Suzanne DeWitt Hall's Blog, page 9

Dead Cicada Season

Dead Cicada Season
by Suzanne DeWitt Hall
9/24/19

It’s dead cicada season
the time when winged corpses
litter the ground
still enfleshed
as if ready
to fly and serve
the function for which they were created
to sing in the twilight
battling darkness
to buzz and hum
with life
a calling
reminder
that summer has ended
and winter approaches
when growth and hope
are buried
frozen
waiting
for spring.

Make Church Great Again

Make Church Great Again
by Suzanne DeWitt Hall

A voice we heard
at church, a month ago
reported scandal:
the pastor only had time
for the poor
the black
the gay.
A white woman
with white hair
spoke her white truth
with indignation
and sorrow.
The church she knew had changed;
its glorious past
no longer a shining present.
She wanted back
her club of privilege
that place where respect was properly assigned.

Her voice became a chorus
men spitting their rage
telling decades-old stories
of heroic contribution
of fallen places of honor.
The crowd screamed their demand;
the head of the offending pastor
a return to the attention they deserved.
Clamoring to make church great again
white again
straight again
theirs again.

I heard a different voice
last night
while working in the church kitchen
finalizing a meal we would serve for free
to struggling families
to the homeless
to the lonely
to the addicted.

My wife and I began this feeding
our queer audacity recognizing
that hunger comes in many forms
including the congregation’s need to serve.
But few participate.
The souls who come to be fed
are fuel for their rage.
They weren’t there when the voice spoke last night.

“What size do you wear?” he said.
A young black man;
our guest, Leland,
from the assisted living facility across the street.
“What size do you wear?”

He spoke to a ginger-haired guy
who sleeps beneath the stars .
and has no address
no phone
no way for possible employers to reach him.
who said he hates when it rains
because of his shoes
walked into tatters
the souls nearly disconnected.

“What size do you wear?”
Leland asked,
and hearing the answer
took off his shoes
gleaming white and stylish
and gave them to him
then walked barefoot
across the street
to get an older pair for himself.

The young man left later
belly full of home-cooked food
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in hand
shining new shoes on his feet
to walk miles in the dark
so he could sleep behind Walmart.

This is what church looks like.
Not the screaming white faces
demanding their due
because queer women
and black men
and a gay pastor
make them yearn for the days
when they didn’t feel uncomfortable.

The Scandal of Messy Abundance

The Scandal of Messy Abundance
by Suzanne DeWitt Hall

Our cemetery guide explained
that the shining white obelisks
dwindling into the sky
signify our journey toward God.
When doing it right
we disappear at the very tip
when stone ends
and God begins.

He drove on,
slowing our bus disguised as a trolley
to show us
a fruit-heavy paw paw tree
then stopping so we could glean.

A friend from our war-torn church
named Phil
led the way, and I followed.

Phil planted a garden
in our church yard
beneath a spire
which signifies our journey toward God.

It's messy, that garden
with zinnias and bursting tomatoes
dying cucumber vines
and sprawling overgrown greens
which may be weeds
or sweet potatoes
or the most gorgeous fall blooms
waiting to surprise us
if we resist the urge
to tame the tumult.

The murmurers inside don't like it
overgrown and frowzy
too full of life and chaos
too free with invitation
for people who are not them
to come
to pluck
to be filled.

Phil led the way
toward the paw paw steeple
which signifies a tree's journey toward God.
I followed, bending to step beneath
low branches
fruit scattered on the ground
in messy abundance
some overripe and rotting
some eaten by those who were not invited
     those who dared forage on sacred ground
     dared stare up at edifices of stone
     dared taste the sweetness growing there
without permission.

We gathered the fruit which
had not yet grown soft and brown
had not been ravaged
by the hungry teeth of rodents
of vermin
of other.

We gathered until our hands were full
and then boarded the trolley
which wasn't.

We handed the fruit
to whoever wanted a taste
of what grows so close to death
the sweetness side by side
with sorrow
our journey toward God not up
into the sky
but in the fecund earth
and the faces of the people
reaching to taste.

Literature Which Isn't

I've decided to start a new spiritual practice, of writing a poem each work day on any topic which demands attention. They may not be uber polished and glossy, but they will exist as a kind of journal.

Here's the first.

