Doctor Parents

Having doctor parents is nice.

Nicer than some people might know,

because at 9 years old,

when you’re sick,

they treat you right.

Buy you sprite with bubbles that

pop pop pop real luscious on your tongue and

wash away the pungent taste of regurgitated food.

They put in a Little Mermaid VHS,

the one you’ve seen eight times but

it doesn’t matter because Ariel is beautiful

and someday you want locks as red as hers

with a dark-haired prince to accessorize with.

They give you undivided attention that you

suck up regardless of the selfish looks

from first brother, second brother, third.

Forget school. It’s cozy blanket cuddle time.

You don’t even have to go to the real doctor

with his germy office,

faded cartoons prancing happily along the wall

trying to make sick kids forget about the sick.

There’s the toy with wires and beads.

You can play on it till mom says no because

Do you have any idea how many sick kids touched that?

None of that.

Doctor parents just call in the medicine real simple like.

Doctor parents make the best parents.

Having doctor parents is awful.

First off, when you’re sick they’re real strict about what you can eat.

Toast and sprite.

Of course there’s meatloaf for the family with buttery bread

and hot cinnamony apple strudel.

So cinnamony your mouth aches to taste it.

But it’d make you throw up because

doctor parent says so.

You try to make the plain toast appetizing by

dunking it in Sprite.

And they force you to drink a grape syrup

of a suspicious dark violet

that you swear never had contact with any sort of fruit.

They know when you’re faking too.

They can whip out a thermometer faster than

Indiana Jones’s whip.

Don’t even try to pull a Ferris Bueller.

They’ll load you up with medicine,

pat you on the back and say

You’re good to go.

They know what’s good for you too,

for bedtime gets an hour shaved off it

because sick children need sleep.

But doctor parents make the best parents

because in the middle of the night when you throw up

toast and sprite and a forkful of sneaked-in apple strudel,

they’ll be there in a heartbeat.

Vomity sheets washed, sick child comforted,

bed pan and old yellow beach towel laid by your bedside

just in case.

All of this done by half asleep doctor parents

who love their children.

Even at 2 A.M. and covered in sick kid vomit.

Eventually, every kid gets his mom a mug that says

World’s Greatest Mom

But I don’t think they can say that.

Not unless they have doctor parents.

Be Gracious

I seek your face with blundering hands outstretched, blindly grasping at darkness and quick! quick! seizing nothingness that slips from my hands unharmed.

The air is thick and smothers my lungs. It is hard to breathe here.

Be gracious to me, my God.

Knees bent. My head pressed against the floor, yellow hair spread like holy halo across the ground.

You promise that your grace is sufficient for your children. Lord I claim that promise now.

Like a small child taking his first steps, I stumble, trip, fall heart-heavy onto the ground.

The child sees only the next few steps. He does not know that what lies ahead of him in life is uncertain. Oh blessed innocence.

Father, doubts pock-mark my faith, digging holes into my heavy head. Tears drip from those holes leaky faucet like. Flow down, lick the chin, drip off.

I’m here, Father. Alone with only my inhibitions to keep me company.

Your holy pages have been perused, flipped through, and pored over by tired eyes. Eyes that long for rest from doubt.

Be gracious to me Father.

Give me peace. 

Monster

She shrugs slightly, wiggles her shoulders. The dark cloud that settles on them shifts ever so slightly, then returns to solemnly slump again on her back. She sighs but lets it go, for there's little to be done about it.  It has been there for ages.
At first, it was a new and intriguing (but entirely unwelcome!) visitor that crept onto her back, piece by piece, clinging with careful claws closely catching at her skin. She barely noticed at first.
But.
When she turned her head to look back on it she found it had changed, quite deviously, quite swiftly, into a monster.
A dark, dank, dirty mass of filth and muck and sin. And it would not let go.
She tried a little to unhinge it. It clung to her like mud on a little boy. No matter how often she thought she'd rid herself of it, it would appear again and again in the most unsavory places. And the guilt that came with it, oh that was the worst. That guilt that pierced like a mother's tears, edged into your soul.
Get off, she murmurs. But it's half-heartedly. It's always half-heartedly these days. Honestly, deep down, truthfully, bare-your-heart honestly...she doesn't want it to go.
It's too comforting. Its familiarity and the satisfaction it brings seems to temporarily fill the hole in her heart that should cry out to Jesus. And the monster whispers that it's the only thing that can tenderly caress her, kiss her, woo her soft and sweet.
It's not hurting anyone, she reasons.
Blood though. Red, thick, hot. Blood dripping from the wounds. Her wounds. Monster inflicted wounds. Chunks of her, gorged upon by sin.
It's reached a point where it can no longer be secret, no longer be silent, no longer kill her gently.
This thing that has clung on for so long must be detached. Painfully pulling its barbs out of her skin, she must kick it to the curb and cling to the only one that promises restitution, revival, righteousness.
Take it, she cries to Him who hears. There can no longer be an apathetic attitude of indifference.
There is no more time for that.