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 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 Poetry, Word, Word, Truth, Life, Love, Writing

Word Before the Day

As I stumble upon morning, yet again, My throat parched,
My eyes cluttered with matter,
My heart half-awake –
I reach for your Word.
Well, first coffee; because…coffee
But always your Word.
And not out of habit.
Well, it IS my daily habit, but
That’s not my motivation.
No. My sweet, smiley,
Southern-belle-heart
Doesn’t always drink-in a
“Good” morning
So easily.
Whereas I don’t always
Feel “good” –
It is good.
Which is why your Word
Is necessary.
It brings life.

I’m 2 weeks into this
Quiet journey today,
Yet there are moments I,
Like the Israelites,
Prefer my “Egypt”-
Because
There is comfort in the familiar.

Truth-be-told
I’ve walked through this
Desert for 16 years and I, too
Have grumbled about
Mannah and quail.
But it has been my provision.
We’ve never missed a meal,
Nor had no roof over our heads.

But it’s time to cross over the Jordan.

My “Egypt” looked like
Men comforting me via text with
Hollow words that kept me
Wondering – and wandering.
My “Egypt” looked like
Words on a screen that
At first soothed, then
Scarred my heart.
My “Egypt” looked like
Delicious foods,
Pleasing to my mouth, yet
Horrible on my body.
Like spending too much,
Like being “liked” by strangers,
Like “I got this.”

But I don’t. Not really.
Not without my good, good Father.

When I awake at dawn
And find myself alone –
And find a message meant from
A concerned friend
Saying “you don’t have a husband because you don’t love God enough and you must have hidden sin.”

I want to shriek –
And block their number
And, like Job, finally stand and utter:
“Look, my eyes have seen all this; my ears have heard and understood it. Everything you know, I also know; I am not inferior to you. Yet I prefer to speak to the Almighty and argue my case before God. You use lies like plaster; you are all worthless healers. If only you would shut up and let that be your wisdom!” [Job 13:1‭-‬5 CSB]

This! This is why I reach for your Word.
Before work.
Before my daily wake-up greeting for Mr. Middle School.
Before my work inbox fills with requests.

And, like the Psalmist, I declare:
“If your instruction had not been my delight, I would have died in my affliction. I will never forget your precepts for you have given me life through them.”
[Psalm 119: 92]

More Word.
Less text. Less grumbling.
More Word.
Less “likes.” Less posting.
More Word.
Less judgment. Less hatred.
More Word.
Just more of your life-giving Word.

Posted in Poetry, Writing

Home

There’s something
In the air tonight
My thoughts are lost
Somewhere, mid-flight
And I can’t help myself,
It’s like
My thoughts are on their own.
The tremble of a restless sea
Tumbles ashore inside of me
My heart resounds
Relentlessly
I’m all alone tonight

Turned the pillow
To the cold side
I wonder if you do this too
There are so many things
I’d like to know.
Do you wake up every morning
At exactly the same minute?
Mine is 5:13,
And in case you didn’t know –
You always feel like home.

I always smile at take-off
When gravity pulls me down
I guess it must be something
About being off the ground
Something in my soul shifts
A calm that soothes my
Restlessness, but
When I wake up there
It’s never quite like home
So I love coming home

Turned the pillow
To the cold side
I wonder if you do this too
There are so many things
I’d like to know.
How do you like your coffee?
Black or French Vanilla?
Mine’s sweet with cream
And in case you didn’t know –
You always feel like home.