Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Mirror

as through a glass darkly
meant a window to my child’s eyes,
probably at night, or perhaps it
was the frown our mothers told
us God might make permanent
so we’d better cut it out,
that dark look we got sent
to our rooms for, but when
mirror was finally identified,
like looking glass someone explained,
I understood face to face
only was that God’s face
lurking behind mine as I peered
at the medicine chest in the morning
or would we have eyes
at all if we made it to heaven,
drowning like moths in a sea of light.



Music

Sound alternatives

Everything In Between
Self-released, Christian rock
Danny Oertli
Balancing all-American rock with ballads, Danny Oertli is a Christian musician with a difference. When he sings "Thank You, Jesus, for keeping hope alive" on "Mommy Paints the Sky," he know what he's singing about—the song is inspired by the death of his high-school sweetheart, who had become his wife. In the same album, Oertli proves he can rock in "Fight for Me" (with its dirty Wurlitzer electric piano) and in the breathless, pulsing "Nothing."
Film

Family fallout

For old-school cinephiles who bemoan the demise of the classical European art film, rife with misplaced passion and rampant guilt, a familiar name has come to the rescue.
Poetry

Autumnal diary

For just this day I thank you, Lord—this day
when in a new and lonely empty place
appeared a friend with whom I could retrace
through forty years an undeserved array
of other moments shared, and so survey
as back across a pathless hillside face
a hidden net of tangled trails where grace
had always, always canopied the way.
The bits of furniture he left behind
will be of course in constant, welcome use
but they will also serve as types that bind
with unseen ligaments of love my loose
days here to many others far apart
in space and time but very near in heart.
Poetry

Lot’s daughters

Genesis 19

I

At first—a leering mob circling
the house, jeering, dancing naked,
taunting the guests with their sex—
the daughters thought their father brave
to step outside, lock the door behind him,
stretch his arms out in protection.

But then, even he offered them up,
a sacrifice to protect strangers.
Their father. The only
“righteous man” in a city destined for flames,
“Do with them what you like.
But don’t do anything to these men.”

Then their eyes were like Isaac’s
below the knife,
the ram not yet in the bush,
the blade gleaming.

II

What dread dug in the daughters’
betrayed hearts before the rioters,
struck blind, stumbled, fell down,
unable to find the door,
Lot tugged back safely to the house?

And later,
when they left that life behind,
eyes straight toward Zoar,
did they hear their mother turning,
her stories sliced off mid-sentence?

What kept their gaze fixed?
Their father’s almost-sacrifice
or the intervention?