A Lifetime in a Moment

Christmas Eve, 2009. I witnessed poetry in the raising of an old man's hand.

With over 3,000 members, you could say that my family's church is a big one. There are three services, each equally packed, and this Christmas Eve wasn't any different. My family made sure of exceptional seats by arriving a full thirty minutes before showtime, and were one of the very few first to get in line for the opening of the Sanctuary doors.

If you think that sounds more like some music celebrity's concert than church, you would be right. Sort of.


With so many members, you gotta figure there's a reason for it. The only way I can describe it is this: in my church, people are excited. They can't wait to get there, and as soon as Monday comes around, they are already waiting for Sunday again. At least, that's true for me.

Every Sunday there is the palpable presence of God. If that doesn't get you just as excited as seeing Taylor Swift live in concert, I don't know what would. Think about it; the Living God, inhabiting the praise of his people. The Heavenly Father, reaching down to earth. God- speaking, moving, acting, healing.

So yes, I would say attending our church can be very similar to the concert experience. However, the celebrity we are welcoming is not a former American Idol, Beyonce, or even the pastor. The celebrity we are welcoming is the great I AM.


If just the regular weekend services are so powerful, Christmas Eve was going to be bigger. Little did I imagine how big.

We pulled into the parking lot at roughly 2:30 PM and headed in. As soon as the doors were opened we headed to where our inside man (security friend of my dad's) had saved us front row seats. We were a little unnerved to be so close to the massive stage, but later I would find myself more than grateful for the seating arrangement due to the miracle I was allowed the privilege to watch occur.


With the room darkened, a projector casting delicate blue snowflakes on the walls, and the sound of women's voices harmonizing on a soft song, I already felt the peace and stillness that is usually associated with the Savior's birth. I settled into my seat, content to observe and enjoy yet another Christmas service, but not expecting much more than that.


I didn't want to miss the true meaning of Christmas, and prayed not to. I didn't just want to sing oh-so-familiar songs, and forget why I was singing them. I didn't want to miss the joy of Christmas, nor the opportunity to thank and praise my God.


But none of this was new to me. I'd grown up in church; I'd heard the same passages of scripture, the same songs. I knew all about the Wise Men and the star, and it would not surprise me to know that Jesus had been born in a manger.


I was expecting much from the service, but from myself? Not much.


The service began with an electric guitar solo that rocked Joy to the World, and flooded the church with excitement. Throughout the service there was much to capture my attention, but instead of what was happening on stage I found myself being drawn to an old man and an even older woman standing just a few people down from me.


The man was gray-haired and well-dressed. Wrinkles drew deep furrows across his cheeks, and he stood stoically.The thing that made me the most curious about him was his pursed lips. Even during well-known songs such as O Holy Night, the man simply stood, lips pressed together into a tight line.

This puzzled me; surely this man was just as familiar with these songs as I was. I mean, it wasn't like they were modernized worship songs... they were the traditional Christmas songs, and this man had surely heard them even more than I had, given his age. Even if he hadn't known the songs, the lyrics were projected on two huge side screens for everyone to see. Still, he remained silent.

No matter how popular the song or how many times I glanced at him, he was always the same: squinting ahead, lips pursed, and rigid as a soldier. The thought occurred to me that perhaps he just didn't sing- maybe he was embarrassed. He didn't seem like one of those who just walked into a Christmas service having never attended church before... those people usually chose a seat toward the back, choosing to be inconspicuous and hoping that no one would try to approach them. This man was in the very front row, something that had made even my family feel a little uncomfortable.


Beside him was an even older woman, probably his mother. She was a fragile, white-haired lady, about as wrinkly as a raisin. I caught glimpses of her only occasionally, and was unable to tell what her singing status was.

Needless to say, I found myself just as interested in them as I was in the service. People- watching is both a habit and a hobby of mine, and while I tried to tune in to the sermon, I never lost sight of them. (You know, I could have made a great stalker had I not been saved.)


Toward the end of the service the Pastor began explaining what Christmas was all about, and how to begin a relationship with Jesus Christ. Sadly, the explanation could have lulled me to sleep, I was so used to it. The pastor asked us all to bow our heads, and led those who had never asked Jesus into their hearts into the Salvation Prayer.


At the conclusion of said prayer, he asked all those who had just prayed to begin a life with God to raise their hands. I was mentally in the middle of a yawn when a motion to my right caused me to sit upright in my chair.


My people I'd been watching- the old man and woman- they had raised their hands! The Pastor grinned broadly, looked directly at the old man and sighed happily, "Aw, man... that's awesome."


I couldn't believe it. Besides their lack of singing, if I could have picked anyone out of the entire congregation who I was sure were saved, I would have picked them. Seeing the excited and touched visage of my pastor, I wondered if I felt the same.


