Friday, July 31, 2009

Words fly from my mind
To bury themselves deep in the page
But when the seeds spring forth
The fruit is abhorrent to my taste

I have plucked ten and five poems
Complete, root, stem, and branches
And have left no trace to ever be seen
My hideous children burning

But still my muse, the ever slavemaster
Continues to drown me with downpouring
Of words and thoughts and phrases
Though none will stick to the page

But run down in soggy lines of prose
And poetry, bred abominable bastards
Not to grace the eyes of humans ever
For the angels still weep too loudly

At the sight of the perversion
Of good and sound poetic feet
The tripping in this waltz
Curdles the cream within your bowels

And makes the world darker
And all this in a single night
The moon is a wicked cruel deceiver
To empower lover and monster equally
A word can be the cruelest thing
When spoken out of time and season
A word can break the strongest heart
And form a never healing lesion
A word can sway the steady mind
Its influence is great indeed
A word can plant a secret hope
And crush that very self same seed
A word can have more power than
You may know or care to admit
A word spoken in carelessness
Has influence spreading far from it
A word has power and a heavy burden
A millstone for its careless user
A word can change a dear friend
Into a cold and heartless abuser

Beware your thoughtless spoken words,
Consider your hearer with care
For closed eyes or hardened heart
To those you leave so bare
These bitter tears you now sow,
In the reaping time, beware!

Fall is the truest time
For when once all trees were green
Soon will some wither and others remain
What was once hidden will be seen
By the lake again
Wooden house with wide windows
We watch the mist roll
Across the still waters
While birds are silent

Glass hearts
Can hide no secrets
That's why we hid them
Exactly there
While the world looks in

Through these wide windows
Into the empty space
Between the glass panes
Into the quiet air
Between these two panes

The tinkle of crystal
Of glass hearts barely touching
While secretive whispers
Slip through the cracks
The icy sound of silence

Timelessness is so unattainable
We shiver at its very mention
For here in between the window panes
Time cannot breath this quiet air
Here we are safe

But no movement, all is frozen,
To shatter the silent pains
No words can be spoken
Or else we break the spell
And time will invade the sacred

Solid glass remains eternal
And movements remain unmoved
While echoes never spoken
Quiver in this empty air
Between the two glass panes

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

A message wrapped in white words
Placed in a bottle of lead
Thrown into the oceans of the world
Tied with anchors about its neck
Why do I even hope it reaches you?

A whisper spoken in the darkness
Of the deepest ocean cave
With roaring waves about it
And the crack of thunders above
Will you ever really hear it?

Perhaps an echo can pierce the veil
Cut through the night across the sea
Break upon the brilliant dawn on sparrowing
To sit upon your windowsill
But would you even notice it?

What would I say to get your attention?
Tell you I love you and can't and don't and won't and want to and shouldn't?
What can I do to make you see the words?
Trace all your tears and just hold you tight?
But would you even understand?

I can sing words and paint pictures
I can weave meanings and point at symbols
I can spell it out and break it down
I can build it up and scream it out loud
But how do you explain what you don't understand?

Words bend, meanings break, thoughts disintegrate
And all that is left are two people
Standing on opposite ends of a chasm
With the means of bridging that large gap
But should all gaps be made whole?

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Walking through fields of memories
Bright poppies of yesteryear
Reaching viridian tendrils, softly
Reaching with folding red lips
Whispering of long nights long passed
Whispering our secrets to the world
In this field of memories

Dancing breezes dressed in tufts of cotton
The dandelion seeds waft like snowflakes
Taking steps we took once, long ago
Dancing our dance in this field
Echoing laughter of our childhood
Captured long ago and stored forever
Kept in the dancing breeze

Shall we go to the old apple tree?
Gnarled bark knotted with a thousand love notes
To sit beneath the wide, spreading branched
In the speckled twilight of the shade
To breathe the scent of sun warmed apples
To hide between the twisting roots
Shall we go to the old apple tree?
Shall we go to the old apple tree
There in the field of our memory
And dance with the cotton wind?

Sunday, July 26, 2009

My Garden

My Garden

Today is a practice in reality. No, not in my normal, provocative rambles on debatable topics of uncertain resolvability. This is merely the fact. And maybe the greater facts that can be distilled and condensed from the facts. But enough of this rhetorical labyrinthine prelude. Let me welcome you to my garden.

