Thursday, January 30, 2014

Mapquest and my quest

I can see the destination
On my iPad
Try as I might to drag the route
To the scenic side
I fail
My clumsy fingers are too big to grab hold
I never find the right way back

I turned northward one roundabout too soon
It took me to a town I hadn't passed before

I got sidetracked thinking about
the unsolvable knot that is
I am tired and
I can't think anymore

I need to rest before I can face this
When I do, only then
I will be able to trust
How is it I need to be refreshed
in order to wait well?
I thought it would be more draining to act and control
than to do nothing
I was wrong.
In truth waiting on God
takes all the energy one has
It is far easier
just to try and control the outcome
Who knew?
So I must rest
And let the quest

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Christmas in July

Given to my niece, Emily Watts, with a Fisher Price Little People Nativity Set in honor of her first birthday

Emily Anna Watts
You’re the only niece I’ve got
And I do love you a lot
Though you’re still a wee little lady.
And there is so much
I want you to know
About God, the One who made thee

But you haven’t even learned to write or bike
Or manage companies
What language could I possibly speak
Held here between glory and
Diaper leaks?
It seems too much
To put in a birthday card
Too much to grasp
Even if one thinks hard

But who am I to say
You are too young, anyway?
Wasn’t the Kingdom granted to such small ones?
So, why not send you
Some solid symbol
To whet your tender soul a thimble
Tell you of a God so humble
Who causes kings and rules to stumble
But wouldn’t break the faintest reed
So gentle his yoke
So sure his feet?
That honor needn’t wait
Until December, need it?
Which is why I came to
Giving Jesus in July

It’s not as odd as you might think--
See the red and green bow I swapped for pink--
His birth being ever near
The hearts of those
Who would adore him
No matter the age or time of year

He was once was smaller than you are now
Warmed by breath of sheep and cows
In a place that smelled of dung
Where no mobile but a night star hung
Laid there at the perfect season
For a very special reason
That you might know the greatest love
Any child can partake of
A free gift, just like this present
Only better, being heaven-sent
Not from Wal-Mart’s Site-to-Store,
Plastic and inanimate
But living, breathing, Spirit-lent--
If only you could believe it!
(And so you may, one day)

Alas, sweet lass
I fear my waxing eloquent is lost
On one so young and wonder-tossed
Far better you just tear the paper
And hold the baby in the manger
Plastic hay and donkey brays
Will suffice for now (and sound less strange-r)

You can pretend to be Mary
Or a palm tree
Or a king
And Dad can be a shepherd
And Mom can angel-sing
And you can cradle Jesus there
Upon your dimpled knee
Imagining his love so big and form so small with me

Merry Birthday, Emily
May you, from now with endless glee,
Delight in the Lord Jesus Christ
and your Nativity.
With love and hope and deepest faith,
Your God-struck Aunt Jenny

P.S. How nice it is to have a niece
One red-haired, even better!
If I could, I’d wrap the whole world up for you
But maybe that will have to wait ‘til birthday number two

Friday, January 24, 2014

Cyber Hibernation

By Jennifer Hunt, from the archives

Leave the house.
Try your
Charlie Brown-empty
Round a corner.
Crane your neck.
Falter, child-like,
Groping for plane
Like wobbling bubble
In carpenter’s level.
Grab hold the horizon.
Hang on for dear life.
From bland swaths
Of TV screen snow
Adjust your eyes

Aim to decipher
The cumulo-strati.
Learn God’s cuneiform.
From watery depths
Unplug both ears
To leaf and lark.
Discern each line
Of fall’s concerto—
Her rotted pecan
Her foot-crunched leaf
Imbibe dusty Autumn’s
Drygood musk.
Inhale her stale
Box of crackers.
No junkmail here
Dig in.

Friday, January 17, 2014

This is the woman with satin hair

From the skit "Guilt Super-sized" by Jen Hunt, from the archives

This is the woman with satin hair
Who hugs her children and their bears
Who practices law from the wee morning hours
And grinds wheat for her own bread flour
Whose every word is spiced with wit
Whose kids speak French and have no zits
Who works out daily at the Y
And bakes blue ribbon cakes and pies
Who volunteers at St. Vincent De Paul
And hardly ever sleeps at all
Whose husband helps around the house
Who always wears a fresh-pressed blouse
Who keeps a garden and a pet
And never, ever, gets in debt
Who minds her figure and her stocks
And beats the pants off Goldilocks

Friday, January 10, 2014

A fern is a fern is a fern

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

I have only seen one fern this winter
Besides those memorialized in vinyl
On my bathroom floor,
The floor I have cleaned like a handmaiden
The floor I have wished gone
Since the day we moved in.
An immigrant from Home Depot,
(The fern, mind you, not the floor)
I called her Charlotte
At less than ten dollars
A cheap cure for lonely winters.

When the landlord said no pets
She could not have meant plants
But we all know those extravagant
Bostons shed like dogs,
And, well, that’s more vacuuming
For someone
In a home where kids are little and feet are feet
So I was not wholly shocked when my husband
Noting her consumption of the living room
Sent her away
For which I remained stiff until spring

Friday, January 3, 2014

Optical illusion/Spiritual Reality

Slivers of black and white
Rub past each other
When I turn the first page
Of my son’s book
A horse gallops across

Small sinners serving
Placed side-by-side
Spying from the corner
The world sees
Christ at hand