"It Is Well with My Soul"

Pollen has been turning my tears yellow, little vessels of itchy gold. I carry toilet paper in my backpack wherever I go, stealing it from the campus bathrooms. Even my tongue itches with pollen. I scratch it with my teeth.

Peace tends to enter my eyes, even with the pollen. The gentle drifting of tree leaves caught on the soft lip of a breeze. The long and yellowing 7:45 light. The sunset between the 7:50 and 8:20 light and clouds. The tea-saucer moon like white china.

One of the lesser known lines of this hymn we sing says, "in death as in life, / Thou shalt whisper Thy peace to my soul." In brokenness as in healing, thy peace. In aloneness as in togetherness, thy peace. In weakness as in strength, thy peace.

It is well with my soul, not will be.

In the old languages, a soul is not immaterial. King David wrote his heart and soul as his whole self. My soul gets up in the morning and showers and drinks tea and eats oatmeal. My soul reads a book or writes a poem. My soul ministers to my sister in Christ.

It is well with my soul. A claim to healing, vital signs in a dying world. There's a pulse here. There's movement in these limbs. There's life in the rotting earth. There's a river flowing and a heart pounding and a flower blooming full force. It is well.

There's triumph here--in the wellness, in the goodness of God. The difference between the greatness and the goodness of God is the difference between his power and his essence. God is great because of the power he holds. God is good because it is his nature to be that way. There is nothing we can say about the blessedness of God except that he is good. There are no more words.

It is well. It is well because of the goodness of God in us. This is it! This is the ultimate--God's goodness in us. No wonder it is well! How could it be better?

The whispering peace in our souls makes us well. The peace that enters our eyes makes us well. The peace moving through our bodies and into our hands to bless others makes us well. We're well. It's well. It's this peace in our souls. Peace, finally. Peace at the hand of the Father. Peace beating through our veins with the goodness of a God who strung the earth together with his bare hands, threading her with grace. Peace spoken by a God who pulls up the grass with a fine needle every spring and tie-dyes the sunrise in the east.

Peace, moving.

Buttercream

As a child, I take silky white icing on my spreader and press it onto a yellow round of cake. I dig into the surface, dragging the smooth topping into it, shredding it to granules. The cake crumbles with white, growing milky and dirtier. The spreader's wounds edge deeper as I try to fix the mess.

My mother asks for the spreader and, with strong arms, moves the icing over the crumbs like a foamy sea tide caught in time over the surf, stilled. The crisp white waves of the icing emulate this flowing. They hide the jagged marks and chunks I've carved.

*

It's all about the buttercream. It's the 10x sugar and the whipped butter cut smooth into each other's bodies until they are one flesh, melting on tongues and slipping down throats. Heavy cream bathes them, seeping in like a secret remedy or an old wives' tale. One tablespoon of Mexican vanilla swishes, two times the natural strength. Buttercream is sweet and not too sweet. Creamy and light. Edible in spoonfuls.

*

The Wal-mart cake supplies hide behind the party favors and greeting cards. I'm aching, so it's the first place a stop in the store. I go over the tools in my mind. The piping paper. The mouths of the icing tips, ridged in different designs. They do not have the the flower nail my mother blooms roses on. Its top is smooth and round like a half dollar; the bottom is a thick pin. She grows them from the inside, overlaying pink cream petals. She scrapes them, gently, from the half dollar and places them on the cake.

She acts like God did in Eden, churning up nature's matter, pure and soft, and piping the garden out as icing. He laid buttercream in the fields: sweet and plump, the blooms of spring.

Beekeeping

Shannon and I share a piece of honeycomb in her kitchen. She has received it from a friend, who owns two small hives.

"As you eat it, the comb will clump together in your mouth. This is what they make beeswax candles from," she tells me, as she takes a chunk of comb in hand and places it on her tongue.

I take a piece in my mouth quickly, with sticky hands. As soon as the complex structure of the comb is broken down by saliva, honey spills into my mouth. It is formless and sweet, swilling into my jaw and overlaying the roof of my mouth. The comb moves together as I chew, balling up on its own.

Shannon has sent some of this home with me, and you are welcome to try some. It's sweeter than other honey you've had before.

Beekeeping fascinates me--the delicate and cruel nature of holding something captive and being gentle with it, because you know that, in great quantities, it can hurt you. Bees are given the illusion of freedom. Here, little bee. This is your home. It's a pretend tree where you will make your honey and feed your larvae. Your queen is here, so you must stay.

The bees drift into sleep and haze when the beekeeper lifts the frame from the hive, smoke filtering through their trachea.

Do we hold bees captive, all of us? When I write about my own sorrow, I hold it away from my body. I live with the illusion that I have overcome all the bees in my box. I pump smoke into my writer's hands until I am numb, hoping one day sweetness will come of this.

The taste of honey depends on which flowers a bee flies to. I imagine wild bees' honey tangier and richer, simply because they choose their own nectar. A beekeeper decides if the honey will be of clovers or apple trees. If I let my sorrow take flight on its own, moving through me at its own pace, will this honey be sweeter? A wild bee flies his own way.

