When I reach the end and look back on this life, I want to remember my brothers, sisters, and I bringing teaspoons for Mom to fill with cookie dough as chocolate chip cookies baked in the oven.
I want to remember the beginning of Sabbath keeping and the boredom of Scripture readings.
I want to remember when the boredom turned into interest and the interest became passion and love for the Word.
I want to remember gazing at the glowing coals in the fire pit and watching others roast big, puffy marshmallows when mine caught on fire.
I want to remember the tears in my eyes and the humbling gratitude that pierced heart when Dad explained to me what it means “to know a love that crowns and crucifies”.
I want to remember how it felt to sojourn in a foreign land, hike between rocky cliffs, and long for my eternal home.
I want to remember the moment I was baptized in the Red Sea—the salt that burned my eyes and the release that came over me.
I want to remember the sweat dripping from my dirty face as I harvested dates in the scorching sun.
I want to remember the satisfaction of writing something beautiful though I did not know who would read it.
I want to remember the aimless chatter as we talked over the lines of a movie with popcorn spilling all over the rug.
I want to remember the restless, lonely nights when I prayed on the bathroom floor and knew for sure that Someone was listening.
I want to remember all the silly nicknames, being teased and confronted—being so completely known and so completely accepted.
And when I reach the end, when I cross the finish line…
When I make it to my destination and look back on the journey, I want to rejoice in every person, every place, and every great and small memory that came along the way
I want to remember the day of my birth and every day after.
I want to drink life from a straw like a six year old with a slushie.
Life being the slushie in this metaphor, rainbow bright and shockingly full of sugar, bad for me and delicious. Actually, not so bad, but not vegetables.
There is a part of me who knows the impossibility of holding it all, loving it all so forcefully. It can’t be contained.
I remember instead, or alongside, a God Who numbers my days and treats them like George Lucas treats Empire and not Episode 1, and Stephen Hawking treats stars, Dior treats velvet as it weaves through his fingers.
I feel the largeness of life and my smallness within, not minuscule or infantile, but beheld and besaught and benedicted.
At the end of my life, I want to be within all that was and all that is. Here, as I am now, in His arms.
I want to remember what it felt like to realize Jesus would still have died if I was the only one who needed a Savior.
I want to remember the stillness that settled on me when my mother brushed my hair.
I want to remember the wild whiteness of a world so filled with snow, we couldn't see the house.
I want to remember the adrenalin that licked like flames through my body when we careened down icy hills on sleds and toboggan.
I want to remember the safety and sleepiness of my father's voice when he read out loud to us each night before bed.
I want to remember the knife-edge of joy and uncertainty as I launched into adulthood with all the unknowns that only show their faces as you push through.
I want to remember our first kiss at the Romeo and Juliet ballet, how we forgot we hadn't kissed before and leaned for each other's lips as the curtain rose.
I want to remember the relief and sweetness so sharp it was almost grief when we held our newborn with his dark shock of hair.
I want to remember your mother's calm certainty as I trimmed her nails in that hospital room, and she told me that her race was finished, and she was ready to see Jesus' face.
I want to remember that today is unwritten, and we have a living Savior who walks our yard with us and watches our children and sits at our table.
Beautiful picture
When I reach the end and look back on this life, I want to remember my brothers, sisters, and I bringing teaspoons for Mom to fill with cookie dough as chocolate chip cookies baked in the oven.
I want to remember the beginning of Sabbath keeping and the boredom of Scripture readings.
I want to remember when the boredom turned into interest and the interest became passion and love for the Word.
I want to remember gazing at the glowing coals in the fire pit and watching others roast big, puffy marshmallows when mine caught on fire.
I want to remember the tears in my eyes and the humbling gratitude that pierced heart when Dad explained to me what it means “to know a love that crowns and crucifies”.
I want to remember how it felt to sojourn in a foreign land, hike between rocky cliffs, and long for my eternal home.
I want to remember the moment I was baptized in the Red Sea—the salt that burned my eyes and the release that came over me.
I want to remember the sweat dripping from my dirty face as I harvested dates in the scorching sun.
I want to remember the satisfaction of writing something beautiful though I did not know who would read it.
I want to remember the aimless chatter as we talked over the lines of a movie with popcorn spilling all over the rug.
I want to remember the restless, lonely nights when I prayed on the bathroom floor and knew for sure that Someone was listening.
I want to remember all the silly nicknames, being teased and confronted—being so completely known and so completely accepted.
And when I reach the end, when I cross the finish line…
When I make it to my destination and look back on the journey, I want to rejoice in every person, every place, and every great and small memory that came along the way
I love your poem, Tanner, especially the line about ordinary days when nothing seemed to happen!
I'm really diggin' what the Wednesday Poetry Club is becoming.
I want to remember the day of my birth and every day after.
I want to drink life from a straw like a six year old with a slushie.
Life being the slushie in this metaphor, rainbow bright and shockingly full of sugar, bad for me and delicious. Actually, not so bad, but not vegetables.
There is a part of me who knows the impossibility of holding it all, loving it all so forcefully. It can’t be contained.
I remember instead, or alongside, a God Who numbers my days and treats them like George Lucas treats Empire and not Episode 1, and Stephen Hawking treats stars, Dior treats velvet as it weaves through his fingers.
I feel the largeness of life and my smallness within, not minuscule or infantile, but beheld and besaught and benedicted.
At the end of my life, I want to be within all that was and all that is. Here, as I am now, in His arms.
I love this.
“When I reach the end and look back on this life, I want to remember…”
…the sound of my mother praying with a cigarette in one hand and a spoon in the other, stirring beans while summoning saints.
The electric silence of a monastery at 4 a.m., when even the ghosts pause to listen.
The time I laughed so hard I nearly choked on communion wine because someone mispronounced “transubstantiation” as “transubstation.”
The way Rebecca looked at me like she saw through all my masks—and still stayed.
The cicadas screaming in the Texas dusk while I scribbled secrets in the margins of Psalms.
The first time I sat still long enough to notice I wasn’t broken—just breathing like a storm.
The scent of frankincense in an Orthodox liturgy and the distinct realization that I was allergic to holiness.
The wild freedom of riding downhill at Denton MTB trail, no helmet, just hubris and teenage glory.
The feel of Mary Magdalene’s name on my tongue, like honey and fire.
“And when I get to the end of my life, I want to…”
…slip out of this robe like it’s the last joke I tell.
Return to the Source barefoot and unapologetic.
Be greeted by saints who wink instead of bow.
And fall into the arms of the Mother who remembers me, even when I forgot myself.
Amazing
I want to remember what it felt like to realize Jesus would still have died if I was the only one who needed a Savior.
I want to remember the stillness that settled on me when my mother brushed my hair.
I want to remember the wild whiteness of a world so filled with snow, we couldn't see the house.
I want to remember the adrenalin that licked like flames through my body when we careened down icy hills on sleds and toboggan.
I want to remember the safety and sleepiness of my father's voice when he read out loud to us each night before bed.
I want to remember the knife-edge of joy and uncertainty as I launched into adulthood with all the unknowns that only show their faces as you push through.
I want to remember our first kiss at the Romeo and Juliet ballet, how we forgot we hadn't kissed before and leaned for each other's lips as the curtain rose.
I want to remember the relief and sweetness so sharp it was almost grief when we held our newborn with his dark shock of hair.
I want to remember your mother's calm certainty as I trimmed her nails in that hospital room, and she told me that her race was finished, and she was ready to see Jesus' face.
I want to remember that today is unwritten, and we have a living Savior who walks our yard with us and watches our children and sits at our table.
Beautiful!