Dawn nearly killed me
with Light
so inspiring, yet conspiring
to take my life.

Not wanting to lose a fool to the fight,
Night’s gravity screamed,

“Own the blame, the shame
shame, shame.
It’s hopeless, you see.
Love me … love me!”

My pain was hidden.
I liked it that way.
Darkness, my friend to the end.
The End.
My bitter, lonely, pathetic end.

But Light, it coaxed,
wooing a pearl from her shell, from hell.
A living, dying, raging hell.

From within the pit, I heard a voice
with song, so subtle.

“Don’t quit.  Don’t quit.
Your strength is in knowing.
A raw choice, though not feeling
I’m enough.
I Am. Enough!”

Fear scattered on bloody claws

As grace embraced, reaching past flaws
until I surrendered to the beautiful conspiracy.

And let Morning Star bathe me, slay me
with Light,
so conspiring, yet inspiring.

I gave Him my life.

 

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I can barely think straight. Typing, I hope, will untangle my thoughts, allow me to string together words that convey these stirrings, these tears.

I almost didn’t read it. Another nauseating story in the Chicago Tribune. Children, babies, dying of neglect and abuse. I tried to put it down. In fact, did, several times. But yesterday my pastor asked, “What stirs you up?” And today, those cherub faces smiled up at me until I invited pain in.

They deserved so much more. What about their basic needs? Regular food, drink, medical treatment, safe human touch? What about beyond that? Lulla-byes, good morning kisses and peek-a-boos? How about not fearing, not being terrorized by the adults in their lives? Those they looked to for nurturing and protection.

My mind cannot fathom how a man can punch and karate kick a 17 month-old baby boy. Or how a mother can break the leg of a precious 3 month-old and 4 months later shake him to death because “it made her feel better to see him cry.”

I understand the abusers are mentally and spiritually sick and I do believe as my dad did, “Some people just like to be mean”, but I’m not here to figure them out. Nor the system cracks into which these babies plummeted. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have more grace. But right now I want to think about these children. To resist the urge to ignore them and go about my comfortable suburban life.

After all, yesterday my pastor asked, “What stirs you up?”