My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

On Weather and Joy

A gloomy day, all gray and drizzle
filled with drama and distraction,
is deficient, too, devoid of power
to persuade away
the sunshine of an inward smile,
subconscious nod to hope, relentless trust
that weather will not make one molecule
of diff'rence when a person is determined
to find joy,
that neither weather nor those folks
determined with each word and action
to play pirate, steal it, undermine
with impure jealousy of anyone
who has the nerve to simply
be, and further, to be happy when the opposite
is true of them and they prefer
(proverbially) some company.
It will not work. The weather, overcast and
raining will not last beyond another day or two.
The people God allows to hang around,
despite their frowning and complaining
won't be there forever, either. We'll
move on or they will, and that thought
alone is like a sunbeam to the weary soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016