Wedding at Wang

Wedding at Wang

Adrianna and Matthew, 19th September 2020

Oh, these are strange days and new times.

Global pandemic thrusting narrowness and loss upon us.

Forcing us to reconsider things we didn't realise needed to be reconsidered, and encouraging us 

to consider only those things that have eternal value. 

(And perhaps, giving us a new appreciation of that poor camel trying to squeeze through the needle's eye.)

Society may be in an uproar, the media festering every anxiety, and promoting 

every helpless, hopeless, useless, fruitless desire, but the peace and calm within your hearts is 

the true testament of reality.

The traditional wedding thrown out, not because of changes in social mores or pressure 

to be relevant, but as Solomon so aptly stated, ' There is a time for every purpose under heaven', 

and it is surely evident that the Lord rules in the affairs of men.

A wedding is a time of celebratory largesse, a time to enjoy the company of family, old and new. 

This narrowed alternative, though disappointing and reluctantly endured, will thankfully have 

no effect on the quality of your future life together. And no doubt, no doubt at all, 

the day will be sweet with sparkling sunshine (or effervescent rain), halcyon air, 

trees singing in the wind, clapping their hands, and your hearts growing so big you think they might burst.

It is understandable to grieve over loss; family unable to attend, two guests present 

rather than 200, quietness instead of the murmur, laughter and rabble of excited loved ones.

So, while the circumstances may appear straightened, rest assured that the real gifts 

come with your marriage, not with the wedding, and those gifts come from the Father of lights.

And while we would wish to honour you with our bodily presence, we feel honoured to be part 

of such a great cloud of witnesses excitedly testifying to your declaration of vows which 

will cost you joyfully dear; an event written into the eternal books so, so long ago.

And witness it we will. Virtual wedding guests, gathered in homes near and far, some still 

in pyjamas and some in suit and tie, peering into computer screens large and small to see 

your nuptials through the cycloptic eye of a video camera.

With you in spirit but obviously not in body, unable to ooh and ah over 

the details of your wedding dress, unable to hug and kiss our joy and blessings to you,

but with you nonetheless, and He will bless you; with joy and gladness, difficulty and sorrow, 

children if you choose, and long, long Elysian days of fellowship with Him.

And the unusual way in which this season plays out is a harbinger of things to come and is 

heralding a new closeness amongst us. 

What better way to celebrate that, than with your wedding.

MDC September 2020

Out of Fashion

Out of fashion

He had only been in fashion once in his life, during the penultimate year of his high school education, at the school formal. Flares were in style. Those tight, hip-hugging trousers that gripped from hips all the way down the thighs to the knees, and then, as if needing to take a gasp of breath, opened up to a flared hem that covered the whole shoe. He had read somewhere that sailors wore such things because it allowed them to pull on their pants (or remove them) without having to take off their shoes, saving vital seconds in the event of shipwreck. He had never bothered to follow the path that took such an understandably necessary style all the way to the far removed catwalks of high street couture, mainly because he knew very little about how the fashion industry worked, but he did understand that its engine was emotion, not logic.

The flares he wore to that school formal were bright blue with a crimson pinstripe, held  precariously on the hips by a 3 inch-wide tan vinyl belt. His shoes were black and maroon with platform heels that rivaled the belt in height. A golden orange shirt with a high collar folded over a blue and red paisley tie, whose span soundly trumped both belt and shoes in measurement, finished his outfit. Unless you lived in the seventies, you would have no idea how this could be accepted as popular fashion, but it was not only accepted, but enthusiastically embraced by the masses. Which is not to say that class and good style had fled mankind altogether, as he was soon to discover. 

Walking up the steps to the auditorium where the festivities were being held,  Snow White, the school captain, loudly exclaimed, "Good on you, Chimesy!", as he looked his attire up and down. Pleasantly surprised at the unexpected approval, he raised his chin, stuck out his chest and marched confidently through the foyer into the hall. The room was filled with all the students of the graduating year. The young women dressed in stylish understated dresses; fetching but demur. The boys modelled dark trousers and tweed jackets or subdued sports coats. The only ones wearing bright coloured clothing like his was a bunch of bodgees made up of the undesirables of the school's male population. Known as riff-raff, and conscientiously spurned by all the females in the school population,  Snow White's comment suddenly held a completely different tone and meaning. Rather than approval, he now heard a mocking gloat and immediately realized that while he did not reside, in attitude or academic standing, in the rabble-rousing group, his choice of attire forever cemented him in its membership in the eyes of the other students.

