:: on auschwitz ::

So much death hangs on these walls
With the pictures of the unnamed,
Unknown, shaved-headed sufferers.
They look like family, all resembling
One another for the fear, the empty
Hope that clouds brown eyes.
I want to walk where they walked.
Into long brick tunnel buildings,
Nothing old or worn except the skinny stairs
Where hopeless shuffling feet,
A thousand, thousand dragging feet,
Have marked their course in cold concrete.

:: sacrifice ::

thoughts from chapel:

i don't think i understand the giving of a life. no one alive on this earth understands the gravity of that kind of sacrifice. everyone who does has not lived to tell about it, so we talk of sacrifice so flippantly. we talk about death or wanting to be done, but would never really go through with it. we could not pull the trigger on our own lives, we could not lie there silently and let someone nail us down.

so i was thinking about sacrifice in terms i understand...

it's like not taking the biggest piece of cake, or not having cake at all.

like letting me take the winning shot, like sitting on the bench and cheering most of all for me.

like letting someone think it was all my idea when really you came up with it.

like letting me have the bed and sleeping on the floor, or walking me out to my car when you're wearing sandals and it's cold.

like giving me a car you know i'll crash every time i drive it, and fixing it when i do.

like letting me live instead of You, even though You know You lived it so much better than i ever do.

:: missionary midwife ::

my mom delivered a breach baby in the village about a week ago, so i wrote a poem about it. it was partly for a class but mostly because i love my mom and wish i could've been there.

Missionary Midwife

Three a.m, a timid voice calls out
From darkness into darkness:
"Are you there?" A silly question.
"Will you rise?" A better question.
Darkness parts into a flame to guide
The midwife to the life about to
Meet the sleeping world.

The quiet slap of sandals on the dirt
Creates the comfortable noise where
Words aren’t needed for the moonlight walk.
The shadow of a hut appears
Against the blacker black of jungle trees.
Inside, the mother pushing, resting,
Sweating, quietly crying from the
Unexpected pain.

Now help - the midwife,
Smiles hello, takes her place:
The corner of the woven mat beside
The mother’s feet. Foot?

A baby foot kicks first
Into the night. "Oh, precious,
Are you gone?" She strokes five
Tiny baby toes, they curl, all purple,
But they curl!

Two feet out with one strong
Push, then baby body, scrawny arms
With balled-up fists prepared to fight for life.
She puts her finger in the infant mouth to pull,
To help the fighter struggle out. But silence now;
Now silence is not gold.

One suck to pull the mucous free
From little lungs, too full to breathe.
Then one small cry, his battle cry,
And tears flow freely, baby tears
But mostly midwife tears of joy.