightly as if to say, I know just what you’re thinking about this life, and I’m there too, excited and fearful.

My latte is cold, and that’s a good sign.

Pretend

(previously posted)

She takes another invisible someone by
the hand and leads him to a stone and peeled bark
prepared table, with settings of empty and folded leaves
and brilliantly crafted plates from little thoughts
that saw them first, and saw
the few rocks that looked, in unexplainable intellect, worthy of being served
on them at her no longer lonesome occasion taking place,
the gathering in the backyard she would host
in honor of ceased rain, where I watched from a window that seemed to
be made for quiet onlookers who were not invited, and who
forgot somehow the way to pretend.
I can see her speaking with her guests while she serves
delicately prepared pebbles stolen from the riverbed earlier
and small fragments of fallen leaves, that are
accompanied by imported puddle water from the sidewalk
brewed to a tepid, earthly perfection.
Her personified stranger does not
speak but gives her sufficient company as always
beneath the ever weeping willow tree that shelters
their midmorning feast of carefully created courses she takes pride in, and
her upright form sits atop a miniature tree stump, padded with
verdant moss left behind from time, and rolled into place
with eager effort, before a table fit for make-believe kings.
Freshly selected bouquets of wind-wilted
dandelions and grass blades
adorn the table, upheld by dried cakes of mud, and match
the crown on her head, which dubs her princess, seated
beside a quiet, unseen prince.

Take it away, dear Lord,
if this desire
does not suit Thy kingdom,
if this longing
does not bring me closer
to where I belong.
But I pray
with every effort in body and in heart,
from humbled, bended knee,
may Thy countenance rest upon this request
and may Thy glory be proven
with every breath of action it draws.
I seek only to magnify Thy greatness
with the life I’ve been allotted-
be it to live or to die,
I do it for the sake of Christ.
May I be granted this
solely to exalt Thy precious name.
Oh, sweet Jesus, make it so.

Everything

Thoughts of You
are holding me here
making my nothing into something
and I feel like I have everything
if everything means only thoughts.

Drops of Days

a bucket of raindrops sits beside the walkway
where the going have finally gone, and I
throw a stone to see where it will land.
There I go to where the bucket gathers drops of rain
drops of days gone by
where I haven’t been this way.

and things are looking different than before, so I
take a breath and forget to remember-
starting over again with Joy
as though it wasn’t the first time.

I’ve danced upon this street in the rain, like
every other undignified romantic in this busy place
they call a quiet town
well it’s busy on the inside
and a thousand times I’ve wondered
where it all goes after the sun breaks through.

now I must know only this could be, that it
falls and falls away to come again
come differently
but some stay resting in this bucket
belonging to the sky
belonging to no one-
drops of days.

I’ll take them back, I promise
just let me walk in this rain one last time;
You know it won’t be long
and I’ll be gone again.

The Creator

Here I stand as I have stood before, upon
ribbons of endless shoreline
trimmed with white waves
like gray blankets under a baby's chin.

And I know He must be here, mingling with
the salty-kissed air and lavender skies
hovering above His singing ocean
and He must be written in the sand with broken seashells
washed with velvet foam.
So here I touch the Creator's hand
and I am in awe.

Here I stand as I have stood before, upon
well-trodden turf a thousand have walked
before I came here and rested
in the solitude of charcoaled shadows made from green
and dangling autumn on the edges of ancient trees.

And I know He must be here, sitting high
in their aging branches gazing, it seems
miles to the dusty ground of stones that must spell His name
and His voice is carried in the wind winding through
blue forests- so here I touch the Creator's hand
and I am in awe.

Here I stand as I have stood before, upon
the grassy hill that held the cross and let it stand-
let it remain the center piece of every eye, clouded over
with tears and secret sin.

And I know You must be here, waiting here
for people such as me to come around and recognize
the One who made the tree that made the cross, and bore
the body of broken loveliness greater than what
my eyes have already seen written all over creation.
So here I touch Your hand
and I am forever in awe.

Her Corner

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound....

I heard you pray last night
in the quiet of your corner arrayed in web,
tumbling down the walls worn from airy whispers and
secret words you've never wanted to say.
I heard the rustic hum of your tempered voice in sounds
made from a thousand ancient lips of long ago, the same still
dancing on the walls of the cathedrals and into empty
graves of they who never died.
If I could see what your corner sees, at night
when the lights are tired and the ocean sings from your broken window, I
would see brown eyes made of Eden's earth and
tears like melting wax, like
glassy drops of everything that makes shame.
I would see the thumb print of the Maker's hand pressed
with claim against your nose and on your eyelids, marking
your fingertips and forehead because you belong
to Someone greater than yourself.
And if there was room for me to sit beside you there
I would give myself to your moment of deep
distraint and masked affliction- disguised by the veil of
everything I cannot know.
But please, let me place my hand upon your shoulder and still
your trembling
let me sing to you of something more, the promise you know by heart

Stupenda grazia, che dolce il suono....

Copper Strings

You're lost in trying to find yourself
and wanting more
than this temporary wealth,
more than living life in sometimes black and white
paving an invisible path
You plea for answers, beg for sight.

What you know is true-
He's everything to you.

Maybe you'll write a song
about everything you want to be
about time that’s too soon come and gone
so that the rest of the world can see
you know where you belong.

You’re almost there,
let your words dance endlessly
so write, so sing
and play your copper strings.

Like the thousands that have gone before,
you’re well on your way
to life upon a distant, boundless shore,
so make the most of living beneath skies;
take up your cross
for to live is Christ.

You know this much is true-
He’ll make the most of you.

Maybe you'll write a song
about leaving everything behind
taking a chance, becoming something strong
against the world weighed on your tired mind
oh, how this road is long.

But you’re almost there,
your words- they dance beautifully
so write, so sing
and play your copper strings.

Make it mean everything-
He's listening...
just sing
and play your copper strings.

A Sonnet of Sonnets

Trust me, I have not earned your dear rebuke-
I love, as you would have me, God the most;
Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,
Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look,
Unready to forego what I forsook;
This say I, having counted up the cost,
This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,
The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook.
Yet while I love my God the most, I deem
That I can never love you over-much;
I love Him more, so let me love you too;
Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such
I cannot love you if I love not Him,
I cannot love Him, if I love not you.

Christina Rossetti - "A Sonnet of Sonnets, #6"

so here, precious lamb, do I lay thee and
release thee full with trembling hands
my offering, thou my long awaited plan
thee, whom I love, to my altar of surrender.