Barbara's Random Thoughts

I don't write poems much anymore. Sometime right after my creative writing class at Biola, I started self-censoring a LOT and stopped writing poems as often. (Because "nobody cares about your feelings!") But every once in a while, something resonates with me in a poetry way, and I want to write about it. Sometimes the words come easily, and sometimes they don't. I wrote this one quickly, and it was exactly what I wanted to say. But years have gone by and I still haven't written that poem about the conversation I had with the Jewish repairman who fixed our garage door the week before Christmas.

I half-started a poem in March, after communion at the Good Friday service. This was one of those times where we took communion by dipping the bread into the cup. As I stepped away from the communion table, holding the bread, some of the juice dripped down my fingers. In a brief moment, the image of the wine as Christ's blood became very powerful. The physical experience of the juice running down my fingers somehow resonated with me. I wanted to get that image down on paper, and kind of explore just what it was that the moment meant for me. But the poem didn't go very far.

Yesterday, we had communion and I had the same experience, with the juice dripping down onto my hand. Only this time two drops fell right in the middle of my palm. (I know, the nails probably went through the wrists, blah, blah, blah.) But seeing the dark drops of juice in my palm...again, the imagery was a powerful thing for me.

Yesterday evening, I was sitting in the park doing my Bible study for tonight, and I found the paper with my attempt at this poem tucked inside my Bible. I've gotta write this. I just can't get the words down on paper like I want.