Literature Which Isn't

At night we listen to meditations
designed to lull us into forgetting
to drift us somewhere else;
a hummingbird garden
a tree house by an ocean
a secret bookstore.

The voices are soothing
assured
softly instructing our breath
taking control of our thoughts
directing us
toward sleep.

An editor would say
where is the action?
Why is there no conflict?
Tell us more about the main character!

In this night space
There is only detail:
the repetitive green of leaves
the shimmer of water
the breathing in to a count of four.

My beloved's night mind battles
the troubles of the world
and so we listen
to literature which isn't.
Effective, despite
so she is free
to rest.

All it takes
for my breathing to grow rhythmic
and my mind to drift into gray
is to curl into the warmth
of her back.
knowing she is awake
watching over me.

So many platforms, so little time to write

I'm super lucky that my wife does the vast majority of my social media work, because I have a lot of writing projects in assorted genres, and if I were to try to keep up there'd be no time to write.
Meanwhile, this website, my author page, has been rather neglected. Given my recent focus on devotionals, I've included a screen shot to the Where True Love Is website above, because the blog there tends to have more frequent updates.
I'll try to be better in this space, particularly as things move forward with the novel I'm pitching. Stay tuned on that, but it the meantime, head on over to Where True Love Is.

Naked Sentinel

This is our Christmas tree, and no, we aren't getting ready to drag it out to the curb. It's been naked and waiting since the day we bought it. 
I had a vision of decorating it Christmas Eve, the way they did in Ye Olden Days, when the twinkling lights adorning the branches were candles and the risk of fire was significant. Back when Christmas began rather than ended on December 25th. It's a vision I've entertained for decades; a romantic notion fed from books by Laura Ingalls Wilder and Charles Dickens. My darling Dolce puts up with my fancies and was willing to try the Christmas Eve thing this year. 
But sometimes life intrudes. My dad died December 18. 
He didn't want a funeral, so there was nothing to do but sit with the news.
Dad was also romantic, though his ran in the style of Henry David Thoreau. Many of my childhood memories are the result of the restlessness his heart experienced. We moved a lot and jobs were transitory. For a while, we lived close to the land in a one room cabin with no running water. I learned about hunting for hickory nuts there, and what wintergreen leaves look like, and how to keep picking black raspberries despite the scratch of thorns. I learned to be careful when chewing a mouthful of squirrel because you could break a tooth on a stray piece of bird shot. I also learned how to appreciate oddballs, like the elderly hoarder up the road who let us fill our metal milk can with water from the pump in his front yard. His name was Charlie Parker. Chickens and ducks clucked out of the way when we drove up, and a pack of basset hounds bayed their warning hellos. Charlie Parker showed my dad how to stir together a simple dough and bake bannock in a cast iron skillet over an open wood fire. Dad made the bread just once. The bottom was burned, but he was proud.
He didn't want a funeral, but Dad said he'd like his ashes scattered there on that mountain where my parents argued while deer mice made nests in the belongings we stored in a shed not far from the outhouse.
A few years later, my Dad moved out. The end of the marriage was swift, and shocking. My mom, brother, and I had to move into low-income housing, which meant giving away our beloved dogs. Mom was a wreck for several years. I stayed away from home as much as I could, hanging out with my boyfriend and getting up to no good. Mom's family lived on the opposite coast, and we had no contact from dad's family, so connection with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents was lost. Although he moved a few states away, Dad tried to stay in touch. I have an old scrap book containing letters from him during those years. But human nature made it easy to turn him into the villainous cause of all our suffering.
Dad didn't come to my wedding in 1986. I never asked him why, and of course now it's too late for questions. I imagine he avoided it out of guilt and shame. I'm beginning to think they are the most corrosive emotions; infections that fester and deepen unless they're lanced so light and air can stream in. I forgave Dad decades ago for my childhood pain. My brother's had a harder time doing that. Since then I've inflicted damage on my own children, and understand better what it is to be immobilized by guilt and fear of rejection. My heart hurts when I think about the possibility of Dad suffering those emotions for fifty years.
Facebook allowed my dad and I to reconnect in a way we hadn't previously given the distance of geography and time. With Dolce's encouragement, I also connected with his wife and daughters. It's fun to have sisters, and I'm grateful to have a wise, witty, protective stepmom. I'd hoped to visit them one day. We'd be a gaggle of girls around the old man my dad had become. It's clear that Dad was a better father to them than he was able to be for us. 
December dwindled while I processed the reality that he was gone, along with the chance to be part of that gaggle. Christmas Eve arrived. Dolce and I still intended to decorate the tree that evening, but it was a hard day. Tears welled suddenly even when I wasn't thinking about my dad. We passed time with books, television, and me crying periodically. The tree stood waiting, tall, and a bit too slim in the hips. A sentinel and a symbol; waiting but not demanding. Sharing space with us; a green reminder of Christmas with all it's loss and promise.
It still stands waiting, on this, the seventh day of Christmas. It will wait with us, naked and brave, for five nights longer. After the day on which we celebrate the magi's arrival we'll carry it out of the house. If we lived in the country I would drag it to an empty field and set it ablaze. If we lived on the water I would put it in a boat, putter out to the deep, and watch it sink and settle to become a sanctuary for fish. But we live landlocked in the city limits of a small town.
I think I'll lean it in a corner against the garage so birds can shelter when the winter winds blow. I'll watch it lose it's color and vibrancy, losing the fight of days marching until its death is no longer arguable. And when the tree is even more naked, once the needles are gone and the wood is dry, I'll cut it into pieces. I'll use the tree to make a fire. I'll bake a round cake of bannock. It will probably burn on the bottom. Dolce and I will lift a glass of something, and I'll sift through the mix of memories and tell her some happy ones; of the taste of a turkey shot behind our cabin, and the sight of a rusting model A Ford in our driveway, and of the scent of gun oil and home-rolled cigarettes. 
The stories will mix with the scent of baking bread and burning wood, and the tree will become a part of the story of my dad and I. A sentinel to the unique thing that was us.

