Pour Me Out...

             Can it really be Easter this weekend? Already? Okay, it hasn't really sneaked up on me since I have a calendar and all.  However, despite the calendar, I admit to being thrown slightly off by the fact that I just put out the St. Patty's decorations and haven't had any time to really enjoy them, and now it's time to put away the green and shamrocks and get out the brightly colored eggs, etc...  (Of course, if I go by the length of time I "enjoyed" Christmas decorations--I still have my singing Sinatra ornament out--I have a disproportionate expectation about holiday decoration viewing time.)

              So, since I know that time flies faster than I want it to, I have to make a conscious effort to slow down to experience Holy Week.  The start of this special week, yesterday, was lovely because I was able to spend time with family (as this year Palm Sunday fell on my mother's birthday) all day after church.  But the day started at church with a small fellowship of believers (it was snowing, and the weather may have kept people from getting out).  

            The pastor taking up the collection referenced Jesus getting His feet cleansed by the woman (Mary) who gave of herself--her tears and hair to dry--and her resources--the Nard she poured out over his feet.  He encouraged us to do the same--to give our service and resources to the Lord.  His homily reminded me of this poem I wrote several years ago. This Holy Monday I remind myself that I must allow Christ to do some redecorating in my heart even while I must pour myself out as an act of reverential worship.

The Offering

Pour me out like Nard

Onto Your feet, Oh Lord!

Break my selfish heart

And pour me out for

You.

Shatter this clay jar, my God.

Let the slivers of porcelain

Prick my fingers

As I tremble before

You.

Kneeling humbly at Your feet,

Let me pour the thick, syrupy oil—

Through bloody fingers—

As an anointing and

Preparing service for

You.

Your alabaster skin will shatter.

Your essence, like Holy Oil,

Will pour from your Jar

Like pure Nard

As a Saving balm for

me.

Shoes...

Our school is collecting shoes.  One of my National Honor Society members heard about this group which takes old and used shoes that just clutter up the bottom of closets and puts them to good use that eventually causes water wells to be drilled in third world nations.  She suggested we have a shoe drive for this semester's service project, and I thought it was a great idea.  The whole process seems to be a bit of a miracle: once collected, the shoes are given a second life when this group exports the donated shoes to retailers in the developing world. The resale of shoes provides jobs and affordable footwear. Funds generated from the export of  shoes provides well drilling rigs, water purification systems, and hand pump repair businesses bringing clean, fresh water. 

So, because of this I have a pile of shoes in my classroom.  It's sort of amazing how cleaning out one's cluttered shoe closet (I DON'T have a closet just for shoes... really!) can help people I will never meet.  Seeing all these shoes, though, gets me to wondering who wore them and what stories about their owners those shoes would tell if they could (those that have tongues, at least) (and no, I couldn't have avoided that horrible pun....).  After all, our shoes do sort of tell on us--about what kind of person we are, what our goals are, and what we're up to that day (or night).  A person whose closet is filled with tennis shoes is likely very different than a person with a closet filled with strappy high-heeled sandals.  What kind of shoes we buy and wear (or buy and never wear) can reveal who we are. 

Having all these shoes in my room reminds me of that famous quote in Forest Gump: "My momma always said you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, where they go, where they've been." I've always thought Forest's mother had some great wisdom there.  We CAN tell a lot about a person by his or her shoes. That quote also reminds me of a poem I wrote around this time (Lent, Good Friday, Easter) last year, as I used part of it as the title. 

“You can tell a lot about a person..."

I’ve protected these Feet for many good years;

Holding myself together, now as I take the last few steps

I think of my journey. 

I walked up and down this country of Promise—

Dusty roads, with rocks that wore out and punished

Even sturdy leather.

I walked through barley fields and deserts,

Rested by wells in foreign countries, spent many nights

On board fishing vessels.

I supported Him through varied surfaces.

I’ve walked in rain, on water, in sand, on mountains,

In temples, on stone.

I was removed by adoring, tender hands

To honor His feet: washing, anointing them until

Even I absorbed the spill.

I enjoyed the previous walks in this garden,

Where grass and flowers perfumed the air at each step,

But now it’s not the same.

I understand anger, having kicked over tables,

But anger towards the Man I carry is unwarranted,

Unjust and quite unfair.

I remember the days from when I was new,

Toting lumber across a shop, but this beam is a weight,

A burden, never born before.

I’ve dragged on this last journey, since pain

And blood comes mingled down with his sweat;

I am slippery inside.

I stumble the last few steps, for, despite the help

He received, He is weighed down by more than wood.

It is not long now.

I am undone and stripped away from His beautiful feet—

Feet that bring Good News—thrown at the foot of the beam,

My journey finished.