Yesterday, I rode with Ivan on the golf cart to check his hay fields, and the breeze was balmy and the grass bright green against the billowed sky and the curled pines at the edge of the field promised enchantment. Our child kicked in my uterus and Ivan told me that he loved me, and the world, for the space of an hour, was perfect.
Three weeks ago this past Tuesday, he broke his collarbone. He wore his left arm in a sling for a couple of weeks, walking with his neck stiff and straight so as not to jiggle the broken shoulder. As the collarbone heals, he grows more active. The sling is only an occasional afterthought when his weak arm needs a break.
That sounds mild enough now, but it was traumatic for me then. Traumatic to be sitting at the table, working on my schoolwork like any other day, while Ivan loaded hay at his nephew’s place, when I got a call that he’d fallen off the trailer and the ambulance was coming to pick him up.
I didn’t know, at that point, if he was dead or alive, paralyzed or brain injured. Our dearly loved neighbor had died only that morning.
I never realized one can be so thankful for a mild concussion, dislocated thumb, and broken collarbone. I didn’t want to write about it then. I never do, right away. Give me space to live my life. Writing is a reflection.
Just before Easter, a writer friend, Sharilyn Martin, shared a story of Vietnamese prisoner of war Jeremiah Denton, who wrote a poem I find deeply meaningful because of the circumstance in which he wrote it. From his prison cell, a 3 foot by 9 foot windowless room, after four years of torture and unspeakable conditions and with four more years still to go, Denton wrote “Piet`a” at Eastertime 1969.
Piet`a
The soldiers stare, then drift away,
Young John finds nothing he can say,
The veil is rent; the deed is done;
And Mary holds her only son.
His limbs grow stiff; the night grows cold,
But naught can loose that mother’s hold.
Her gentle, anguished eyes seem blind,
Who knows what thoughts run through her mind?
Perhaps she thinks of last week’s palms,
With cheering thousands off’ring alms
Or dreams of Cana on the day
She nagged him till she got her way.
Her face shows grief but not despair,
Her head, though bowed, has faith to spare,
For even now she could suppose
His thorns might somehow yield a rose.
Her life with Him was full of signs
That God writes straight with crooked lines.
Dark clouds can hide the rising sun,
And all seem lost, when all is won!
Jeremiah Denton, Vietnam, Easter 1969
Sharilyn says that according to Treasury of Easter Celebrations by Julie Hogan, “This poem refers to the Piet`a (the Italian word for “pity”), which is a painting or sculpture depicting Mary supporting the body of her son on her lap after the crucifixion. One of the most magnificent of these, done by Michelangelo around 1500, is in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.”
You can read more details of Denton’s story in a blog post called “Faith Amidst Despair,” written by John Wyte. The line from “Piet`a” that stood out to Sharilyn, to Wyte, and to me, is the line “God writes straight with crooked lines.”
Ivan is okay. God allowed him to break his collarbone, but it was not God’s time for him to go. Our neighbor needs her husband as much as I need mine … but God said, “Come to me. It is time.”
Who can understand why?
I have a child, so far healthy, I thought I might never have.
A good friend of mine still waits.
Who can understand why?
I grew up in a home with books and education, access to health care, plenty of food and clothes, love.
A child from Syria, living in a refugee camp, reels from PTSD.
And yet, “God writes straight with crooked lines.”
It is easy to believe this from the side of plenty. Not so easy from the side of want.
That is why stories like Denton’s make such an impression on me. Denton writes more of his and other prisoners’ experiences in his book When Hell Was in Session. (The book is out of print, so if you’re interested, your best option is to buy it used.)
Recently, in honor of Easter, I rewrote an old blog post for my column in Anabaptist World. The Eastertime revelation I speak of in that column is still one of the most startling I’ve had: that Jesus did not come to condemn this dirty old world, but to save it. The column is called “Jesus, who lives in the mud.” You can read it here if you’re interested.
Praise him who knits bones together, is a source of hope in the belly of hell, and at the end of time will make everything new.
Thank you for this post. There are many songs celebrating, “The Sweet Bye and Bye” but not too many about, “The Nasty now and now”. There are so many around the World facing the Nasty Now and Now.
I love how you used a picture from Deer Lake with this article. It fits.
Such beautiful writing and poem – thank you Lucinda :) I pray Ivan’s collarbone heals up fast. Blessings to you ~ Linda
Encouraging post.
Jesus, who lives in the mud. That’s the first writing of yours I came across – in the anthology Homespun. I liked it a lot, and it led me to your book and then your blog. I’d almost forgotten that first article, and reading the title stirs the memory. I’m glad I found you, and through you a number of others whose blogs I like to read regularly. Life is richer for those connections.
That’s so interesting, Holly. Jesus Who Lives in the Mud is perhaps my favorite of all my blog posts.
Interesting post !! I want to remember this “God writes straight with crooked lines” so encouraging now as my youngest sister is dealing with emotional issues and her husband is dealing with physical issues. Let us pray for each other and not faint by the way. is a song I remember from my teen years growing up in Penna. Keep writing !!
Yes, I read the article you wrote in the Anabaptist World several weeks ago. Bertha
Thank you, Bertha. Always good to hear from you. Prayer is so important. I have sung that song often, so that is a shared memory.