Communion

The ornate pillars curl pebble by pebble into a golden archway. Before today, my grandfather's funeral, I have never been in a Catholic church. I'm twelve. The structure is gothic--open, full of light. The sun floods through the stained glass, bathing the pews in red and blue stretches of warmth. I could ball my body up in them like a cat, soaking in the rays.

The priest speaks and allows our row to stand, and we step up to receive communion. I reach for bread in the father's hand, and he moves it away from me. I feel like a dog licking peanut butter off its nose. I snatch at it again. He pulls back and shoves the bread into my mouth, deft as a pterodactyl swooping in to feed its squalling, just-hatched baby.

We must be able to joke about communion, because we must be able to speak about its truth. Christians often treat communion very seriously because it is serious. However, it is more than that. The truth of communion is weighty.

The living and death and body of Christ are heavy, as five smooth stones slung over our shoulders, weapons for battle. They are the stones we rest our heads on as Jacob at Bethel. They are the stone Jesus would not turn into bread, because he needed God more. They are the stones thrust at us for our sins. They are the stones we throw.

The truth of communion is this: every time we eat together, we are to remember who Christ is and the way Christ moves in our lives--in our needs, in other people, and in our joy. The remembrance of Christ must be as common as bread, and as necessary.

"Give us today our daily bread." We know this line. It says "I need; please supply. I trust; give enough."

This past summer, I learned to bake my own bread. No one realizes how beautiful and funny bread is until they get their hands into it. I chuckled or hummed as I made it, smoothing out the dough and preparing it to rise. I wound up with flour on my clothes and sticky hands, and I was pleased with my work. I was proud and thankful every time I ate it, like something had bloomed from the palms of my hands.

I approach communion like I do homemade bread, with a little more repentance. I take the bread and cup with humility and a spirit of learning. I take with a spirit of come, Lord Jesus, come.

Christ, turn our hearts of stone into bread so we can be useful. Let us take your life and body for their truth and significance, remembering you for your beauty as well as your sacrifice.

Tow Trucks and Burgers

"Ever ridden in a tow truck before?" I ask Mike, attempting to grin. I can feel a headache coming on, moving in from the edges of my temples.

We're stranded in a Morgantown parking lot at 8 p.m., car engine dead.  P. W. Auto has been my car's second home for the past half a year--lid up, mechanic tinkering under the hood. The owner is a thin man whose hands are smudged with car grease, except when he cleans up on Sundays--he doubles as a Baptist minister. I think back to the waiting room in my mind; I've spent a good few hours there. The corner table is stacked with gospel tracts and magazines. Pictures of his grandchildren line the opposite wall.

I call Wade's 24 hour tow service and my mother.

"Well," she says, "consider this your first pre-marital trial." I'm standing in the back of a Five Guys on my cell phone, talking over the pop music on the radio. The air is heavy with burger grease and peanut oil. My mouth is watering. (I'd skipped lunch to watch an episode of Downton Abbey. Those British shows get me every time.) They have two of the new-fangled pop machines. The touchscreen advertises its new flavors: "Orange Coke. Sprite with Peach."
I look for Mike's dark hair. He's sitting at the table, holding the grease-stained brown bag. He's grinning, attractive in his glasses, head bobbing to the radio.

I tell my mother I'll call later. I sit down at the table and we eat,  grabbing our burgers and dumping the fries in the bag. We share.

"It's the peanut oil that makes the fries, you know?" He says to me, dipping his fries in ketchup. I nod. It must be--the salty, buttery taste of potato sinking into my tongue.

The tow truck driver calls me. He maneuvers through the parking lot, and I wave him over to my car.  At first I think there are two men in the truck, but then the driver opens the door and I see the car seat. The driver lifts his small son down and waves him over to the side of the road.

He's shivering because it's March, and it's freezing.

"Want me to zipper your coat?" I say to him, kneeling down to his level. He nods, chattering. "How old are you?" I ask.

"Six," he says to me.

"Six!" I exclaim. "I would have thought you were twenty-six, or one-hundred and six!"

He smiles and talks about wanting to be a fireman. His father, the driver, finesses my dead-engined vehicle onto the back of the truck as one would maneuver the body of a beached whale.

We all climb into the tow truck. I sit in the back seat next to the boy, whose name, I've found, is Trenton. Mike sits in the front next to the driver, who wears a name tag stitched with John on his blue coveralls.

"I think you need to stop and get me a drink," Trenton informs his father.

"Oh do you?" John laughs, speaking with a heavy southern drawl. He points as we drive out of the complex. "Up there is the best hibachi place I've ever had in my life, and I've travelled all over the country. This little guy can even catch the shrimps in his mouth. Can't you Trenton? Show 'em how you catch 'em."

Trenton opens his mouth wide and waves his head around, pretending to grab at flying shrimp with his mouth.