Cover reveal: TRANSFIGURED is coming!

I've been busy getting my second Where True Love Is devotional ready for launch, and so you haven't seen much news from me on this blog. You can follow the status and read excerpts from Transfigured however on the Where True Love Is website!

Meanwhile, here's a peek at the cover:


It's a wonderful resource for all people who want to broaden their view of our limitless God.

Judas: The First Recipient of the First Eucharist

This piece originally appeared on the Huffington Post. During Holy Week last year I was asked by my priest to offer a reflection at one of the evening services. The passage described Judas’ betrayal of Jesus, as described in John 13:21-32. It is a dark story, in a dark week, which finally erupts into a great light.I decided that the best way to start was to search the gospel accounts and find out what we know about Judas. Here’s what I learned:He was chosen as one of the original twelve apostles, and was keeper of the purse.He did at least some good works, like feeding the poor.He was given the authority to cast out demons and heal the sick.He was sent out to proclaim the good news.In other words, he was an apostle like all the others. But, he was also a thief.Next I decided to see what we can tell about Jesus’ relationship with Judas. The first thing I discovered was that Jesus wanted him from the beginning:He went up the mountain and called to him those whom he wanted, and they came to him.(Mark 3:13)Jesus wanted him despite knowing the reality of who Judas was. He wasn’t blindsided at the final hour:For Jesus knew from the first … the one that would betray him.(John 6:64)But Jesus sorrows over this knowledge. John tells us that Jesus was “troubled in spirit” when he says again at that last supper that one of them would betray him. He uses the same phrasing about sorrow when talking about the death of his good friend Lazarus. His sadness over Judas was like grieving. Matthew tells us that Jesus calls Judas “friend” at the very moment of his final betrayal, standing in the garden of Gethsemane, saying:“Friend, do what you are here to do.”(Matt 26:50)On that Holy Thursday, Jesus organized the Passover feast and acted as host. He began the evening by stripping down and washing the apostles’ feet, which was the action of a servant, not of a host. He even washed the feet of his betrayer before offering up his body and blood for the first time.Despite knowing all that he knows about Judas, Jesus positions him close by, in a place of honor, where they might eat together from the same bowl. Jesus says:“It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish.” So when he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot.(John 13: 26)In an Eastern custom that is still in practice, a “sop” is offered to the most honored guest. The sop is the tastiest morsel of food tucked into a bit of bread, or a piece of bread dipped in the most delicious pool of lamb juices in the communal bowl.Jesus followed this tradition, and offered the sop to Judas. Singling the betrayer out as the most highly honored guest. In this same tradition, the sop is offered before anyone else begins to eat. It is sometimes delivered directly to the guest’s mouth.And so if we put together all the various gospel accounts along with an understanding of this practice, we discover that Jesus offered up his body and blood, for the first time ever, to Judas. Judas, who he chose, and who he loves, and for whom he willingly suffers all that is to come.Judas: the first recipient of the first Eucharist.Jesus then tells him to go quickly, and do what he has to do. So Judas immediately gets up from Jesus’ side, and leaves.The story ends with the phrase: And it was night.A dark night indeed.Matthew tells us when Judas hears that Jesus was condemned, he repents. He returns the 30 pieces of silver and is overcome with guilt and remorse. Mark tells us that Jesus had tried to warn him earlier, saying“… woe to that one by whom the Son of Man is betrayed!”