The sun burns high in the powder blue sky. It’s not azure. It’s not even cornflower blue. It is powder blue, like the sun drained the usually wet-blue sky of all its precious moisture until it turned into a vacant, dry, blue powder. A blue desert, hot and uncomfortable just to look at. This powder blue sky stretches out thin across the sky until it disintegrates at the edges of the horizon in rippled layers of white that dance in the heat waves.

But most of that rippling horizon is obscured. It is obscured by a wall of deep, forest green leaves. A hedge. It stands thick and tall, circumnavigating this small world with its wide green arms, interwoven branches decked in their evergreen coats. Its top dips and rises like waves on the ocean, like the heads of mighty columns pushing through the green mantle. Inside hide spiders, lady bugs, small birds, and a family of squirrels. They call this place home.

I call this my space. My sanctuary. My garden. I found it, long forgotten and hidden behind its hedged wall. It was wild, with long golden grasses that rose as high as my chest. Birds and squirrels and all sorts of other animals made paths through its rippling waves; small tunnels that crisscrossed this golden world inside the hedge. This is how I found it. Overgrown. Forgotten. Ripe with potential.

It was like our lives, back in the dusty corridors of the past, when we would look over our landscape and see nothing but unmarked potential. Remember the days when you would look over your life and see roads and possibilities spiderwebbing away in all directions. Remember the time, when optimism unmarred by cruel reality blossomed and shot forth the green shoots of ideas in your mind. Remember those long forgotten dreams. What did you want to be when you grew up? Why?

I spent the next year working from early in the morning till sundown. I began by carving a simple path through the garden. It was fall and the long golden grasses were pressed down by the heavy October rains. The smell of the sweet earth and the wet grass and the red leaves of the small maple tree all washed by the rains was intoxicating. The path took several different turns through the decomposing soil, some unexpected. A few unforeseen bumps forced detours. A shallow running streambed caused me to stop until I could build a bridge. But eventually I reached a place where I was happy with the winding paths. We must all carve our paths too until we reach the place were we feel our work is complete.

And yet, my work had only begun. I spent that entire, cold winter, breaking up the hard clay soil which lay beneath. For years, the garden had remained untouched by any human hand, the wild grasses quickly outgrowing all other plants until they were all that was left. Their stalks grew high but their roots were shallow. I tore them up easily. But this meant that the ground had remained unbroken, and had hardened to clay. After pulling them all out, I was left with the daunting task of shoveling the cold, hard clay out, breaking it apart with my shovel, and then mixing it with compost. For days, it was the same repetition over and over. Dig out the hard places, break them apart, mix them with something better so they would not go back the same way. Its amazing what clay garden soil can teach us about the human heart.

While I was digging, I met my enemy. The blackberries. These wild brambles had been encroaching for years, moving slowly forward in their war with the golden grasses. But now that I had cleared the grasses, the blackberry roots that had lain dormant beneath the grass had their opportunity. They began sprouting in pathways, in beddings, in between planks on my bridge. They were everywhere. Once again I grabbed my shovel with my blistered hands and I went to work. Funny how just when you think you’ve beaten something bad, you can always find something worse just around the corner. It may seem like a bleak outlook on gardening (and life) but being aware of that very real potential gives us the power to take initiative action against it.

After I chopped back my first blackberry, I discovered their horrid roots. Buried deep in the hard clay where sunlight had not penetrated for perhaps centuries, they lay like red, shriveled snakes, long and twisting. I decided to act. I dug deeper. Pulled out more clay. I found them and pulled them up and threw them away. But the problem with things like blackberries are that they cannot simply be ignored or hidden away in some secret corner of the garden, otherwise they will find a way and they will break forth and they will spread everywhere. No, the only way to deal with blackberry roots are to pull all of them out from their hiding spots, hang them up in the sun where all can see them until they shrivel up and dry completely, and then burn them. The parallels with sin in our lives is striking. There really is only one effective way of dealing with it.

So I took care of the blackberries in the garden. I chopped back their bushes and pulled up their roots. I broke up the fallow ground and enriched it with compost. But because of the giant evergreen tree that towers over the entire garden, my soil was still too sour. I had done nothing to cause this. I did not plant the tree, but instead the tree had come with the garden and would always be there towering over it. As it stood there it dropped its pine needles all over the soil and sucked the nutrients right out of it. It was a continues process that there was no stopping. The only thing I could do was sprinkle something over my garden. Regularly. And that was something called Bloodmeal.