Did I even remember anymore what it meant to be saved? Beyond even Christmas and the birth of Jesus... had I forgotten what He had done for me? Had I forgotten "The Good News" and what it was all about? So much so that I couldn't even rejoice at the salvation of others?


I had to admit, it was pretty amazing. The woman looked like she had a couple years, at best, to live. The man probably had longer than that, but must have spent more than half of his life unsaved. Statistics indicate that most people accept Christ between the ages of four and fourteen... in fact, 85%. The chances of teens being saved between fourteen and eighteen is a meager 4%. Any older than that? Almost nonexistent.


I realized the miracle I had seen, and I was sincerely, genuinely, happy for them. But looming in front of me was a stark contrast I didn't want to face: they had probably spent their entire lives without God, but had now found him and were relishing this Christmas Eve service. I had spent most of my short life with God, and was just hoping to get through this Christmas Eve service without feeling guilty.


When had I lost it? When had I forgotten? My Lord, my God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, had come down from his majestic home to put on the guise of sinful man. The all-powerful had chosen to reveal himself as all-vulnerable. Had hung on a cross humiliated before his friends, family, and the most influential men of his day to die for my sins. How could I not marvel at that? How could I not rejoice at that? How could I not sing about that?


Sure, I'd been singing- but my heart wasn't in it. A man a few people down from me hadn't been singing- but he had also raised his hand proudly and unashamedly into the air, declaring to the world that he was now beginning a life with God.


Even that phrase, a life with God... incredible.


What must it have taken to get that man to raise his hand on Christmas Eve, 2009? Had he spent his life rebelling against God? As an atheist? As a man who came to church and played religion, but never took it any farther than that? Had it taken the death of someone he loved, or maybe just the invitation from a friend to come to church? Had he needed to swallow a pride he'd spent years building? Had he needed to choke down fear, or re-open his deepest wound?

Whatever it was, one thing is clear... that night, he heard something whispered into his ear that he couldn't ignore. Perhaps the voice of God had called out his name before- perhaps many times. But that night he responded. That night he raised his hand and accepted Christ's sacrifice for him.


For those of us who saw, it was only a moment. But for him? There was a lifetime in that one moment.

For those of them that saw, Jesus dying on the cross was only a moment. But for us who believe? There is a lifetime to be had in that one moment.

A lifetime to be spent with Him, and there is no greater gift. Not even at Christmas.

An unusual, oppressed, and incapable poet

Today, I saw poetry. I saw poetry in the loving earnestness contained within my mom's eyes as she explained to me why she home schools.

It's not the first time I've seen it... over the course of 18 years I have both witnessed and experienced it innumerable times. My mom is a devoted, wouldn't-have-it-any-other way stay at home mom, and from hemming her 5' nothing daughter's pants (guess who?)- to spending hours in the kitchen just so that we can have a meal together, it seems like there's nothing she can't handle.

Although I have been a recipient of this selfless and beautiful poetry for years, I have not always seen it. I saw her chop onions and place that next load in the dryer, and yes, I saw her in the mirror all those times as she struggled to curl my hair in a way that would please me. I saw her eyes light up as she saw me in the perfect prom dress, then widen as she saw the price tag... only to light up again as she said, "I don't care. You love it; we're buying it."

I have seen all these things with my physical eyes... yet gone blind when it came to the vision of my heart. But today, today I saw poetry.

We were in the kitchen... the poem that is my mother, and myself. She was explaining to me a conversation she'd had with another mom who simply "didn't get it." In a world where nannies, daycare, feminism, and the working woman run rampant, this mom just couldn't understand what my mom was doing staying at home. Not only that, but home school?

My mom is neither the confrontational nor the argumentative type, so she saved most of her rebuttals for me. Near tears and clutching her heart as she spoke because of how ardently she meant it, my mom began telling me why she home schools my little sister: "Yes, there are so many other things that I could be doing, and yes, I could be working on my photography a whole lot more, but I believe this is what is best for Rachel. It's hard on me with trying to cook and clean and watch my granddaughter, but I can't in good conscience let her go to public school and fall behind. If I have to get up an hour earlier to learn Latin just so I can teach her, I'll do it. It's hard on me, but it would be so much harder to see Rachel coming out of high school with a low self-esteem and feeling stupid. I won't let that happen."


Some might call that oppressive, based on one adjective... "hard." Are all things "hard" considered to be "oppressive"? If that's the case, I could start my own advocacy group against school and chores. School was hard, I didn't always like it... wow, kids, rise up! You are being oppressed! Chores are hard... never really have liked them. Children everywhere, join with me! Are we such slaves to our parents that in the 21st century we still have to do chores?


Not all things that are hard are oppressive. To some, my mom's case is oppressive. But to my mom? A different set of priorities.

