I am not the Tree

If I were God, sometimes I’d perch in a tree and preen. I’d listen to stories from squirrels and songs from the wind, and I’d watch everything. I could seek the warmth or shun it as I pleased, venturing out on limbs or curling against the tree’s bosom to bask in shade. I could count stars, and I could count the hairs on the head of the girl standing at the base of the tree, studying the distance between the highest reach of her arm and the lowest hanging branch.

I am not God, but I seek God in trees and birds. I fold the page in my book, and close it. I leave it among the roots for safe-keeping, and I jump, brushing my fingertips against the lowest branch. The bark scrapes against my fingertips, but I don’t mind. Sometimes layers need to be scraped away before we can feel. I can get into the tree if I jump high enough, if I am strong enough. I jump again, arms outstretched, and the wind caresses my ears.

“My dear child, you need not leap and struggle to reach me, for I am here.”

The voice is on the wind, in the trees, from the clouds, in the earth. It is deep, and it is gentle, and there is music in it. I drop my arms. I study the flicker of wings among the branches and how light breaks through the gaps in the leaves. “I imagined I could meet you in the tree,” I say. “And if you were not there, I could see from above.”

A laugh arises in a sudden intensifying of the gentle breeze, rustling flowers and branches and birdsong. The laugh is kind, indulgent.  “You may meet me in the tree, for I do reside there.” 

The branch moves, reaching for me. I can grab it without straining before it stills. I remember the tricks I did on the monkey bars before I had the good sense to be afraid; up into the branch I swing. Wind plays in my hair long after I steady myself on the sturdy limb. I swing my legs, and I laugh.

“I am not the tree, but I am here.” The voice is smiling, and it comes from everywhere without deafening. Because this tree is old, its trunk is thick and round, and its branches are strong. I lean against the trunk, and curl my legs close, gripping a branch above me. I look down, and I am higher than I was but I am not afraid.

“I have lived on this earth since first I breathed it to life. Many creatures take shelter in my branches, my leaves, my shade. The lovely sun shines and in turn, I breathe. I give life. My roots spread deep, into the dark and wet earth, and I withstand tempests. I create. I grow. I sustain. I protect.”

I trace the branch I sit on with my scraped finger, following a trail of shoots and leaves. “You are like the tree.”

“Yes, my child, I am like the tree.”

“I am not a child anymore, but I still long to climb. Sometimes I cannot reach. Sometimes I feel silly. But always I wish I could sit here and be with you.”

Leaves rustle. “I am with you always. There is nowhere you may be apart from me or my love for you.”

I smile. I know this, but to hear it is a different thing. I laugh, because it feels like just the right response. “I know you are not only in the tree. I know this. You do not live only in the tree in the same way you do not reside behind the veil of the holy of holies. You are not contained within the ark, or the pillar of cloud, or the burning bush. You are moving and staying in all places. You are like the wind.” As I say it, the breeze tickles my cheek. The day is warm, and the brush of air delights me. From my branch I can see across the lands. I can see houses and people milling among them. I can see cities on hills, and forests lining the mountains on the horizon. I can see the reflection of my legs dangling in the clear waters below. I can see the smiles and hear the timbre of voices passing among the people, and everything I see and hear and feel is lovely.

“I hovered over the waters in the beginning. I breathed life into the first human. I danced in tongues of flames over the believers at Pentecost and I alighted on the Chosen One as a dove. I part seas and whisper in children’s ears and inspire poets. I am present in stillness, present in movement. When I move, you can see. You can hear. I am. I comfort and listen. I speak and move. I am like the wind.”

Despite the tree supporting me, and the wind caressing me. I sense that I am missing something. I know I cannot hope to see all of God, but yet I have not glimpsed one of God’s truest images today.

“You are like the tree, and like the wind. But these you did not make in your image.”

“No child. Come down from the sky. Come to the water. I will show you.”

The ground is close, like it should be. I hang for a moment, then let myself drop. I feel the breeze swirly around me as I approach the water. When my toes are close, everything stills. The water becomes glass, and I can trace the outline of my tree in the reflection.

“Look into the water, child.”

An image of a man appears, a gentle-faced, sharp-eyed man with olive skin and calloused hands. I smile. I have never seen him but I recognize him immediately for he has been my friend and guide since I was a child. There is love in his eyes and in my heart.