Now this may sound gross, but when livestock is slaughtered, the blood is collected and dried into a powder. This powder is used by farmers and gardeners to fix a nitrogen deficiency in the soil. Where there is no nitrogen there is no new, green, leafy growth. There is no life without the bloodmeal. And interestingly enough, because the tree continually sprinkles its needles on the garden I must continually cover it with bloodmeal in order for it to grow and prosper. I’ll leave you to connect the dots and analogies there.

So I worked the garden throughout the winter, breaking up clay and snow and ice. I could not allow my garden to become hard or cold during this time or all the beneficial insect and fungi and bacteria in the soil would die and I would have useless dirt. Again, very similar to the human heart, we must also continually work to prevent ourselves from growing too hard hearted or cold, or we loose the very things that give us life, and we become useless to others and to God.

Come spring I was excited. I ordered seeds. I ordered little plants. I got vegetables and fruit and herbs and flowers. I had planned everything perfectly and had placed enough effort into the garden to allow it to grow and prosper. I remember the warm spring day when I went out and with a quiver of excitement made the first hole in the cool, wet, black soil. The seeds were planted with purpose. I didn’t scatter them half-hazard or without intent. Every seed I planted was planted exactly where it was planted for very specific reasons. I planted the pumpkins away from the rest so they their vines would be able to grow where ever they wanted. I planted the lavender along a hillside so that its roots would never be wet or soggy. I planted the corn and the beans together, which thought odd sounding, caused the beans to have something to anchor to as their vines grew, and the corn which feeds heavy on nitrogen, had a plant that actually takes it from the air and places in the soil. The two were an odd couple, but I placed them together for a reason.

Then came the waiting. Few things in life, other than waiting for a bus at a bus stop, can teach you as much patience as those dreadfully slow two weeks. But nothing on earth can describe the amazing joy and hope you feel when you walk out into the garden on that early spring day and you see those bright green shoots barely breaking out of the cracked ground. The rewards that come with patience far outweigh the waiting. It is always worth it in the end.

I watched them grow, the straight grass like shoots of corn. The winding tendrils of the beans. The large, velvety soft leaves of the pumpkin and cucumber. The calendulas came up fast, and within a few short weeks they were blooming in large heads of orange, yellow, red, and bronze. They formed hedges of color around the beds, all the while acting as guards to deter common garden pests. They were only annuals, and so I knew they would die by the end of fall and never come back. But I grew to love them anyway, because no matter how many times I cut of the flower heads, they always kept pushing out more, usually bigger and brighter colored too. They were the epitome of optimism, and their optimism was contagious.

They did die at the end of the summer, and the next spring I was unable to find any more seeds. But that didn’t stop them. Unknown to me, they had sown their own seeds and even to this day, I will find them growing in out of the way corners and unexpected patches. They are like good friends, unexpected gifts you find in unexpected places. And just like good friends, many of whom we do part ways with throughout our lives, the season we have them for is a time to be enjoyed while they’re there, and a memory to be cherished when they’re gone.

Then came my harvest. It was amazing. To think that those small seeds could contain this much abundant life was incredible. Some of them had literally been so small that they were no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence, and yet they had grown into large bushes that still stand to this very day, covered in small, blue, cucumber flavored flowers. Some things did not have the results I expected. The corn was barely as big as my pinkie and was not nearly pollinated enough. But it was beautiful anyway, especially after it was dried and used that thanksgiving as decoration in the house. The pumpkin didn’t make anything but flowers, yet we found out that there are quite a few recipes for stuffed pumpkin blossom (surprisingly good!). In all things, I had done my part and I had harvested, even when the harvest hadn’t been what I expected. But as long as I had kept my mind open, there were a few happy surprises to be found.

That next winter I took care of the garden again, but life got busy and in the spring I did not have time to take care of my garden. I knew I should have gone and weeded it, but I procrastinated. Several months later, the sowing season was past and I finally made time to go to my garden. The beds were covered in weeds. The paths were overgrown with golden grass. The blackberries were back and had taken over the whole streambed. And I could no longer sow, and therefore would not have any harvest that year. Timing is so critical in all areas of life. If we aren’t conscious about our actions as well as their timing, we will miss the windows of opportunity.