Tattooed

His arms were black and blue with ink. His skin covered with 

words, numbers and pictures

it took some time to sink in - what it all meant. 

Birds, fruit and mixtures of colour. 

Nothing made sense to one so young.  Did he lose 

his tongue and had to find another way to

tell his story? I wonder 

how much he spent on each hieroglyphic. Still, 

everyone needs some glory.

MDC April 2020

My Father's Eyes

‘You have your father's eyes’, my mother would say, 

opening a chasm of consternation for me

When I think of my father's eyes I see the many times 

he came home drunk, face florid with booze, 

countenance sanguine with intent,  

red-sore eyes ablaze with argument and 

belligerence. All restraint spent. He would come home 

flailing with the gratuitous cruelty 

that comes with both disillusionment and 

drunken failure and all my bravery would fail.

My face would just happen to be in the way of where

his fists were travelling to. 

It was best to hide; 

to stay out of his sight.

I don't know if I have his eyes but I know 

I have his hands.

His hands were large with big strong fingers 

and knuckles calloused and arthritic from 

the fights he got into when he was

sozled. His hands were 

dreadful,

awful,  

cataclysmic weapons 

that left welts on my mother's skin, 

bruises that would linger, 

black eyes, 

smashed mouth, 

and broken spirit. 

During those times my mother would look at me 

in her unbearable heartache and smile a small, timid half smile. 

Why does half a smile always indicate 

sadness?

My hands don't look like my father's hands.  

By comparison, mine are soft and temperate but 

I know I have my father's hands because 

one night 

the madness that inhabited my father took up 

residence in me and I, purged of nuance, 

beat him senseless, my anger burning,

turning into a rage that would not have ever been 

extinguished if my mother had not thrown herself 

at me to relinquish the flood of retribution 

flowing 

from my fists.

        MDC 3/6/2020

Dichotomy

How is it that the same tree expresses opposites?

Yesterday, that Pepperina was stately, gracious, smiling at me 
with benevolence, a sage viewing the world with patient musings, 
its diurnal presence a torch to the joy and calm a life can produce.

Today,  giving no excuse to the prison of penury or the freedom 
of wealth, it is a sentinel to judgement, its hairy arms immovable 
to prevarication or perspective. It looks at me with rigid obstinance, 
mutely frowning at my choices.

Yesterday, a friend. Today, an obdurate bystander.

Giving Thanks

I refuse to be sorrowful, to be condemned

I refuse to cast away my future by 

letting the past dog me; a vulture waiting for

my last breath

Instead, I take a deep breath

Fill my lungs with the sweet air of the present

And thank You for the mercy You

have shown me by showing me that my past habits

do not have to be my future faults

I shake with trepidation, with shame

I shake with the uncertainty of my 

future but at least I now have one that is not an offence

to me or to You

Lampstand

Your fine, fine gold 

gleaming in the gloom

The stature of your frame would grace any room

Seven branches, identical

Far surpassing all that’s 

ecumenical

Each bud and flower beaten 

to within an inch of its life

Their history riven with suffering and strife

Yet grandly there you stand

Firmly rooted on crown 

land

Superb structural glory!

That seems to define your life

But pales into darkness compared to your light

Your bright, bright flowers

Petals of light

Removing all shadow, dispelling the night

Nothing more glorious

than your effulgence diurnal

Steadfast, pure, radiance

eternal.

The Evidence of You

I was taught while young of Your existence and while I have always been

convicted of Your existence that has not stopped me searching for You.

Where do You dwell? 

In the expanse of the heavens that You made? 

Science has conclusively proved that this is not so, although the weight of

circumstantial evidence is indeed heavy. 

In the nature of this planet that You made? 

Once again, science proves otherwise, but in doing so breaches its own

laws of mathematics. 

In the mind and thoughts of Your greatest creation?  

Even there, within the most mind-boggling complexity, we find no actual

evidence. 

Your word gives us little clues, like, 

Darkness is His hiding place

How can I be so convinced of You if I cannot find proof? 

What kind of fact would be sufficient to satisfy the burden of proof? 

Again, Your own words provide the clue. 

By the fruit of Your labours. 

I know of Your work in me. 

I know how you have healed me physically, not once, nor twice, but 

(by my reckoning) at least three times. 

I know of at least one healing of my mental facilities. 