“Yes. Jesus. They call him Your son, the Word, the perfect picture of you within a person. I know his face though I’ve never seen it.”

“You are right to know he is a part of me. I love him. I am within him. I sent him to bring the good news.”

“Then I have seen as much of you as I can today, have I not?”

The response is a laugh again, but this one is sadder, softer. I can see the limbs of my tree droop in the reflection. Even the face of Christ appears wistful for a moment.

“No, my child. I bade you to look into the water, and there you will see my image. Be still and look upon it.”

I feel confused, even afraid, but I look. The gentle and strong figure of Jesus shimmers as ripples cover the surface. But as time passes, the water stills again, and I am gazing into my own eyes.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. I can see the creases that form on my own brow. I want to use my finger to brush them away, but my hand is shaking. I don’t want to disturb the water.

“My dear one, I did not give the tree or the bird or the wind my own image. I gave it to you, child. Do you not see your own beauty? The spark of the divine dwells in your heart. Your eyes seek beauty and notice heartache. Your hands reach out to create, to embrace, to explore. Your arms cradle babies and climb trees. Your legs are strong, and they dance. Your ears hear the cries of your family and the laughter of your friends. Your emotions play on your face for all to see. Your feet carry you for miles, or hold you up for hours. Within your body pulses your life and the potential for more life. You are fearfully and wonderfully made, and you are my image. I reside inside you as I reside in the tree and on the breeze. When your lips form kind words, when your mind is open, when your heart is full of love or righteous indignation or curiosity, then Jesus dwells there for all to see.”

In the water, I can see my smile. The shimmering of the sun behind me puts light in my eyes, and plays on the surface of my tears. I wrap my arms around myself, close my eyes, and feel. I feel my heartbeat, the water swirling around my toes, and the sun warming the back of my neck. I feel wind in my hair, and the little sting from my scraped hands. I feel the thrill of being in the tree, and the longing I have to return home to the people I cherish. Yet, I am not alone.

“My image is within them, too, child, and all people. When you are ready, you must go from this place and help them find it. I will be with you, as I am always.

I linger, just long enough for a bird song. Then I open my eyes, smile at my reflection, and journey home.

A Long Walk on the Beach

There’s nothing like a long

walk on the beach to break your heart.

Personal ads and dating profiles

must have it wrong, or perhaps

those people have never walked the shore

alone.

Dusky sunlight still clings to the edge of sky

but darkness is heavier.

The sea is heavy too; I can hear it crashing

and it pulls me.

Sand crests just beyond the bridge,

and dunes swell like waves.

Everything looks and sounds

and smells like falling in love.

Sand dunes draw the tears first;

there we once sat, entangled in each other’s

sweaty arms while the photographer

tried to catch the sunlight playing

on my left hand.

The sunset has come and gone,

so only the barest light bleeds through

blue clouds. I keep my distance from the

sea, for there we used to dance and play

and cling to each other while the weight

of the world swirled around

our slippery bodies.

You are under that water, somewhere,

far beyond my reach. I resent the sea,

resent its memories and for keeping

you from me for a time. Every beautiful thing

is hated by someone, but I suppose I

don’t hate the sea.

I walk for a while, navigating the shifting sands

like an unsmiling toddler, unsteadily seeking.

I almost step into a sea of shells.

Unlike Moses, I put my sandals back on

and I sift through the shells with soft fingers,

looking for any whole and pretty.

I think of how we’ll use these shells

at the hospital, how I need ones without

holes so the water won’t drip out before

it baptizes a still, still baby.

Sifting through the shards seems sinful now,

and they sound like broken stained

glass when I disturb them.

What is this but a beautiful graveyard, where the

smallest ones are saddest?

I think of giving the shell to a weeping mother

after I baptize her child.

Here, something small and dead and beautiful;

I used it to pour God into your baby’s hair.

I continue walking, and the shells I’ve chosen

make a symphony in my pocket.

I wish I had your hand to take in mine,

to help me balance across the sands,

to steady me when impulse

propels me up onto the jetty of wood and stone.

You might have kept a hand at the small

of my back, or let me hold your hand as

I traversed the jagged rocks.

