midsummer poetry

a story, a friend, and a poem that have all made me brave

sunrise in ocean park, wa with a cup of tea—i’m sitting on the top of a grassy dune and wanted to remember what it felt like to feel quiet

I tried to write an intro for this poem three different times. Friends, it wasn’t happening. So instead I’ll tell you why I’m sharing it.

A couple of years back I went on a women’s retreat to the WA coast in October with a small group of women from our church. Some of us knew each other well, others were quite new, but all of us were seeking respite and the comfort of female friendship.

Our weekend was fairly unstructured. There was morning and evening prayer, and one day featured a guided lectio divina, but mainly there was room for napping, walks on the beach, feeding our creative endeavors, and having time to simply be. I still think about that weekend and the quiet I found in the unstructured days, listening to the beach and the sound of women laughing with one another over warm meals.

In an effort to pour into myself, I brought my laptop and notebooks and planned on working on my poetry. I had one poem in particular that was close to my heart that I felt like needed work. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was missing, and I wanted to use that weekend to figure it out.

During a walk down to the beach, I was talking to a fairly new friend about writing. We had had been sharing what passions God had stirred up in us and how we felt like life was constantly pushing them out of our hands and telling us to stay in our lane as wives and mothers. I was hesitant to call myself a writer (even moreso a poet) but with my friend Jane, I felt much more relaxed in sharing with her my draw towards the written word.

In walking with Jane, she gave me something I rarely feel with people—safety. Talking to her was a lot like praying in that whatever I said, I knew would stay between the two of us, and that she was intently listening to my words in order to know my heart.

It was then that I knew what my poem needed. It needed to be shared.

I asked her if I could read her the poem I had written about Sam’s recent evaluation for speech therapy. It was highly specific to me, but I thought she could at least give me thoughtful feedback and be a safe place for the words to fall.

After I read my poem, Jane covered her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

That’s my boy. You wrote about my boy.

I was speechless.
This poem that I had struggled with, that I had thought was specific to me and my family, had spoken to my friend about her family—her son. My circumstances weren’t that specific after all. In this moment, my words weren’t mine anymore—they were hers too. And they were for her.

Jane is one of the reasons I decided to start writing publicly. This space has been my personal act of obedience to God and rebellion against the voices in my head (and the real ones in my life) who have said I wasn’t enough.

So here’s the poem I swore I would never share. And here’s to my friend Jane (who’s name is not Jane). May we all listen to the words and encouragement of God when they speak to us through our friends.


Early Intervention

We sat in the floor
and one therapist pushed blocks
towards my son. She asked him
over-enunciated questions, waited,
scribbled responses on her clipboard.

The other sat, shuffled papers and asked
“Does he?—has he?—will he?” questions.
I fumbled through responses as these two
professionals measured and weighed my son’s silence.

I knew my answers could never be sufficient.
My sweet boy sat amused by these
strangers, their toys, their charts and graphs.
He sat before them in god-like glory
Not understanding these toys were a courtroom game.

My empty answers gave way to heavy
accusations—but how could I tell them?

“He was born from a clamshell!
Spun out of the sea and washed ashore
Perfect. The tide brought him to me
after a tempest and he was incandescent,
radiant—a miracle profound. His laughter
will erase five years from your life and his
hands will pull cancer from your soul.
I am blessed amongst women to hold
his face in my hands!”

But there is no measure for infinite divinity in children;
only milestones.

Always,
Emily

P.S. For those wondering, the gulf coast is for the joyful, the Atlantic coast for the meditative, and the Pacific coast for the weary and wounded. I stand by this. Travel accordingly.