So I went back to work, pulling the things out that didn’t belong there. I became obsessive about it. I stayed at a spot for hours pulling out every last weed, making sure not a root was missed. And while that was great, once more my timing was off. I had cleared the garden of all the weeds by winter, but then, the rains came and there was nothing at all left to anchor the nutrients in the ground. It all washed away. Make no mistake, the weeds did not belong there. But while pulling them out root and all was good, I should have cut the roots off and thrown the leaves and stalks back in the soil. Sometimes we want to purge life of all our mistakes. But mistakes serve a great purpose too. They help us retain the good things in life. They help us overcome destructive habits by tasting the consequences. The worst thing we can do is not make a mistake, but make a mistake and not learn anything from it. I learned from my mistake that winter, when I had to build retaining walls around my beds in order to keep the soil from washing away. What is the greatest mistake you have ever made? What do you blame yourself for, the most out of everything in your past? What did you learn from it? What are you still learning from it?

Throughout the years I have worked on and off on the garden. I have come to realize that it will never be finished. There will always be something to do, something to work on, something to plant or something to pluck up. And I’m okay with that. I have also come to realize that the garden can’t be built up in a single season or a single growth year. It is taking years of slowly working the soil, slowly beating down the paths, slowly pulling the weeds. This process is the fun of the garden. It is what makes it alive. I wouldn’t want it any other way. And as I continue on it, my original vision is changing. Where once a lonely bench would have sat, there is now a hedge of lavender, soon to be joined with a carpet of red, creeping thyme to sit on. The vision, like the garden, is ever changing, ever growing, ever expanding, never ending.

Today, I walked back into the garden. The sky is the powder blue I referred to before. The hedges chirp with cicadas and the giant evergreen tree ruffles with playing squirrels. This year I let the garden lie fallow, so that it could have time for the soil to recover. The beds are covered in red clover, bees buzzing lazily as they gather the sweet nectar. The golden grass has sprung up all around, laying low already under the burning sun. Queen Anne’s Lace, a weed that looks like a carrot plant with a long stalk and a white, lace-like head of tiny flowers is mixed in between the golden grass, wasp, white butterflies, and onyx black beetles flying from head to head. Large dandelion heads of feathery seeds are also seen throughout the field like setting, their delicate heads breaking in the wind, carrying the feather seeds on the breeze. Blackberries that have spilled over the streambed banks like a green river hold up sun warmed fruit, just ready to be picked by a bluejay, a squirrel, or me. I stand out here, and I simply breathe.

Did you know each one of those animals are breathing too? Did you know each one of those leaves on each on of those plants are breathing too? Did you know that the fungi in the soil that allows that giant evergreen tree to grow as high as it does by merging with its roots, breathes? Did you know that the ground itself is continually breathes? All of creation breathes in unison and in that way we are all very much alike. We all rely on the Ultimate Breath to sustain us. We are His garden, and He delights to see us bring forth good fruit. Why would we ever deny Him that?

Some people wonder what heaven will be like. I know that for me, heaven will be an untouched spot of ground, no ethereal city or celestial cloud bed. A place where I can dig deep without worry of stone or thistle or thorn or serpent. A place where I can sow blank white seeds and dream new flowers and fragrances and patterns and plants from them. A place where I can build the garden of my heart’s desire, and then take my Heavenly Father by the hand and guide Him through it and show Him every single detail, ever secret corner, that I made for Him. For me, heaven would be a garden.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The Old Physician

It started as any story, in a land far away. The sun shone bright, the birds sang sweet, and the girl met the boy. It was love at first sight, cupid’s arrows hit true. The two were hopelessly in love and thought the world could not get better. They pledged their hearts to one another, and promised ever to be faithful. The world was bright and sweet. Until.

Until the dream, the terrible dream. She dreamt it on a moonless night, when smoky clouds shrouded the stars. She dreamt that a fire raced through his veins, and consumed him both body and soul. Then she dreamt that time ran backwards while the flames receded in her eyes. She saw them draw back to a single spark, lodged deep within his chest. And she knew, she knew the spark started it all.

The next day they were walking in the tranquil woods, listening to bird song and loving each other’s presence, when he swooned, ever so slightly, and had to steady himself on a near tree branch. He assured her he was fine. He told her not to worry. He said that nothing was wrong, just a sudden dizziness. He got up and walked on and for the remainder of the day he was fine. But she knew better. She knew she had seen it. The spark. The spark that would consume him.

