NPM: Luci Shaw one more time

The chair without distinction by Luci Shaw

This, in praise of inanimate objects, 

of the piece I brought home last year 

from the church rummage sale. 

A useful color in basic fabric, 

a button missing among its worn tufts. 

Sturdy, not graceful. Dependable,

not particularly easy. In a corner of 

the room, out of the way, people sit on it 

when the space gets crowded. They chat 

with friends, coffee cups in hand, 

then rise and move on without

noticing. Why should they notice. 

Blessed are those who simply sit 

and wait for people who need 

to take the weight off their feet.

NPM: Luci Shaw again

Mary Considers Her Situation by Luci Shaw

What next, she wonders,
with the angel disappearing, and her room
suddenly gone dark.

The loneliness of her news
possesses her. She ponders
how to tell her mother.

Still, the secret at her heart burns like
a sun rising. How to hold it in—
that which cannot be contained.

She nestles into herself, half-convinced
it was some kind of good dream,
she its visionary.

But then, part dazzled, part prescient—
she hugs her body, a pod with a seed
that will split her.

Happy Birthday Ben (and one of his poems for NPM)

Today, my eldest son, Ben, turns 31.  Wow. How do such things happen?

My golden-haired boy has the heart of a poet, and since it's still National Poetry Month, I'll post a little favorite of mine by him.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  We love you forever!

If impossibly Somehow by Ben Finnegan

If impossibly somehow
I have impressed a something
of myself upon you,
knowing or un- or even
if sometimes, then let me be
the way you see the moonlight,
let me be your blink
at the far too brightly sunshine,
or if you will allow
me to be the toss of your hair
in the gently midnight wind,
or perhaps the sweetest twitch
of your smile when you see the stars;
if ever impossibly then,
let me be your voice,
let me be your forever
melody or harmony or simply
song.  Let me be one
and so shall you, and we
shall be two and be together.

NPM: Luci Shaw

I love the poetry of Luci Shaw.  Here is a practical little poem that I relate to so very well...

Sonnet for my left hip by Luci Shaw

I felt an ache that sleeping could not drown.
It ran from my left hip joint to my mind—
nagged at my thinking as I drove to town.

All night I’d shifted in my thin nightgown
to find a pose to rest in. Now I find
pain stabs me climbing up or reaching down.

Why does this symptom, heavy as a stone,
quicken to a darkness for my mind
to niggle at? It’s likely just a bone

That calcified and brought my mind around
to fears of diminution. We’re all destined
for aching as the world is round,

Though I can’t find the words to tell you how
it hurts, or why it came, or what it feels like now.

A psalm and a story

Psalm 46
1 God is our refuge and strength,
    a very present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
    though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam,
    though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah
4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
    the holy habitation of the Most High.
5 God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;
    God will help her when morning dawns.
6 The nations rage, the kingdoms totter;
    he utters his voice, the earth melts.
7 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah
8 Come, behold the works of the Lord,
    how he has brought desolations on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;
    he breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
    he burns the chariots with fire.
10 “Be still, and know that I am God.
    I will be exalted among the nations,
    I will be exalted in the earth!”
11 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selahrefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
    though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam,
    though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah
4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
    the holy habitation of the Most High.
5 God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;
    God will help her when morning dawns.
6 The nations rage, the kingdoms totter;
    he utters his voice, the earth melts.
7 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah
8 Come, behold the works of the Lord,
    how he has brought desolations on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;
    he breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
    he burns the chariots with fire.
10 “Be still, and know that I am God.
    I will be exalted among the nations,
    I will be exalted in the earth!”
11 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah

The psalms contain some of the most beautiful poetry ever written.  And this gorgeous psalm is no exception.  because it is the Word of God as well as poetry, it empowers us as we meditate on it: helps us to trust such a God, long for such a river, and still our hearts.

It's been a long week, and as I reflect on it at home this morning (dealing with a virus of some kind, so laying low and not infecting anyone at church) I love thinking on this psalm and its words of comfort and direction.

We began last week in Arizona, helping Ben and Elsa settle into a new apartment and helping Tim and Nikki move into a rental as they wait for their new house to be built.  We arrived home late Tuesday evening, and I had my infusion on Wednesday, taught in the afternoon on Thursday, and headed to Santa Fe to run some needed errands on Friday.  I only had a few scheduled stops left as I loaded a couple of bags of groceries into the back of my car in the Trader Joe's parking lot.

I had the back of our Honda Pilot open, had set my two bags of groceries on the ground behind it, and had set my purse on the back of the open car right next to me.  As I rearranged items in my cooler to make room for my new purchases, I caught movement peripherally to my right.  My purse was moving.

I grabbed for my purse, and realized a small car had pulled up close behind me, and a woman was leaning out the passenger-side window and taking my purse.  I pulled on my end of the purse, began to yell something like, "No!  That's my purse!", and spun around to face the car.  My hand was being pulled inside the car as the woman pulled the purse inside the car, and the car began to pull away.

For a split second, as I watched my strawberries and other groceries lay in bright contrast to the black of the parking lot pavement, I considered holding on to the window; but I knew I would only get hurt, and they would still get away with my purse. My hand slammed into the back of the open window, and I continued to yell and point as the car sped away across the parking lot, "She has my purse!  She took my purse!"

Several sweet strangers, and one acquaintance from Curves in Los Alamos, rallied to write down the make, model and license plate number of the car, call 911, and pick up my strew produce. After talking to the police and getting some shaking under control, I headed for home, sans purse, wallet, all credit cards, check book, tablet, two pair of sunglasses, and a new large container of Crabtree and Evelyn Lavendar Hand Therapy, among other things.

The woman who took my bag looked haggard and worn, and to be so brazen, she must live in a desperate place.  Will you pray for her, Gentle Reader, and the other woman who drove the car?  Pray that they have food and safety, pray that they meet Jesus and find a way out of their desperation.  And pray that they don't use all my information to steal my identity, or sell my purse to someone who will.

And will you pray for me?  Ask the Lord to help me live in the reality of who God is, and be still.

NPM: Edna St. Vincent Millay

In middle school and high school, one of my favorite poets was Edna St. Vincent Millay.  While my tastes have grown perhaps less maudlin, she was a master wordsmith.

Pity Me Not by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the year goes by;
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.

This love I have known always: love is no more
Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales.
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

NPM: Peek a boo (with Ezra)

Peek-A-Boo by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


The cunningest thing that a baby can do
Is the very first time it plays peek-a-boo;


When it hides its pink little face in its hands,
And crows, and shows that it understands


What nurse, and mamma and papa, too,
Mean when they hide and cry, "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo."



Oh, what a wonderful thing it is,
When they find that baby can play like this;


And everyone listens, and thinks it true
That baby's gurgle means "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo";


And over and over the changes are rung
On the marvelous infant who talks so young.

I wonder if any one ever knew
A baby that never played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.


'Tis old as the hills are. I believe
Cain was taught it by Mother Eve;


For Cain was an innocent baby, too,
And I am sure he played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.


And the whole world full of the children of men,
Have all of them played that game since then.


Kings and princes and beggars, too,
Everyone has played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.


Thief and robber and ruffian bold,
The crazy tramp and the drunkard old,



All have been babies who laughed and knew
How to hide, and play peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.