Blog

Posted in Poetry, Writing

Nice and Slow

Lying here awake tonight
As the clock ticks off the time
Nice and slow
Nice and slow

Just outside of town
The 1 am train takes its bow
Its whistle blows
Its whistle blows

Can’t get you off my mind
The train, it’s right on time
But no one knows
But no one knows

You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home

I’ve run a needle through Patsy Cline,
Five or 7 times
And Norah Jones
And Norah Jones

It’s just begun to storm
I pull the covers over my arms
The lighting glows
The lighting glows

I just can’t tell my friends
The truth that shakes my bones
Because no one knows
Because no one knows

You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home
You’re not coming back home

Posted in healing, heartache, Letters, Life Lessons, Love, Poetry, Truth, waiting, Writing

Tear-stained Wisdom

You never really knew me until you sat across from me at coffee on a cloudy day and watched the rain fall from my eyes.

You never really understood me until you let me get past the catch in my throat that’s always there when I sit across from you.

It’s as I listen to your heart through your words that I can make sense of my own feelings, which is why I always pause and let silence stand between us for a long moment before I speak.

It’s when I make sense of my own feelings that I can process yours. Then I can give you the tear-stained wisdom that is chiseled in my soul.

I never really knew you until I sat across from you and realized that we can both as freely give as receive wisdom and love.

And I’d like to know you more.

And I’d like for you to know me more.

But texts don’t form tears, or capture the pitch when you really laugh out loud, or give a full picture of what’s inside a heart.

But it’s all we can do now.

And it’s going to be really hard to give my whole heart again to anyone else when it’s broken but still yours. But it’s going to be hard for anyone else to break my heart when it isn’t really whole because it’s still yours.

I can only let time and silence and steadfast prayer heal me.

Posted in Lyrics, Poetry

Everything in My Story

When I started life abandoned, you had plans for adopting me.

When I was beaten and assaulted, you had plans for my healing.

When I was homeless and addicted you had plans to turn my life back to you.

Now everything in my story – is all for your glory.

Now I’m living as a daughter, I’m adored and I am loved.

I provide healing for those assaulted, I point broken souls above.

Now I feed and clothe the homeless; and offer the addicted a taste – of your amazing grace.

Now everything in my story – is all for your glory.

Posted in healing, heartache, Life Lessons, Love, Uncategorized

Do You Want to Get Well?

When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?”

John 5:6 NIV

As I type on my dimly lit phone, I’m at the emergency room with my 11-year-old son. It’s almost midnight and we’ve been here for a few hours. Around 8:30 pm he came into my bedroom and said, “Mom, will you take me to the doctor? My head hurts too bad.” At 9 pm the urgent care center sent us to the ER to be tested for meningitis. (Thank God he doesn’t have that.) He also tested negative for strep, flu, and mono, but his white blood count is elevated.

But when we got back into a room at the ER, and they were about to start an IV, he absolutely panicked. Suddenly fear took over and he began to shake and hold his arm against his chest so the nurse couldn’t get the IV in. He sat up in the bed, buried his face in my chest, and sobbed.

I reasoned with him. Reminded him he’d had an IV years ago when he broke his arm and he was fine. Nothing I said made it any better.

Sometimes our minds are our worst enemies.

Finally I put my hand under his chin, tipped his face up to look at me, and said, “Son, do you want to get well?”

“Yes. My head hurts so bad. Please make it stop.” He sobbed. “This will make it stop?” I nodded.

Then he relaxed and allowed the nurse to give him an IV. In the end he said it wasn’t so bad.

An hour later, with headache meds coursing through his veins and his quiet snoring filling the room, it hit me – today I panicked just like this over something else.

I had been afraid of losing both someone and the dream of something and it caused me to sob and hold my heart in my chest where it couldn’t be touched and lash out at whomever said that letting go was the best thing for me. The fear of abandonment and loneliness and being unloved forever washed over me. I feared feeling unworthy and unlovable and useless and embarrassed and rejected and unwanted. The fear to me was just as real as the needle was to Gavin. Letting myself feel the sting of letting go that would ultimately heal me was just too scary in the moment.

It reminded me of when Jesus healed a man in the Bible, but first he asked the man, “Do you want to get well?”

Of course I want to get well. But just like my son, I have to get past the fear of the pain that will ultimately allow healing to flow through me.