She looked to the wise ones and asked them about her dream and the spark, and after much consulting they agreed to perform the testings, to see if her predictions were true. They brought her beloved before them and gazed upon him. The signs were all there, the slight tremble in his hands, the distant look in his eyes, and even the strain in his voice. All confirmed that he had the disease.

She begged him to see the great physician, the one who could cure him. But her beloved insisted that he was perfectly fine and that the wise ones did not know what they were talking about. He refused to go see the physician and even grew angry at her when she asked him about it again. All the while, her she worried more and more, as her dream became more horrifying with each passing night.

Finally, she went in secret to the physician’s house. He welcomed her in, the old bent man with disheveled white hair. He walked slowly, fixing their tea, as he listened to her tale about her beloved. Then, as they sat down and drank tea, he explained to her that he did have a cure for the disease, and that he could give it to her right now. However, before he would give it her, he asked her an important question.

“What if he still insists that he is well? How will you respond?” asked the physician.

“I-I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t force him to take it, but, to have to watch the disease ravage his body…” she spoke sighing.

“Yes, I think I can help. Here” The old man said taking a white orb from his shelves, “This will aid you. If you can endure it. It will impart wisdom. Just place your hand on it and close your eyes.”

She placed her hand on the orb, and closed her eyes. Instantly, she felt a tremendous force pressing down on her, as if the whole weight of the world was upon her. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she was about to be crushed by the weight. Finally, she couldn’t take it any more. She knew she would die if she stayed there. She panicked. She opened her eyes and she ran.

She ran out of the old physician’s house and all the way back through the woods where she had first seen her beloved swoon. It was only when she got there that she felt the heaviness in her pocket. She pulled out the vial, with the neat directions printed on its label. “One drop a day will keep symptoms at bay, all drunk with ease with destroy the whole disease”.

She found him. She showed him the bottle. She begged him to drink and be made whole. But he insisted that he had talked to a different physician. A young physician, who told him that he needn’t worry at all. Her beloved insisted that he would not touch the contents of the vial. It was as the old physician had predicted.

For several days she tossed restlessly, wondering what she should do. In the end, her love for him won out, and she began secretly feeding the substance into his food. It smelled so foul that she could only add a single drop, thereby keeping his symptoms at bay while she tried to convince him to drink the rest.

But he never would. And eventually she ran out of the vial’s precious liquid. She returned to the house of the physicians but he and his whole house had vanished without a trace. Then came the agony. She saw the shaking hands get worse. She saw the distant stare get deeper. She saw his life begin to fade. The life of her beloved. And she had no more cure left.

She stayed by his bedside as he grew weaker and weaker, protesting to the last that he was not ill, that as he had gotten better before, he would get better this time also. She never had the heart to tell him that he only got better because of her secret ministrations. Finally, after an extended battle, in which both suffered tremendously, he gasped a rattled breathe and died.

She screamed in anguish, closing her eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she heard a gentle and familiar voice prodding her.

“Its alright, dear. Just open your eyes.”

She opened her eyes and found herself sitting in a familiar house, across from a familiar figure. It was the old physician. He was extending something towards her. A white orb. And her hand was on it. She remembered, looked up at a wall clock, and realized only a second had passed since she had closed her eyes. It had all been an illusion.

“Why?! Why did you do that!?!?” She yelled, jumping to her feet.

“To show you what would happen if you simply continued enabling your beloved to deny the truth of his situation. As much as it will pain you, you must allow him to see the symptoms of his illness. The real ones. The undeniable ones that will open his eyes to his condition.” The old physician explained, “Only then will he be willing to take the medicine and be cured of this disease. Do not let your love and compassion cause you to harm him and make him go through the torment you have just seen.”

She stood silently and nodded before uttering a whispered thanks and walking out the door with a haunted, vacant expression on her face, still trying to come to grips with the fact that the last month of her life had not truly happened. And as she walked towards the palace, she couldn’t help but shudder as she thought about the possibility. The very real possibility that what she was currently seeing was also just an illusion and the at any moment it would all vanish as she opened her eyes.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Why I am not interested in Christian Nonfiction like The Shack or Self Help Books

Why I am not interested in Christian NonFiction or Self Help Books

I am an intellectual person, in that research and study and reading and pondering and seeking out knowledge and wisdom has always been a deep part of who I am. Because of this, people have long thought that I would be interested in all kinds of books relating to intellectual discussion. These have ranged far and wide, from research papers to theological theses to philosophical allegories to self help books. However, time and time again, I have gotten books from people, have read only a small part, and never read them again.

