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As I've been taking care of my little nephew and daughter this week, I'm reminded of our basic human nature. It's easy to spot in little ones. My nephew who is 13 months old, cries, screams even, for help at the drop of a hat. My almost 4-year-old, on the other hand, has learned a lot of self-reliance, which is wonderful, but frustrating. I suppose the striving helps her understand when to persevere and when to rely on help. Same here. Sometimes I just wish I could go back to my nephew's way of utter reliance - crying out because I'm certain my caretaker is there to help me. My little nephew just learned how to say, "up" when he wants to be held. Do we know how to say this?

This short poem today comes from the weary heart we all have sometimes, longing for our Savior's return. But I hope we make this cry a way of living every day, finding rest even as we're working, overcoming frustration and despair with hope! 

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Wrap us in your round arms.

Nest us in the palm of your sky.

Bundle the smallest of us in your heart.

Scoop us up beneath your wings and fly.

Let me live forever in your sanctuary, safe beneath the shelter of your wings!
Psalm 61:4

Come back to the place of safety,
    all you prisoners who still have hope!
I promise this very day
    that I will repay two blessings for each of your troubles.
Zechariah 9:12

 

Children's Rightful Place

Little children in their rightful place
never run out of time or space.
They never get tired
nor do they ever die,
they believe they can live forever
and pretend they can fly.

Anything could be outside their door -
they've never seen this land before,
but boldly they go,
trusting their sword,
and the invisible vessels
that they travel aboard.

They listen to stories
And believe them.
They close their eyes
and can see them.
They see open doors
and enter through them,
into unseen kingdoms
and live within them.


..."Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children.  I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.”
-Luke 18:16-17

The Fading Picture In The Frame

Is it yours?

Have you come to terms with the loss of yourself?

Have you realized that you must let it go?

So let go.

I’m still grieving, myself,

over my own dear loss,

my portrait upon the altar,

paling in the mirror,

lasting like a love affair.

So who is the fairest of them all,

my truest love,

the last name I’ll call?

I can’t find him in this fading frame,

And hope is lost in the echo of my own name.

He must be the one who isn’t dying,

not fading,

but waiting

upon the altar,

to give me his name,

and saying it the same,

“Your face is my face.

I will love you forever.

Let me stand in your place.”

For you died to this life, and your real life is hidden with Christ in God.
- Colossians 3:3

My Contribution, My Own Words

Thank you, Mr. Hyatt Moore, for your inspiration. Thank you for making your contribution. This excerpt from Mr. Moore's blog, Blank Slate, is a great and wonderful charge to all of us who have been hiding from our dreams in uncertainty and self-consciousness. So, taking the challenge presented, here is a piece of my contribution, my own words. I'm doing it for the one who created and sent me, my God and Father in Heaven. For Him, I will abandon myself, my world, and live unashamed and uncovered as one of his beloved children. So here (below) are some of my own words about this charge we've been given, like castaways sending off desperate little messages, carried quietly by nothing but the bottle and the faith they are secured in. Go with God.

From "Your Contribution" August 7th, 2014

"...What is it that you do, that only you can do?
Think about it.
We live not just for ourselves. Even if our work is done in a solitary way, in the end it’s for a wider world.
What is it you would do even if no one paid you for it . . . if no one asked you do to it?
In many ways it’s why we were born. Seeing our unique set of gifts as contribution gives us reason for being.
Another thing: I learned a long time ago that the one who sees a need most clearly is almost always the one to address it. Not the nebulous “they.” They will never see it. They will never do it. Not right.
Further: Making our unique contribution brings the best out in us. We abandon ourselves to whatever it is and have done with debilitating self-consciousness.
We contribute to a higher cause . . . even if for only one person. Even if for only a child.
So, here’s my challenge for you. Identify your life contribution. If that’s too big, make it just for today.
State who you’re doing it for.
Then get on with it.
The world will be better. And so will you."
- Hyatt Moore

::

Songs In Bottles

Would God ever allow us to foresee

those we might be singing to,

as we cork our songs into bottles at sea

to cross centuries far and blue?

Will we ever have the pleasure of meeting

those unknown who will know us?

Hear us they might, though our hearts have ceased beating

and our throats are silenced by dust.

But what a rare treat among the living and fleeting

that an era might find us together,

that a blind vessel might find a shore for keeping

through a short passage dotted in forever.

Would time ever find you imagining,

dear cast away beneath the stars,

that the love in your heart-sized melody

might ever travel so near or so far?

A Clean Conscience

I hate cleaning. Hate is a strong word, but it just seems to pour from my mouth easily when it comes to things I don't want to do. God knows this. I can only imagine that he hates cleaning, too, because he sees all of the dirt that no one else can ever see. I read this verse from 1 Peter 3 this morning and it brought to mind this poem. Forget the clean house— give me a clean heart, O God. (Psalm 51)

Christ suffered for our sins once for all time. He never sinned, but he died for sinners to bring you safely home to God. He suffered physical death, but he was raised to life in the Spirit. So he went and preached to the spirits in prison— those who disobeyed God long ago when God waited patiently while Noah was building his boat. Only eight people were saved from drowning in that terrible flood. And that water is a picture of baptism, which now saves you, not by removing dirt from your body, but as a response to God from a clean conscience. It is effective because of the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

1 Peter 3:18-21  New Living Translation

This Crowded Little House

I have no room to complain,
no room to judge.
In the crowded corners of this heart,
I have little room to budge.

Some days I want to free this little house,
mess it up with a deep flood,
overwhelm and dislodge,
every little thing with God's love.

Stepping out from the shadows...

Giving my poetry blog another try after almost a year of reflection. If you've ever started a blog, I'm sure you understand. It takes a lot of faith and optimism to keep anything going. Oh yeah, and determination. I was inspired by this article to step out there again, and Sue Donaldson, a beloved blogger. Thank you. I published a poetry book and I'm one of the few who have ever read it. So onward into the internet.

Americans Love Poetry, But Not Poetry Books, The Millions

I'll start again here with something short and sweet - about the way we can feel when realizing our place in the scope of time, history, the Bible even, and the internet. But please don't forget that God is good.

Among My Ancestors

Bury me, Lord, here among my ancestors,
lay me down like a page within your volumes,
write down my cries of life upon the silent paper,
then bind and shelve me here within our tombs.

The Breath of Windows

The bedroom curtains swell their long robes,

breathing deep breaths from their waking windows,

Whispering soft and wistful breezes,

of day and night and their fleeting secrets:

The life God placed beneath the shadows,

the conversations of birds and songs unknown,

the faithful silence of sunlight between,

hung in pale sheets among the flickering green,

then the graceful pace of dear nightfall,

lowering her veil and billowing shawl,

taking hand in a waltz unfurled so gently,

in seamless cloak and Heavenly timing.