I navigate to the point of the jetty

and stand there, staring.  Listening. Breathing.

I’m at the edge of the world.

Here, I am a goddess, not a girl.

Every element pulses around me.

Water sings, swells, then slams against stone.

Rock shudders but withstands; sand whispers.

Wind battles my hair, so I take off my rubber

bracelet, the purple one that reads “Love knows no

distance”, and I trap my hair.

There is no fire, but the lights in the windows

glow orange. Houses shimmer like embers

against the night.

I am a girl, though. Not a goddess. I was the only

girl on Earth for a moment,  and you were somewhere

but I remember now--

I am just one girl, an insignificant shadow

balanced on the edge of the world.

I throw back one of the shells with a hole,

but when it smacks against the rocks,

I can’t bear to throw another.

Imperfect or not, they’re mine.

Walking back is even sadder

for darkness drank the last of  drops

of sun.

I pass the cemetery of shells again,

past the dunes standing guard on the path.

Perhaps they’d feel like guards of honor,

sabers drawn if you were walking with me.

I pass a tree with the most beautiful,

winding limbs and I think about how

wonderful it would be to climb in it,

how perfectly one branch kissed

the grass to grant access to children and

short, unemployed goddesses.

But I do not stop to play. I keep walking.
I bend, bearing the weight of unwritten words.

I seize the purple bracelet.

I wrap it back around my wrist.

My hair, at least, can be free.

Email 9

For Tom


There are moments when 3 am is close and I have just finished a story that matters, when I want desperately for someone to be awake to talk to, chat with, to see or touch. If you were here, if we were home together, you might be sleeping, snoring softly next to me, pressing your back to my body so that we touch. I would hold on to you, let you anchor me to this world when my mind is still in the other world, when my spirit has one foot in my body and one foot in the story. I imagine I would kiss your hair and bury my face in your neck so I could smell you and feel your pulse on my cheek. I would not try to wake you, but if you stirred, I would just whisper, "I love you," until you dreamed again. 

And even if sleep did not come for hours, like it sometimes does when my mind is in a story or remembering, I would hold you, listen to your breaths, and thank God for beauty, for stories, for finding my anam cara, my soul friend, my dearest love. Maybe I return to the story one day; maybe I write my own. But always I will reach for you, hold on to you, remember beauty and love, and then, I know that my world is even more beautiful than a story.

Open Letter to McAfee

April 29, 2014

An Open Letter to McAfee School of Theology.

To my dear community,

Four years ago, I was about to finish my undergraduate degrees in English and Education certain that I no longer wanted to be a high school teacher. Despite my enthusiasm for kids, love for my subject, and passion for learning, I realized that the call I had first felt as a young child was not imagined whimsy. It was the inescapable allure of God, calling me to devote my life to ministry.

Most days, I relished my three years as a high school teacher, but even as I accepted my first teaching position, I knew the next destination was seminary, and I longed for it. In my spare time, I read theology books like novels, devouring the pages in search of the resolution, the answers to the first questions, and I closed each book with few answers and more questions. (So, when I finally got to seminary, I was already used to it.)

I first visited McAfee in February of 2012, and my mind was made up by then. I visited Dr. Younger's worship class (not knowing I'd later become his student assistant). I talked with Barrett Owen for over an hour about what it means to be a woman and Baptist and in seminary. He was one of the first people to tell me that my call was legitimate and equal to his own. I asked Dr. Michelle Garber about degrees and classes before I enrolled. Over a year and a half, I corresponded with Libby Allen with question after question.

I came to the preview conference, battled a bout of nerves during my interview with Dean Culpepper, and sat in on Dr. Denise Massey's Pastoral Care class. (I regret that short visit would turn out to be my only chance to be in her class.) I enrolled with the excitement and fear that comes with new beginnings. I quit my teaching job at a great school and cried like a baby in the parking lot on my last day. I moved to Atlanta in the Fall of 2013 knowing that I was moving away from a comfortable and usually enjoyable career, away from my family, away from my new fiancee to chase the elusive hunch that there was more to my life, more to the world, and more to God.