Now, before I continue, if you are one of these people, please do not take this as some kind of angry rant. It’s not. I am thankful to have people in my life who take enough interest my own interests to wish to provide something entertaining and thought provoking or even spiritually uplifting for me. I also understand that often when someone is truly touched, moved, or encouraged by a book, they will be passionate about sharing that experience with others. So, please, understand that this does not come from bitterness towards people or hatred for self help books. This is merely me explaining my personal position, in order to A) answer a question for myself, B) provide meaningful and thought provoking discussion, and C) hear what your opinions are on this topic.

Of all these various kinds of books, the ones I get recommended and handed to me the most are Christian Self Help Books. Even as I write that, the laundry list that comes to mind is staggering. So many books that people have wanted me to read, many of which I have never even cracked the spine of. Why? What do I have against them?

Nothing. These books are fine. Most are reasonably well written, and cover topics which are most definitely relevant to me. So why do I not read them? Because there are two things that any Christian Self Help Book is trying to do. They are either out to convince you to think about life and issues the way they do, or they are there to help you better your own life, either your internal issues or your external relationships.

The first general type is then more theoretical, theological, and philosophical. The problem I have with this is simple: History teaches us that theology and theories have harmed the church more than anything else, marring the bride of Christ, and staining the reputation of the church and of Jesus even to our own day. What am I referring to?

Throughout history, from the very inception of the church, there have been people who have gained spiritual insight and revelation for their lives. But while they were passionate, they were also fools. They insisted that the revelation God gave them specifically, was meant for all, that any who did not agree with them must be false messengers from Satan. They approached life with such a dualistic viewpoint, and they and their followers acted from it. War after war, witch burning after witch burning, crusade after crusade, they desecrated the name of God by taking “Holy Wars” in his name. They were no better then the Muslims who bombed the Twin Towers on 9-11.

So excuse me if I am cautious about following people who claim to have special revelation. I understand that not all are like. In fact, I believe that a large majority of people who write books like these only have the readers’ best interest at heart. I am not saying that all Christian Self Help Books are out to get you to go on a Crusade. What I am saying is that many view their way of approaching or dealing with life as the ONLY way. And that is a dangerous mindset to have.

(Here I should probably add a sidenote that I am not saying that there are many ways to God…. but…. then again, there are many ways to God. In fact, each person has a very unique and special way to God that no other person will ever take. All these ways pass through the cross at some point or another, but they are not all the same way. If you really want to take what I say out of context, I will be giving you SO much opportunity that this will really be my one and only sidenote in my defense. If you have any issues or problems with what I say, please, feel free to voice them in the comments area. I love to hear other opinions because it either helps me come to a better conclusion or strengths the one I already have. Either way, it make me better, so please, let me know where I go wrong. :D )

Anyway, moving right along. The other reason I don’t read theologically or philosophically inclined books is quite elementary. If it’s basic theology, then its something I have probably heard a million times before in Christian school, sermons, chapels, and Max Lucado books. Why on earth would I want to subject myself to mind numbing repetitious phrasing of the same basic phrases and thoughts, ESPECIALLY IF I ALREADY AGREE WITH IT!!!! And, if its not basic theology, and its some kind of strange, out there, new way of looking at and approaching the world, I will begin to argue with the author as I read through it, mainly because the only reason books like it (aka The Shack) are written is to ignite people into arguing about issues. Personally, I find that when I argue about things, when I am aggressive in my pursuit of knowledge, I become closed minded to what other have to say, defensive about what I have to say (irregardless if it is right or not), and in general, my spirit becomes grieved. Why on earth would I want to subject myself to that type of situation? Life is complicated enough already and has enough trials that I do not need to go creating any more for myself. I will not seek out aggression, aggravation, or give myself over to be manipulated by any author. The moment I detect it, I put the book down and take a step back. If it keeps happening, I stop reading the book altogether. Usually, but not always.

That covers the fist type of book. The ones with special knowledge, revelation, or outlook on life that they want to force everyone else to except. Obviously, the Holy Spirit can use the book to speak to a person’s life and bring correction. But the Holy Spirit can also use a sunrise, a billboard on the side of the highway, a commercial for Comcast, or even (God forbid!) a Michael Jackson song. It’s not about the source material, its ALL about our ability to discern the voice of the Holy Spirit in our lives. If we have that, then we can be in the middle of the desert, a million miles away from any written word, and we will read God’s revelation for our lives upon creation itself.

