High Note

Where is Beauty here?
I sense her lurking
Waiting to spring
Ready for a surprising
In the dark
How can she come from ashes?
Those pale memories of fire
Signs of expired
Light

Life.

Ah, Death, here you come again
Swagger in your step
Come to take breath

That you can't possess...
I bet it drives you mad.
But you come too early.
Hope died, not me,
And hope has a way
Of finding resurrection.
So walk on home
Head hung low
You'll get your turn
Don't worry
But Now didn't call you.

NOW!
Caught up by the wind,
A swirling wonder,
Ashes in a spinning crescendo.
Beauty sprang her trap.
She laughs and laughs
See?!

Some Randoms from the Past Few Months

The Rise of Hope

A sunrise is a second coming. Slowly, without fanfare, the sun noiselessly breathes away the dark. Black to deep purple to lavender; beauty has many faces. The subtle splendor surrounds, unobtrusive yet insistent, coaxing intent attention. The sunrise has something to reveal, not a secret, but an unfulfilled promise. Subtlety fades, sharpens. The beauty that encompassed withdraws, enticing; eyes can't help but follow. There is something, someone to come. A lover. Beauty is not the lover, but another to whom she points. Color and clarity intensify and centralize. The heart swells, anticipating an arrival. Who is this lover? Who is this lover? Tell me, who is this lover? And before tension reaches despair, an answer...

The Heart as a House

The heart is a house into which we welcome Christ as guest. It is my house, but the desire is that it would become Christ's residence as well, our house.

This house has many rooms and, at first, Christ is barred access to them all. In fact, the very first task is to open the front door to Him, to grant Him entrance. Upon His entrance, we may desire to open all doors to Him at once, but we must resist this temptation. We must open to Him only the door He wants opened, but we must be ready to open whatever door He chooses.

Everyday Stranger

The distance between you and me is not one of geography, but of hearts. It is as if You are the familiar face on the sidewalk, in the coffeeshop, in the mirror; I see You everywhere, but I don't really know You. You're the everyday stranger, the One to whom my heart's inclined, and the One whom I have left behind. How can this be? How can I look at You and then turn away? Maybe it's because you don't seduce, don't lure me by removing Your glory-muting veil. Rather, You woo. You are the Lover who desires the Beloved to freely choose, awaiting the focused gaze to which You can reveal the face that You have kept hidden in patient delight. If only I would let my deepest desire control my roving eyes...will I?

The Mind as Garden

The mind is fertile soil, and just as soil will nourish whatever is planted there, so will the mind. The mind is not discerning in this respect. If seeds of avarice or anger or lust are planted therein, the mind will nourish these seeds and they will grow. We must pay careful attention to the thoughts that arise in us. The devil will throw his seeds out, but it is us who plant them. If we turn away from them, refuse to pay attention to them or dwell on them, the Spirit of God will blow like the mighty wind He is and whisk them away. Conversely, God will also lay out seeds for us, but again, we must upend the soil and plant them. We must be quick about this, too, for the devil is a raven that will descend and carry away the good seed that God has given us to plant. We can be thankful that God created us as naturally oriented towards growth, but we must understand that this capacity for growth is neutral and therefore we must be attentive gardeners of our minds. A garden left to its own devices is soon consumed by weeds.

A Response to Ms. Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain,
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
-Emily Dickinson

A Response to Ms. Dickinson

Yet what results
If in this I fail
And death descends with murky veil
Before I can complete one task?
Then Father, Savior, Friend I ask,
Have I lived in vain?

Or is there something deeper still,
The inner quaking of
Desire waking,
The rousing of a slumb'ring heart,
A warm intention but frozen start,
That deems life not in vain?

But if in me all hope has died
And bitterness all tears has dried,
All beauty marred
And joy obscured,
Tomorrows only days endured,
Is this then life in vain?

Then to doubt, a soft reply:
"Createdness is the loving gift
That guarantees life lived in thrift
Is not life lived in vanity.
For though good deeds are life's rich fruit
And evidence of love pursued,
This is not where life's worth is found.
I Am the source, value's ground.
Fear not, then, and lift your eyes.
You cannot live in vain."

To the Lifter of Heads

I am broken, weary, and weak. When I say I'm broken, I don't mean it in that sought after sense given to it by catchword Christianity, but I mean I am broken like a bone. When I say I am weary, it is not the weariness of a good day's work or a good day's hike or a good day, but the weariness born of the failed but repeated attempts to bear myself or to bear myself up. When I say I'm weak, I don't mean a Pauline weakness that allows for God's strength, but a weakness that is too weak to be weak. I am bankrupt. Every word I speak is contaminated with the plague in my soul, infecting everyone it touches. Every thought I think is a disguise that hides a deeper ugliness. Every cry is one of pain from a shattered heart, a tormented mind, a lonely soul, and a sapped strength. I dig my fingers into the walls of the pit, I try to climb out, but the earth crumbles in my hands. I hear of restoration and laugh with derision. I hear of truth and wonder what is its point. I hear of God and can only hang my head. I hear of myself and despair. But I hear of Christ and still, still I hope.