Society has made my mom an anomaly. A person to be skeptical of, and look sideways at. An unusual, conservative, over-indulging, oppressed, and incapable idiot. Why would you spend the time to teach your kids when the government already provides that for you? And the kids get out of your hair for five whole days, getting their proper socialization? Why stay at home with them when there is a perfectly equipped daycare right around the corner?

My mom has become- as she puts it- "A dinosaur." She now has to defend herself in every-day conversation for doing what God created her to do, and being what God created her to be... a mother! Even among friends.

Television scorns her, politicians fight against her, and women roll their eyes at her.

But you know what? My mom has written poetry. Poetry that the world may be blind to... but poetry that is burned and sealed into the hearts of her children, and read by Father God Almighty. Poetry that is still being written as she bravely continues sacrificing for the next generation... for her granddaughter, Mackenzie. If you asked her, she probably wouldn't call it sacrificing, but: Love.


Now, there is not anything wrong with being a working woman or putting your child in daycare if the need arises, however- and this is important- neither is there anything wrong with what my mom does for a living. If she wanted to be a career woman, great! We'd be happy for her, cheer her on to victory, and proudly brag on her. But she has never expressed any such desire, and I can say this honestly: I still want to brag on her.

What is Poetry in Motion? It's you, moms... you putting your foot on the gas to pick up and drop off; you throwing that disaster of a diaper into the trash, and you hugging and consoling. Don't you ever let anyone tell you differently.

Pick up your pen, and write. Write unashamedly. Not because it's going to be easy, or because you'll always be recognized and lauded, but because the eyes of the Lord are on you. He sees every hidden tear, every forced, patient reply, and every kiss on the forehead.

Do it so that God may say smilingly, "Yes, now there is my love at work. She is my Poetry... my scriptures, and what they teach... in Motion."


Know that he is with you every step... not to judge you, but to cheer you on. He has equipped you for the race you will run, and wants to see you get to the finish line. Never stop doing what's right because you grow tired... let God take over from there.

To anyone who asks my mom the question: "What are you doing at home?", I got this one. She's being a mom and a grandmom, and no, you can't take her from us.

Explanation and purpose of Poetry in Motion

Poetry is a wonderful thing. It can be beautiful, expressive of the deepest sorrows and joys, and incredibly enlightening. Poetry in its most understood occupation (as writing), comes easily enough to me, a writer. I might not write it correctly or very well, but poetry to me is as silk sheets to a homeless man.

However, poetry in motion... poetry outside of a book, outside of the mind, outside of noble ideas and fine ideals, and inside actual, day-to-day life... now there is something I struggle with.

The way I see it, anyone who has ever lived has written themselves a book of poetry. No, their names are not insribed on a leather-bound book, but they have written poetry nonetheless.

Every day you live is another page in your book... every word you say another rhyme in your verse. It's your choice what you compose. What kind of poem do you write today? An angry, resentful, selfish one? Though this thought in itself may cause a guilty wince, worse still is the reflection of an entire book filled with such poems. And there are many books with many different authors written just so.

But there are also those other kind of poems... the uplifiting, encouraging, and teaching kind. Those kind that can leave you forever changed, and take you places you never thought you'd see yourself. That is the kind of poem I aspire to be.

Poetry in motion. Poetry is in the life of every individual; the pen is in every hand. You write poetry by the way you live your life. It is either beautiful and promising, or deathly and discouraging.

Poetry is one thing... poetry in motion- in action, in deeds, in living- now that, is quite another. I have already told you that poetry in the first instance comes easily enough to me; writing and imagining honorable thoughts and actions is much simpler than actually performing them myself. When it comes to composing my life, there is not always a rhyme or reason, let alone a beautiful poem to be found out of it.

If we could all see our lives thus far as a book of poetry, I dare say there would be some severely disappointed, others left in disgust, and still more hopeless. Though I have not had the opportunity to read about my life, I feel confident that I would be all of the above. That is, if not for the grace of my Savior.

This grace takes smattered ink and turns it once more into a new, clean white page. Takes blood, and brings redemption. Takes disaster, and makes it lovely. It's because of Him I know of true poetry at all. If not for this, my life would be as useless and confusing as Drew Carey in a Speedo. (Forgive me for the image.)

So there you have it: the purpose of this blog. (And no, it is not to find Drew Carey in a Speedo.) It is to find and document poetry as I see it, in a world that no longer realizes it exists. This poetry may be discovered in the face of someone I love, a sunset, or within the scriptures. But wherever it is, I'm determined to find it.

Many things that are hidden are hidden not because they are unable to be found... but because we are unwilling to look. I choose today to look.

Yes, with this blog, may I and any who read, find and become: Poetry in Motion.