Letter from the FSJ – Tammy Iralu

A decade ago, my family experienced a cataclysmic event, which forever delineated a “before” and “after” in both our individual lives and in our life as a family. In a few words, a family friend betrayed us and betrayed our trust, causing a cascade of hurt which shattered our family to the core. As if we were living out a reverse fairy tale, our once happy family plunged into darkness. Facing this brokenness, I have felt despair, hopelessness, and fear. But with God’s help, I am journeying toward hope and love.

As I try to piece together the broken pieces, reading the Psalms and writing poetry offer help. The Psalms, for example, invite me to make sense of “the valley of the shadow of death.” Likewise, writing poetry helps me to engage with the challenge of finding purpose and joy in a fallen world. 

In writing poetry, my intention is not to write about betrayal or its aftermath. I tried that once, but in the words of a friend, the poems were “beautiful, but too terrible to read.” Instead, I want to take the brokenness of my life and stitch it back to reunite it with the light.

Brokenness teaches me that God is in all and works through all to bring healing and hope. Jesus’ scars do not prevent suffering but infuse suffering with compassion. Jesus’ scars reveal that Jesus is not primarily a philosopher or teacher but that he is human, like us. Even when the meaning of our suffering eludes us, we can offer it back to God.

In my work as a teacher, my scars help me to connect with my students. My students will face many challenges in the years ahead. Even as first graders, many have experienced the suffering that often accompanies poverty. McKinley County, New Mexico, where I live, borders the Navajo Nation, which was devastated by the pandemic. Despite the wounds of the pandemic, parents, grandparents, and guardians entrust me with their children’s education. It is my fervent prayer that my students will return their family’s love while acquiring the skills they need to live their lives to the full. Here, at the intersection of pain and hope, we find the place from which we all, like flowers, can turn toward the light.

My husband and I recently moved the dial on our “before” and “after” back to the year of our wedding. In doing so, we see the betrayal that shattered our family as a temporary, albeit very real, setback. In our journey toward Love, our sacrament of marriage mirrors the marriage of heaven and earth, the great longing of our soul for its eternal home in Christ. In that spirit, I share my poetry.

Taste and See

Turn your sorrow
into something beautiful.
Accept your loss
and multiply what’s left.
Take a lesson from the gardener:
Examine the broken branch
and graft onto it
a living branch.
Then wait for the strange,
new fruit.

All My Life

All my life I wanted to tend roses
But the wind ahead of the storm sent their petals flailing.

All my life I wanted to create light
But the wind on the heels of the sunset extinguished it.

All my life I wanted to create beauty
But ugliness raised its fist as stealthily as the undertow
And crushed everything my hand had touched.

All my life I wanted to share beauty with you
But now all I have left to give you is
All my life.

If Not

What is prayer if not
the tree in winter
before the budding,
the frozen river
before the crack of the thaw,
the egg in the incubator,
the child — nose pressed against
the window — waiting…
the still red coal awaiting
the poker’s stir,
the icicle longing
to melt and flow into the river,
the monk in his cell.

What is prayer if not
the horizon
before the rosy finger of dawn,
the still cold air on the banks of the Rio Grande
before the winging snow geese lift off,
that heaviness of breath
before the monsoon,
the hunger in the belly,
the dissonant chord — unresolved,
oh, the ache of it all,
the water not yet wine.

Tammy Iralu teaches first grade at Hózhó Academy in Gallup, New Mexico, and writes poetry for her blog:
www.terimuso.com.