Getting to McAfee was a long journey filled with tears and questions and blind leaps of what I hoped was faith. So, when in late fall of 2013—shortly before our wedding— I found out that the Navy was moving my fiancee across the country to Seattle, Washington, I was stunned. I vented my anger and confusion to my Spiritual Formation class. Why would God let me spend almost two years preparing to come to this place only to lead me away before I could get my name on the alumni list?

Because of Tom's transfer, we had to cancel our December wedding festivities and elope. We met our parents at the courthouse and promised to love each other, and I wondered what to do with my life.

I conferred with friends, family, professors. My story spread and students I barely knew stopped me in the hall to encourage me. Professors I never had the chance to study under found me to tell me I would be missed. They knew, though I was hesitant to verbalize it myself, that I would inevitably choose to go with Tom. Though Tom was warmly supportive of my seminary goals and would have supported me if I'd chosen to stay at McAfee, building a marriage on three years apart would be too difficult. My seminary journey continues with another new beginning in Seattle.

So now comes the time to say goodbye. I watched the graduate commissioning service with longing, wishing I could be there in two years with my cohort here, to hear your blessings, to sit through the laying on of hands and experience the initial awkwardness that turns to tears and laughter. But there are no ceremonies or certificates given to students who transfer away when life (dare I say, God?) leads them away. This year was sacred, precious, and I will leave a piece of my heart in these halls. So instead of a piece of paper, I take with me the abstract blessings you have given me, and I thank you for them.

I am grateful to Dr. Nash, for teaching us that the church must change and embrace and live in the margins of the world. I am grateful to Dr. Durso for teaching me that “Baptist” and “women” and “minister” were not mutually exclusive. I am grateful for Dr. Garber for encouraging us to challenge our embedded theologies with regard to the Hebrew scriptures and to quote Tolkien and Star Wars while doing it. I am grateful for Dr. Allen who showed me many mystical ways to engage with the Spirit and mystery of God. I am grateful for Dr. deClaisse-Walford who helped us explore the evolution of the Bible. I am grateful for Dr. Slater who taught me “goo-gobs” about how to be close to the Kingdom, and why Left Behind is wrong. I am grateful for Dr. Jones, who helped me experience Jesus through his parables. I am grateful for Dr. Younger who showed me that my call to write and my call to minister are not two separate callings.

To the professors I did not have the chance to learn from—the loss is mine. To my fellow seminarians—there are too many of you to thank by name, but know this: I am a better person for having known you. You trusted me with your spiritual autobiographies in Spiritual Formation, and you honored me with your sermons in Preaching. We laughed, we cried, we wondered where our faith went, and then we found a stronger one together. I feel your loss most strongly, and I implore you to keep in touch so I can witness your great light. The love and hope of Jesus, I know, will be your legacy, and I am honored to have shared in it for a year.

Keep loving God. Keep loving others. Live well, love always. My gratitude is yours, and the honor has been mine.

McAfee, lovers of God, I will not forget you.

Grace and peace,

Hillary Beasley Kimsey  

Easter Sunday

Open wide, bright sky, and let loose the light! 

Bloom, rich earth, hope is blossoming!

Shout, brother, run and see! Let your eyes renew your faith.

Gasp, sister, laugh! Your joy breathes again! 

Mercy prevails!

Boundaries crumble! 

Goodness overwhelms! 

Beauty saturates!

Sweet rescue! Love wins!

Look, world, and love--

cosmic, universal, intimate love above all--

Jesus is alive.

-Hillary B. Kimsey

Holy Saturday

Hover, grey sky, cover the light.

Still your quaking, earth, the fight is already lost.

Sit, brother, stay inside, for danger lurks beyond.

Come away, sister, close the window. There is nothing to see.

Justice fell.

Boundaries stood tall.

Evil won.

Beauty vanished.

No rescue. No victory.

Wander now, world, and weep for

Jesus of Nazareth is dead.

-Hillary B. Kimsey

Good Friday

Yes, sky, 

let your tears fall, for today darkness wins.

Shiver, damp earth, shudder, for today hope is buried.

Shout, brother, shake your first, for you were wrong to believe.

Weep, sister, wail, for joy breathes no more.

Injustice reigns,

Divisions stand,

Evil triumphs,

Beauty fades.

Watch, world, and weep for

Jesus of Nazareth is dead.

-Hillary B. Kimsey