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 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.
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!
**********************************
“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
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.
We all like to think that standing for something big would not be too hard because in a part of our head and heart, we know that we really aren’t standing alone–
at least, really alone-alone.
And yet, there are times when the likeminded seem to fade away,
weary of the fight, fearful of being targeted, or just not as committed to the cause as they had thought;
and so, standing alone becomes real, necessary,
and painful.
And resolve is almost enough,
but not quite.
And stillness is almost peace,
but not quite.
Let my soul rest in You so that the chaos would not swallow me.
When I stand alone, let me see the armies of Jehovah surrounding me.
********************************
II Kings 6:17 “And Elisha prayed, ‘Open his eyes, Lord, so that he may see.’ Then the Lord opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.”
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
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.”
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.
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.
One day slips slowly by, minute by minute, filling up its hours.
One life slips slowly by, hour by hour, day by day, filling up its limits, bounded by health and will and intersection with others on this human path; and
the child’s mind is still there behind the lined skin, the greying strands, thinning. And
the insecure teen is still buried somewhere in those pieces of flesh and neuron, hiding
behind her guitar, trying
to convince the world she is worth something—
trying to convince herself.
And the wandering, wondering minstrel is there with her boundless creativity and her endless insecurity, all muddled into one mass of synapses firing
with the only thing giving weakness away, the red blush that fills her cheeks,
announcing to the world that she is floundering in this finding of her way.
And in a corner is the hesitant bride, sure and unsure,
all the same,
loving and yet not knowing how to love, hoping against hope that she gets it right.
And the mother and the teacher and the artisan and the Christian—jumbles of crisscrossed wires, confident, failing, falling and rising,
sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, now tucking it all in the folds of the grey.
In these slowing days, she can pull out a thread at will and feel what it was like. It’s gone, but not. Each memory has settled into its place.
And there should be a contented sigh to see it shuffled and settled; and yet,
when wisdom should frame it all,
when lessons learned should feel so sure,
she feels she is only beginning this journey.
How can it be that this weighty five pounds of flesh should still be wondering and wandering
after all this time?
Apronhead 