silent crush

Judging by the number of people who feel compelled to let me know how very tired I look, it is obvious that my busy schedule is taking a toll. I haven't written in over a month, with good reason. I've been insanely busy! These are some of the things that I've had to prepare and plan for in the last month: ACA Fall Festival, the middle school/high school leadership retreat, evening AP English classes, after-school tutoring, girls' bible study, private SAT evening tutoring, Friday Chapel services, 1st-quarter grades, and, of course, guitar classes. This week, it's parent/teacher conferences (gasp)! By the time I get home (usually around midnight), I'm so exhausted I can't sleep! Paralysis often sets in and I find myself wandering around the apartment stressing over things that are still on my "to do" list. Luckily, not every month will be this crazy but I have to ask myself, "How much of all this busyness is in vain?"

I think of the uselessness of running around, going from one tutoring session to another and I wonder what kind of a lasting impact the definitions of metaphors, parts of speech, symbols, and past participles will actually have. My answer? No impact. All is vanity.

"Remember Him before the silver cord is broken and the golden bowl is crushed, the pitcher by the well is shattered and the wheel at the cistern is crushed; then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it. "Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "all is vanity!" (Ecclesiastes 12:6-8)

This is a perfectly poetic reminder of how quickly we will turn to dust. Therefore, "remember Him."

I'd like to remember Him and acknowledge Him in all that I do, but it's so easy to get caught up in the everyday rush of life. I'd like to stop spinning and striving. When I teach, the things that I REALLY get passionate about have nothing to do with grammar or literary terminology or standardized tests. Sometimes I'm convinced that the reason I love literature so much is because it reminds me of how fleeting life is, how temporary and vapor-like. For this reason, those simple, beautiful things (the silver cord, the golden bowl, the humble vessel) cannot be fully utilized or appreciated without the remembrance of Him: God the Father. God the Son. God the Spirit. God, who is our creator, our lover, our vinedresser. How can I teach a metaphor or a novel about beauty or pain or death without any acknowledgement of this? Before the vessels even begin to crack-- golden bowl or clay pitcher--I should fill them up, pour from them, and then, "drink up," so to speak. And I should do so, deliberately. Whole-heartedly. Passionately . . . in full remembrance of Him. This is vital in my temporal state. Otherwise, I have to ask myself, "Will I ever quench what my eternal state thirsts for?"

I know the answer, but things still get messy . . . especially late at night, when my heart is out of focus, and I dig up the question all over again. On a good night, I'll scratch it out for clarity's sake or for a little catharsis--just a few strange lines (mostly in the form of poetry) to crush the noise and gather in a little silence before I go to bed. The last thing I wrote (apart from this blog) was actually an assignment for my 11th and 12th graders. They had to choose a psalm from the Bible and then write their own psalm as a reaction to the biblical one. Here's mine, inspired by Psalm 88:

in this nerve of night:

thin prayers like weak incense

bitten beneath the tongue, turn

ashen and stale

not yet filling that

gilded pail.

Still,

Your silence sweeps them up, saves them in the golden cup.

but i have whispers to unfold,

from someone else’s

shredded soul,

all soiled and torn, like

prayer-rags settling over her floor, now

stepped-on and worn

Still,

Your soundless voice silences this midnight plea, hushes my childish poetry.

and i begin to wonder about the dust

or the vast dark that takes

the place of us

where our flowers fell

in the shameful sun

and my heavy heart weeping

for oxygen

Still,

Your heavy waves drench or drown that vacant line, that chalky sound.

how far to think

my psalm can cast away

the lonely root where coffins weigh? or

where life begins in that sick, sick pit?

such wasted space!

that yellowed veil,

that eaten lace

Still,

Your burning coal cleans white the dun, the rotten stain of everyone.

Holy, holy, holy You.

My Lover with a hidden face,

Still,

You murder sin with gentle grace.