Then there are the numerous times You have changed my soul.

Times too many for me to remember, the changes being too wondrous

for me to articulate.

In considering what proof would be sufficient to 

appease my uncertainty I realised that it would be the same

standard that we place on others. 

For we don't easily abandon our own thoughts, perceptions and opinions to

another unless there is an ample quotient of one condition -

Trust

Trust is the essential ingredient for a true relationship to exist between two.

Without trust there will always be some element of suspicion, uncertainty or

doubt. And having arrived at this understanding I realised that I need not have

any further doubt, and the uncertainty I was experiencing was 

not over Your existence, 

but over my ability to walk the path You have set for me. 

And because I do trust You, I can also trust Your work and Your hand on my life,

for there is one thing that I am certain of:

Your loving kindness.

MDC

September 2019

At the News of Your Death

My heart hangs like humidity in the air cloying, 

compressed, confused

My armpits are pouring with sweat and my brow drips

It's not the closeness of the air that does this. The vista 

of my future 

fractures, shards of dreams raining 

down

Past and present rendered 

futile

My perceptions questioned and the vanity of my intentions laid 

bare for all to mock

All my harsh words shouted in advertisement. My kind words 

silent and deleted

The apology that would heal this wrong stuck like cold 

porridge in my throat, 

too late 

to be delivered.

MDC

September 2019

Slamming Doors

This is what I hear.

A car door slams shut, then a few moments later, slams shut again.This repeats over

and over until I have the clear impression that it is not the same door being slammed

shut, but it is the same car which is having its doors opened and then slammed shut.

Almost a dozen or so times the doors on the car are opened and shut. This little

pantomime occurs at least once a week, sometimes more.

What happens is something like this.

My father, who is mostly blind and mostly deaf, takes the picnic basket out to the car,

opens the passenger-side rear door, places the basket on the back seat and slams the

door shut. He then walks back to the house to gather up the picnic blanket and walks

back out to the car. He opens the driver-side rear door, places the blanket on the back

seat and slams the door shut. He walks back to the house with the intention of collecting

the thermos flask to take out to the car but cannot find it. He walks around the house for

a few moments looking for the flask and then decides to go look in the car. He walks out

to the car, opens the driver-side rear door and looks down at the back seat and does not

see the flask. He slams to door shut, walks around to the passenger-side rear door, opens

it, sees the flask lying on the back seat between the picnic basket and the door. He slams

the doors shut, happy that he has found the flask and it is now in the car. When he gets

back inside, my mother, who still has a good grasp of her faculties and beetles around

the house doing two things at once on a slow day, and more on a “good” day, asks my

father if he has seen the thermos flask. She can’t find it and she hasn’t yet filled it with

coffee for the picnic. Dad exclaims that he just took it out to the car, although he didn’t

realise that he was taking it out to the car at the time, and goes out to the car to get the

flask. He opens the passenger-side rear door, picks up the flask, slams the door and walks

back into the house with the flask. He gives it to my mother who asks my father if he would

mind checking that the driver's seat is adjusted to suit her (as she will be driving). My

father walks out to the car, opens the driver’s door, checks that everything is as it should

be, then slams the door and walks back to the house. He tells my mother that the seat is

set as she hands him the thermos flask. My father walks back out to the car, opens the

passenger-side rear door and places the flask on the back seat between the picnic

basket and the door. He slams the door shut and walks back into the house. A few

moments later, my mother, now having her coat, scarf and walking stick with her, comes

out of the house with my father following. He opens the driver’s door for my mother and

helps her into the car. Once she is comfortable behind the wheel, he slams the door

shut, walks around the to other side of the car, opens the passenger door, climbs in and

slams the door shut. My mother asks my father if he remembered to lock the front door

as she did not see him do it. He opens the passenger door, climbs out, slams the door

shut, walks to the house, checks that the front door is locked, finds that it isn’t locked,

walks back to the car, opens the passenger door, leans in and collects his keys,

straightens up, slams the door shut, walks back to the house, locks the front door using

his key, walks back to the car, opens his door, climbs back in and slams the door shut.

My mother starts the car and they drive off.

A few minutes later, they return back into the driveway and stop. While the car is idling,

my father gets out of the car, slams the door shut, walks to the house, opens the front

door, disappears inside for a moment, returning with my mother's purse, closes the front

door to the house, locks it with his key, walks to the car, opens the passenger door, gets

in, and slams the door shut.

Finally they drive off.