Lips of Babes - a poem.

"From the lips of babes You have created praise"
I read from the Psalms, and while I love the idea,
from my firsthand mothering view, I struggle to make it true.

If it said, from the bodies of babes, I'd get it—
such chubby thighs and protruded bellies,
such wispy hair and homely smell,
light but heavy weight as I rock your groggy body.

Or, from the motives of babes, I'd agree—
from innocent gifts of treasured rocks,
offers to hug your bunny when I'm sad,
to rubs of lotion on my arms after your bath.

But from the lips? How can it be?—
You cry, you giggle, you scream, you jabber:
this is praise to our Lord?
Is it the first tongues of fire by Spirit—
incomprehensible but we must trust it's true?

Or is it when you learn to pray before dinner
for the baby from church nursery saying "Pray God! For Baby. Amen!"
Or when you pick out the word "soul" in a song and question it,
but I know, deep down, that you already know
how to express yours.


—Ellen H.

Through the praise of children and infants, you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger.
(Psalm 8:2)

[When] the children shouted in the temple courts, “Hosanna to the Son of David,” they were indignant. “Do you hear what these children are saying?” they asked him.

“Yes,” replied Jesus, “have you never read, “‘From the lips of children and infants, you, Lord, have called forth your praise’?” (Matthew 21:16)

The Other Son - a poem.

I've worked the fields for as long as I can remember,
fulfilled by the labor and the place at my father's table and in his heart.
My brother deserts, impatient inheritance in hand,
with eyes never to return. I return to the fields,
twice the work but not twice the appreciation.
I guess obedience is a lonely occupation.

When he returns to grovel, disinherited and in debt,
my father lifts him up and throws the lavish party
I never once was offered for my years of faithful work.
I guess there's no party for never straying.

Am I invisible for staying? The father tries to comfort me,
"You have always been with me, and all I have is yours,"
Truly, I've never gone hungry, never doubted his love
but I guess I'm just saying—
obedience is a lonely occupation
and there's no party for never straying.


—Ellen H.
(In my "Monologues" series. A perspective on the biblical Prodigal Son allegory, Luke 15:11-32)

Humility at the Hearth - a poem.

Lighting a fire, the skill
fueling humankind's survival for thousands of years,
proves a tenuous task for me to learn
in the propane age of first-world America on the grid.
Husband patiently instructs me again
how to construct the logs inside our new wood stove
then to light the kindling, then to wait for smaller logs to catch—
and my insecurity jumps out to burn him
before he has a chance to shut the grate.

Show me a new word once and I'll never forget the spelling,
give me a Wikipedia page on the extraction process for opium poppies
and I'll eloquently sum it up a month later—
but teach me to change a bike tire,
show me how to reignite the pilot light on the hot water heater,
instruct me on amping a djembe with a microphone on a well-labeled stage—
and I will scramble the order, miss the details, and pout
when you slowly show me again three more times.

I contend that I am not learning-challenged,
I am only procedurally-challenged— but I cringe
at the thought of taking notes and referring back to them,
the nerdy academic again,
to simply warm the basement on a chilly winter evening,
well-educated pride heating my cheeks.

I can only hold my biting tongue
when a coworker asks again how to spell "pterygium"
to type it into the diagnosis search box,
since I know the pronunciation omits the starting "p"—
and say a silent thanks for my patient partner for holding his
when I ask for help yet again
to stoke that darn wood stove.

—Ellen H.