I wrote the blog-post embedded below for some friends at the Do Justice blog in the Christian Reformed Church in North America. It talks about theologies of disability and peace-making. I hope you like it!
war
“Wholeness.”
I was coming back from the poutine place this evening, when I had the following conversation (edited lightly for clarity)…
He: “You weren’t injured in the field, by any chance?”
I: “No.” Beat. “I have spastic cerebral palsy…”
He: “Oh, I totally understand! If I were 100%, I could help you.”
I *grinning*: “I don’t need your help, but thank you.”
A few minutes later, I sat down, listened to R.E.M., and wrote this.
—
Wholeness
My wounds are not from theatres of war,
From blood and shrapnel tearing through the night;
The pains I feel come from my ancient core,
From leftward limbs more stable than my right.
My back aches, and I feel the hollowness,
The aching gaps, that span my scoured soul.
My arm will twitch. Its spasms will confess
The tremors that sheer will cannot control…
And yet, in constant movement, I still live
To sing the song that’s sitting within me;
Sometimes, my weakness shames me, but I give
Stark, vivid proofs of great Eternity.
My lengthy, dusty mirror helps me see
That I am whole, even with holes in me.
“Orcas Break Up Yachts.”
I wrote this one last week, because of the orcas who were breaking up yachts in the Straits of Gibraltar. Much like that strange episode, it kinda snowballed from there. I hope you like it. 
—Orcas Break Up YachtsThe water gives me words that help explainThis longing that I feel for human touch,For skin on waiting, wanting, nut-brown skin.Conflicting feelings and Confederate flagsConvey the concerns of con-men and convoys.The past may yet repeat itself, again.The past may not yet infringe upon our joys,In all their rainbows-on-a-crosswalk hues,But we were schooled in Petty’s stubbornness.We won’t back down before Hell’s leaden gates,And laugh when we see orcas break up yachts,And laugh to see Satan fall like lightningPast all the Georgian rivers full of bass.Tonight, the horrid haze and heat may yetHarness all our long-lost hatreds; in the swampsOf symbiotic souls, we may yet swim.We cannot live without each other, yetWe spurn each other’s hearts and fight like fishIn Vietnam or in Cambodia.We project alpha insincerity,And complement our betta fighting skillsWith gamma rays of generosity.Indeed, we are not artists; no, not now.We splash our vivid paints upon the sheet,And leave the Rothko red and Pollock puceFor masters in their old Dutch hospitals.Our crass collected capital createsOur every work of “art” as cubist mess.See, here’s the burning framework of Kharkiv,And there’s a still-life I call Homs at Night,With rust and rubble where the streets should be;And there’s that recent wrecked submersible.Perhaps the gathered heat just makes us crazed;It pushes us beyond our stark routinesAnd irritates us into violence.Perhaps Dave Gilmour did once get it right,And all we need are islands in starlight,With playful orcas nudging us through night.
—Orcas Break Up YachtsThe water gives me words that help explainThis longing that I feel for human touch,For skin on waiting, wanting, nut-brown skin.Conflicting feelings and Confederate flagsConvey the concerns of con-men and convoys.The past may yet repeat itself, again.The past may not yet infringe upon our joys,In all their rainbows-on-a-crosswalk hues,But we were schooled in Petty’s stubbornness.We won’t back down before Hell’s leaden gates,And laugh when we see orcas break up yachts,And laugh to see Satan fall like lightningPast all the Georgian rivers full of bass.Tonight, the horrid haze and heat may yetHarness all our long-lost hatreds; in the swampsOf symbiotic souls, we may yet swim.We cannot live without each other, yetWe spurn each other’s hearts and fight like fishIn Vietnam or in Cambodia.We project alpha insincerity,And complement our betta fighting skillsWith gamma rays of generosity.Indeed, we are not artists; no, not now.We splash our vivid paints upon the sheet,And leave the Rothko red and Pollock puceFor masters in their old Dutch hospitals.Our crass collected capital createsOur every work of “art” as cubist mess.See, here’s the burning framework of Kharkiv,And there’s a still-life I call Homs at Night,With rust and rubble where the streets should be;And there’s that recent wrecked submersible.Perhaps the gathered heat just makes us crazed;It pushes us beyond our stark routinesAnd irritates us into violence.Perhaps Dave Gilmour did once get it right,And all we need are islands in starlight,With playful orcas nudging us through night.
A Thoroughfare For All Thoughts 