"And you leave there full. Everybody at the table gets an equal portion." John nods.

"I think I've been there before," Mike says. "It was really good. I couldn't remember how to get back there though."

Trenton points down another bend in the road. "Go down there."

John nods, "Oh yeah, you can go down that way too. You should see this kid. He might never be a philosopher, but he's a good navigator." He steeps us in a story of how Trenton saw a rodeo when he was two and remembers it now, if he passes by the stretch of pasture. John's eyes gleam with pride.

He pulls the tow truck into Sheetz. "Do ya'll mind if we stop? I gotta get my helper a little something to drink. Want anything? I'll buy it."

We decline, hanging out in the truck while Trenton and John go inside. We both look small, strapped into the seats of this oversized, breathing, quaking beast.

I turn to Mike. "I couldn't have asked for a better date night."

He turns to me. "I was just thinking the same thing."

By the time we arrive home, we have two new friends, a high car bill, and an invitation to see Trenton ride a sheep at the April Mutton Bustin' on the Fairgrounds. What can I say, though? One must make the most of her pre-marital trials.

Safari

I visited Malawi, Africa for three weeks in May of 2011.

 

The twenty-some of us pack into a bus and slide the windows down. We roll down the uneven road, our bodies jolting every few feet. I imagine myself in Jurassic Park and hope, faintly, for a dinosaur sighting. Lush branches poke in the windows. We don't pause to look at the gazelles, but the giraffes we stop to see.

 

The giraffes range in browns and tans. No two are alike; spots vary in color and size. I am more afraid of them than anything. Wide brown eyes and the balanced, majestic bones are held up by more than a bodily strength in between the sun, dry grass, and baobab trees.

 

In America, we set up zoos and put giraffes on televisions where, behind bars or glass frames, they are contained. There are no containers here.

 

We stop for lunch, getting out of the bus. I am wary with nothing between me and the giraffes, their large lungs breathing the same air as mine. The sun bears down the same heat on our bodies. The only thing between us is a patch of African plain, no wire to hold them back.

 

Our group picnics, climbing up wooden stairs to a raised gazebo. I want to eat this lunch daily: fresh picked berries from the mountain side, ripe bananas, juicy oranges. The eggs are fresh, hard boiled. We drink fruit pop: Coca-Pina, Orange, Grape.

I am coming to terms with this: wonder has to do with a common beauty and unknowing. It lies in the bones of giraffes and brown hen eggs.

 

While we were in Malawi, we spent time beneath the peak of Mount Mulanje. My friend would turn to me in the mornings and say, "We are eating porridge in the shadow of a mountain."

 

I would wash my clothes and say, "I am washing my clothes in a bucket in the shadow of a mountain."

 

I am playing tag with twenty African children in the shadow of a mountain.

I am lying beneath an earth-sky of stars in the cool grass in the shadow of a mountain.

 

I added the mountain to the end of sentences in my mind, and the world got bigger while I got smaller. This is the wonder for the daily that keeps things beautiful.

 

I am eating a whole-grain peanut butter sandwich, and I am a living, breathing soul.

I am a Saturday children's librarian in a small town, and I am a living, breathing soul.
 

 

Love and the Best Kind of Pizza

"I thought this was everybody's perfect pizza," Mike says to me, three bites in to a slice of plain.

We are sitting opposite one another in what looked like a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint. The inside holds raw elegance--softly lit tables, clinking wine glasses, and the self-same hardwood of a dance floor.

I smile at him softly, admiring the slight curl of his dark hair. This isn't my kind of pizza, but it's not bad. The crust is a little to thin and cracker-like for me, but the sauce is good. Not too sweet.

I like the fold-up crust better, the kind that flops over--melty cheese and grease spilling together and onto the plate. It's what I was raised with.

"So where is your favorite pizza place then?" he asks me after we finish and pay our bill. He takes my hand as we shuffle to the car, fleeing the cold.

"I don't know if I have one. Mostly, at home, we eat at the same pizza place every time. It's alright." We get in the car. I lean back against the cold leather, shivering. I turn on the heat.

"Well, that's just unacceptable. For our next adventure, we must find you a pizza place!" he declares, putting the car in reverse. "First of all, you're Italian. And second of all, everyone should have a favorite pizza place."

A few weeks ago, I wrote a story narrating Eve's thoughts upon being created. In my story, I write in Adam and Eve with two languages: both can talk to God, but they cannot speak with one another. Thus, God acts as translator until they can build a common tongue.

I have a feeling this is truer than I know, and it is more than an ideal pizza--man and woman learning one another, building togetherness.

I used to think people could not be so complex. They had to be grasp-able, understandable. They are not, and that is why knowing takes so long.

It is a structure: a bridge and its unfinished painting. In Pittsburgh, there are always workmen on the bridges, in the swirling snow and heat. Rust wears off the bridge paint and tears at the architecture, the bolts and screws. The workmen paint to keep the bridges standing, holding cars and people and their weight.