(Mark 14:21)And what is “woe”? Great heartache. Sorrow. Despair. Judas surely did receive the full force of that woe. He experienced it so completely that he committed suicide.It is said that Jesus is the bearer of all our sins. The last thing I want to be is heretical, but in a way, isn’t that really what Judas was? He took all our sinful tendencies into his own hands and brought about the worst imaginable sin; the killing of God. Poor Judas bore the weight of all the betrayals that have taken place since Adam’s, and all those we’ll continue to inflict until the end of time.And aren’t we really both of these scapegoat characters?Admit it; we would bite that irresistible fruit if a snake told us to, just like Adam did. And like Judas we turn our backs on Jesus in our own lives. Perhaps not as spectacularly, but possibly more frequently. We deny him as Peter did, and leave him alone as the rest of the disciples did, and we take the bread that Jesus dips and kiss him while offering him up to our own selfishness.Haven’t we all been betrayers?Jesus tells us that what we do to the least of his children, we do to him. Haven’t we all done things to his children for which we feel remorse and sorrow? Sometimes even to the point of wishing we were dead?I know I have. I pray that I never will again, but it’s possible that smaller betrayals are part of my future.The story of Judas is difficult. But thankfully the news, though sad, is good. Because in describing his relationship with Judas, Jesus tells us he knew US from the beginning. He knows all the evil we’ve done in the past, and all our temptations in the future.And yet he washes our feet.And he feeds us spiritual food, lifting his own hand to our mouths.And he calls us friend at the very moment we disown him.And he waits for us to repent, and then pulls us into the circle of the heavenly kingdom where we will join the twelve in the perpetual wedding feast of the lamb.This Holy Week I pray that God will have mercy on the soul of the one who betrayed him then, and on all of us who continue to betray him now.

Let Me be a Washer of Feet

The timing is right for sharing this Maundy Thursday experience from a few years ago, because I received an angry, threatening tweet from a reader of one of my LGBTQ+ affirming HuffPost pieces this morning. It was a good reminder of the stance I need to take.Last night's Holy Thursday service was a gorgeous mix of joy and sorrow. We celebrated the institution of the Eucharist and the new priesthood. We washed feet and were washed. We watched the stripping of the altar. And then we mimicked the slow plod to Gethsemane.We began in light, and ended in darkness. We closed by pretending our willingness to stay with him in that garden, singing the Taizé piece "Stay with me".As usual, I wept during the foot washing, my unworthiness to be touched by Him profoundly evident, acknowledging the pride that is my most grievous crime.After the service I thought about a Facebook discussion I'd had earlier in the day with evangelical Christians who preach fire and brimstone for those who support same sex marriage. I thought about what Jesus did at that supper, and the model of love that He offered to us through it.He knew that He was about to be betrayed, and by whom. He looked Judas in the eye and in the heart, and dipped His hand with Judas into the bowl. But He did more than just that.He washed His betrayer's feet. He acted as servant and lover for one who He knew to be so horribly in the wrong.It made me think.What a beautiful thing it would be if those who preach judgement and condemnation of same sex relationships would instead get down on their knees publicly, as Jesus did, and say "Let me humble myself. Let me be a servant to you." And wouldn't it be an even more wonderful thing if I were to humble myself to those people in that way?Please Lord, help me to be a washer of feet rather than a wielder of condemnation.

QSpirit Names Where True Love Is #2 on Bestseller List

We were excited to to be included in QSpirit's Top 25 LGBTQ Christian Books for 2017! May God breathe through the book and straight into the hearts and minds of our hurting world.