All These Things

All these things that decorate my home, things I have created with passion and energy, skill and sometimes surprising serendipity: They color my home with warmth and visual pleasure. They still bring me joy and satisfaction, remembering those phases of my artistic pursuits. But I have to wonder where they will end up after I am gone.

Stuffed in the back of some closet or under the bed with other guilt heirlooms.

A thrift store, a junk pile?

Will any of it matter? Does it even matter now? Really?

I have made pottery, quilts, soft sculpture dolls, painted folk art pieces, cross-stitch and needlepoint projects, crocheted rugs . . . and then there are the thousands of photographs and all those myriad words in novels, poems, and essays and published songs and recordings—pieces of my mind and heart, framed, spiral-bound, pressed in vinyl.

My treasures, another’s junk—at least, I fear it.

My kids have their own lives, their own accumulations, and I can’t imagine their cherishing my creations so much that they would add mine to their own clutter and displace their own treasures; so, what do I do with all this stuff? Or do I do nothing?

We raised our children to be independent and not be tied to their parents’ apron strings—to live their own lives. And they are. But until you are on the home stretch of your own life does it finally dawn on you that your collections, souvenirs of your pursuits and accomplishments, and even your thoughtful words become more and more worthless, risking becoming an albatross around the necks of those left behind.

I guess the pain of letting go chips at our desire—my desire—for significance. The “things” are evidence that I did something with my life that was important, even magical. That I was important. I contributed something to the world that benefited others. That inspired others. The knowledge that what I have done will turn to dust as my body will someday, is an important reminder of what is really important.

Really.

It is what I have lived for—at least, I have tried.

The eternal things.

I am not getting rid of my quilts, so don’t even ask. But when that final day comes, if the kids don’t want my stuff, and it ends up in a thrift store, I will be okay with that. Mainly because I won’t be here.

I have created in this life because my Father is a Creator.

I have sung in this life because my Father has filled me with ideas, music, and praise.

I have loved in this life, even ever so weakly, because my Father is love.

So, will it matter where all my things end up or that my name will live on in this world. No, it will only matter that I am His and Home.

Do You Speak?

The nudge becomes a press; is that You, Lord or my own need?

My own great idea?

The press becomes a push; do You speak, Lord to the fragile?

To the breathless?

The push becomes a leap; are You ready, Lord?

Flailing arms?

Beating heart?

Catch me as I obey!

To Dream

To grieve,

to stand in the surf,

to let the waves wash over, the sand recede, removing any feeling of solid,.

Dirty feet washed clean again.

To scream into the wind and be swallowed up–this time with joy.

A longing lost or buried so deep, almost forgotten–

prying fingers, frozen fears resurrect the small hope.

It is not too late to dream.

Run To

It’s like dead weight being dragged along behind,

hindering the Now that has its own trouble enough.

How to forgive. How to forget.

Must; and yet . . .

I think it’s finished, this letting go jazz; but then,

all that trash springs legs and comes running after.

Should it be done? Of course, but I just can’t un-remember what betrayal felt like, what the loss of friendship and trust felt like, what harsh criticism and a kick in the spiritual teeth felt like.

It is the darkening cloud above my head, the heaviness pressing on my chest; and I should be able to let it go, but there is a disconnect between

what I know is good for me and

what I can actually pull off.

And I am alone in it because it is me who nurses the grinding grudges, me who fans the embers to a flame ready to burn down my own house.

If I let it go—let the doers off the hook—it will be like admitting that my life did not matter, that evil can win and go on eviling as long and as wholeheartedly as it wants. And yet . . .

there is enough trouble for this one day, You say. So at least for this moment, this one thoughtful pause, I am letting it all go,

the plagued past, the harms and hurt.

I place it in Your scarred hands . . . and now I run to tomorrow!

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“So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Matthew 6:34 (NLB)

“Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.” I Peter 5:7

Another New Year

N ow is the time to take stock, to

E valuate choices made—to right

W rongs, to plan a way forward that

Y earns to see others needs as

E ven more important than the

A ll-consuming passions of the

Regenerated but repenting self.

Collector of Words

I am a collector of words, a hoarder of fractured phrases.

I scribble in the margins of my life words wild and wonderful that shout a divine “wow.”

Other words I grind down fine as they seep into my belly, lubricated by tears.

Waiting.

Some words roll off my tongue, like gold threads of morning light:

evanescent

breathless grace

forgiveness

Wave-walker

fellowship

freedom,

and Camelot days.

Other words stop at my teeth, choke the air right out of me, saved at the frayed edge of my life where tension lives:

savage

ugly

betrayal

myth madness

splintered hope

withering,

and nevermore.

My linguistic calisthenics and mad manipulation are not just a benign desire to create, but an insatiable desire to find the right label to organize this messy mind, this muddled life.

To form this twisting and turning earthbound into everliving everafters—

thoughts that matter,

truths that stand.  

And so:

unfailing faith

intimacy

willed reverence

wrecked heart

repentant soul

passion outpoured, and

open-chested praise.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart”

                (the inside and the outside of my mind’s mulling)

“be acceptable in Your sight,”

                (pleasing, lovely, thoughtful, and honest)

“O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

                (my Rescuer, my sustaining One, the Hearer of my wandering heart.)

Ps. 19:14

Betrayal

I have been thinking about betrayal lately—

the splintering of trust, the shattering of expectation.

You go along, accumulating pieces of relationship, of mission; and

you collect a colorful and varied panoply that looks like truth, feels like truth,

and maybe it is;

at least,

maybe it was.

But then, in what seems like an instant, doors close, walls rise, and

those you thought you knew, those who held your fragile trust,

look at you as if you are a stranger—the other,

those others that you talked about when you were once part of the group.  

The shared meal, the paths walked should feel no different than the kiss;

and yet, the faithlessness changes everything.

*********************

 Mark 11:25 (The Message)

“If you have anything against someone, forgive—only then will your heavenly Father be inclined to also wipe your slate clean of sins.”

The One Next Thing

No matter how long I have lived and how many lessons I’ve learned, it never fails that my desires betray my selfish heart,

my answered prayers run smack dab into my control and ambition;

and once again, I find the need to humble myself before God,

just do the one next thing He has put before me,

and leave my future in His careful, tender hands.

. . . For You

L onely . . . in this time  

O f increasing unbelief, looking frantically, hungering,

N ot for miracles, but for signposts that used to be so faith-clear, undisputed—

E ver-present testament, truth, surety,

L ooking for sanctuary, and I guess . . . just lonely for

Y ou.

***************

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you.

Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” 

~John 14:27

My House Is Haunted

My house is haunted.

I detect the wily ways she uses to move about, subtle but there,

unnerving.

My husband notices dishes that I have previously washed—meticulously, I might add—and they will have miniscule specks of baked on something or other. Not enough to be “dirty,” but just enough to be irritating.

She is saying, “I’m here; get used to it.”

Shoes I have put away appear in walkways so that I almost trip over them if I’m not careful. She sprinkles dust in the night. She leaves the light on in the garage, burning electricity, making me burning mad.

What is probably most disturbing is that every so often she appears in my mirror, her white, disheveled hair, her wrinkled brow,

those staring eyes.

I stare back; I glare back, but

I cannot be too irritated for too long because she does look familiar;

and she looks to have stories to tell; and yet,

she seems trapped, prowling around, haunting my house.