You Can’t Help Who You’re Born To

I will have known most of the people in this picture for ten years this Fall. They are some of the college friends that acted out what they knew of Jesus when I first believed. Everyone in the picture is an intimate friend of ours, with whom and for whom we have prayed. They are my family.

My Daddy said the same prayer at every meal growing up. It wasn’t fancy, and I could type it now, but it’s a secret. It would be like stepping out in my spiritual underwear, especially for the many things that prayer has meant all the different times we prayed it. A group prayer should be like that, an X-ray for your hearts so the doctor can come in and show us all what the matter is, where we need Him more.

I think that’s why we rarely want to do it with others. It’s too close. We don’t want to let people in on our brittle condition when often we play the boot-straps game of strength-on my-own-two-feet. Honest group prayer could be humiliating, washing make-up off our scars, removing the suck-em-up tights, and being rolls-and-all naked.

If we hadn’t been kicked out of Eden, we’d all be hiding in a bush.

Our friends drove in from Kansas City, and I was, in prayer, humbled. We love each other. I think the unseemly is very obvious to our old friends, but they love us anyway.

It convicts me to be the same toward other people in this family we call the church. I have experienced love when I know I didn’t deserve it. Why wouldn’t I offer it more freely to those in the body who aren’t always or are usually never put together? What about the idiots in this church that actually think they have it all together? Where’s my grace?

Where’s my memory?

I have been in the garden,
pregnant with fear,
the adulteress.
I’ve wanted to step out when He called,
and I couldn’t, and I couldn’t.
Calls again, but I’m naked.

And friends came to me confessing
their own nakedness. They remembered.

And so, I walk with Him.
Even though I still get caught
red-appled, and I still look down,
and I can’t see that righteous robe,
I walk with Him, and my family walks with Him.
They are no more beautifully dressed.
They are no more naked.
We say to each other, “Look up!”
Don’t look down at your body.
Don’t worry anymore with its covering.


About me


Reply March 10, 2008

Nice. Really.


Reply March 11, 2008

That is good

Bethany Britton
Reply March 11, 2008

Thanks for your comment awhile back. The poem reminds me of my life. Great job.

Prairie Chick
Reply March 11, 2008

Wow. This is my kinda blog. Love your heart.

Ann Kroeker
Reply March 11, 2008

I sure did appreciate your note over at my blog, and what lovely words I found when I clicked over to meet you.

I love your poem and getting a glimpse into those friendships. You are a gifted writer-mom.

Also, I love your thoughts on the washing machine in your earlier post. I've often had the same thought. Who can complain about laundry when I've got a machine to do the work? I own a small washboard that my mom picked up at an antique store one time. I should hang it up to remind me to be thankful for electricity and modern appliances.

Reply December 27, 2008

Truth. Good stuff. Your poetry is amazing, and I have to say, I'm alittle horrified that I directed you to my silly little blog. eek.

Reply April 7, 2009

This can't be the end... I'm at the end? How is that possible? I want it to keep going and going. Feel like a little of my heart is broken off because there are no more words to read. Keep writing those words, my sweet little love! (:

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