Posted in Poetry

Courage

If her strength is born of discontent
When discontent be wed with tears
The kind she cries not of her eyes
But those her soul’s shed over years

If her courage opens up its eyes
When she is backed into a wall
The same one she so carefully built
So she could hide when she was small

If her hope springs fresh when Autumn’s leaves
Are trampled under newborn snow
The leaves – compost; the snow – the drink
That makes flowers – in Spring – to grow

If a mended heart is what it takes
To exit pain and join Life’s song
Then I can almost hear her singing
“I am hopeful, brave, and strong.”

-MA Fairchild (c) 2019

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Redemption

Tonight I allowed my heart
To envision myself
As a 6-year-old with dimples
With honey-blonde wisps
Spilling out of a
Bobby-pinned bun
With tattered ballet slippers
And a fresh recital bouquet.
Joyful, graceful feet
Pirouetting across the stage.
Grandma used to say
“Beauty is only skin deep –
Ugly goes to the bone.”
But she meant bitter, not ugly.
Bitter lives inside and eats a person up
Until callous actions flow out of a
Bitter, hard heart;
Whereas
Beauty bursts out through the
Kind of smile you can see
In someone’s eyes.
Beauty lives inside a heart
But can’t be contained, so it
Flutters out in
Thoughtful words and kind gestures.
That 6-year-old me was
Lovely, innocent,
Yet full of the kind of heartache
Cruelly gifted through careless words
She ought not to have overheard.
Words like
“She’s not really in our family,” and
“She’s not really my sister,” and
“She can’t play with us.”
Yet she breathed in better, not bitter.
She chose to be kind, not cruel.
But she learned she had to
Give something to be loved back.
Growing up this looked like giving
Toys and time and allowance.
But as a woman it looked like
Giving her innocence, her money,
Her dignity.
How much has she given over the years
To receive a zero return on investment?
But she’s learning.
She’s wiser now, yet lonely.
Lovelier than ever, but her
Broken heart still beats and longs
For someone to say,
“You are the best part of my life” and
“I’m glad you’re mine” and
“Come hang with us.”
To say all this without
Her having to give or be or do anything.
To have her own home, a husband,
A place where she feels seen and heard.
Tonight I allowed my heart
To envision myself
As a 44-year-old with dimples
With chocolate-frosted wisps
Spilling out of a
Messy bun –
Beautiful even without makeup.
And I reminded myself that
Beauty overflows from a
Tender heart that is broken, yet
Has abundant joy and love to give
To someone who will
Look past these
Hard-earned scars and see
A beautifully-mended heart.

Posted in Life Lessons

From the Inside, Out

Yesterday I did a rare and dangerous thing: I turned on the oven. My girls were both home from college and work and I was baking some of those flaky butter-tasting biscuits I had no business baking. You know – the ones from the refrigerated section by the rolls of iced cinnamon rolls and sugar cookie rolls that I pretend aren’t there in the store?! Those!

I kept checking on the biscuits and they were getting rather done on the outside, but the insides were as raw as if I’d just put them in there. So my 22-year-old, who is an amazing chef/baker, says:

“Uhm…Mom, you have to push the Bake button.”

“I DID push the Bake button.”

“No you didn’t. You pushed Convection Bake. See the difference? Convection Bake heats up the air around the biscuits and they get done on the outside, but stay raw in the middle. The other Bake cooks them evenly from the inside out.”

I changed the Bake setting and finished cooking some amazingly buttery, flaky biscuits. Silly Mom. Baking is for kids.

I have started seeing a new counselor lately. It’s hard to find someone who really understands you, ya know? She really gets me.

So yesterday afternoon we’re mid-counseling-session, going over some issue or another and she says something about how we spend a lot of time protecting ourselves from the outside – looking good, smiling, having the right cars and clothes and “toys,” – but we are raw and hurting on the inside.

We also discussed how people get so angry and bark, bark, bark at others for this or that or the other so that they look rugged and tough on the outside, all the while they are completely raw and hurting (and probably angry with something they’ve done themselves) on the inside.

I paused, then smiled.

“Like the biscuits.” I said out loud before I could stop myself. Then I told her the story.

I realized I am going to need to change my environment and slow down so that I am not “done” on the outside, yet raw on the inside.

After all, who wants a half-baked anything?