Moving right along, there are the other types of self help books in the Christian community, and I have slightly just touched on them with that last paragraph. The other type is the ones who say that they have knowledge or wisdom to help you either internally work through your own issues inside your own life, or externally work on your issues with other people you encounter. These are actual self help books.

(Okay, I promise this is the last side note, but basically, just have to say, that when you look at the basic premise of these self help books (fix internal/external) you realize that you don’t need any book other than the Bible. In fact, you don’t even need the whole Bible. All you need is two short phrases. Love God with everything you have. Love people like you love yourself. If you can do that, you won’t have any problems internally or externally. And I doubt I have ever met anyone who had even mastered those two simple things.)

As I just pointed out previously, when you are sensitive to the Holy Spirit, then God will reveal the areas in your life that you need to adjust. The amazing thing about the presence of God is that as you drawn near to Him, He draws closer to you, even if you can’t feel it, and when He draws near, the mountains melt, the islands are moved, the heavens roar, and we are rightly put in our place. Or, as one Biblical writer put it, all our righteousness becomes like filthy rags.

When we are actively pursuing God, we will become aware of His presence. The more we are in His presence, the more we realize just how wrong and messed up we are. The more we realize what we are doing wrong, the more we can stop doing it, and begin to do what is right. But once again, this only comes if we are sensitive to the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit will warn us when we are about to enter into temptation. The Holy Spirit will plead with us as we are making the decision to sin or not to sin. The Holy Spirit will convict us afterwards when we have sinned and point out exactly where we went off the path. And the Holy Spirit will guide us back to the straight and narrow. All this, and SO MUCH MORE, He is willing and able and waiting to do, and is doing even right now, all we have to do is be able to hear him. All we have to do is listen. Really listen. And if it all happens so organically when we are drawing close to God why would we need a self help book?

But the opposite is true too. If I was not actively seeking God, why on earth would I ever read a Christian self help book? As a Christian, I knew very well when my life is not on track. If I’m not working to fix it, it means I am running away from it, like Jonah. I am aware of what I am doing. I am aware that I am making mistakes and that I am not right with God. And in that place, I know that a Christian self help book would only convict me back on the right track. So why would I read it if I am purposely trying not to think about God?

So if my relationship with God is good, there is no need for a Christian Self Help Book. If my relationship with God is bad, there is no way I would read it. Therefore, a Christian self help book serves no purpose in my life. Maybe it’s different for other people. I can understand and respect that. But for me, personally, I prefer not to drink rock filtered, fluoride added, flavored water. I would much rather drink deep from the sweet, fresh, pure source, untouched by the taint of human thought or emotion. I would rather get insight directly from the Holy Spirit, in a way that is specifically applicable for what I am personally going through at this exact moment in time. I would rather have the Holy Spirit’s constant prodding and direction in orchestrating my life every second of every day, than have a manual telling me what I already know, that I forget as soon as I close its back cover.

But as I said before, these are all simply my opinions and how I understand the world, both the physical and the spiritual, to work in regards to my own life and my own journey. Maybe you see things differently. Maybe you have experienced different results and different feelings. Please, share them. I won’t make fun of you. I won’t ridicule or insult you. I probably won’t even respond to your comment. But if you don’t voice how you feel, then there may be errors that go uncorrected in my life and the lives of those who read this. And if no one disagrees with me on anything then it means I must be perfect and have a perfect understanding of this, which I most definitely am and do not. So, how do you personally feel about Christian Self Help Books?

Sybilla Proxima

The seasons turn ever round
Summer is followed always by fall
The world turns without a sound
Ever changing, constant in all

The moon may wax and wane and die
The waves of the shore may come and go
But the cycle, nature's constant cry
Is unchanging in its circular flow

These days are like the days before
They feel the same as they once did
The nights we saw, we see once more
But their secrets now cannot be hid

The winds are changing in her heart
Once more the ripples upon the pool
And what was once a solid part
Will be shown to be the dream of a fool

He listens still to all the voices
And yet he heads only his own
Once more he'll make the same bad choices
This circle-path leading him all alone

Decisions now made at this crucial time
Will echo in the eternity's halls
The appointed cannot escape the rhyme
And one way or another will hear the babe's calls

The ancient things now rediscovered
Will bring life into these dark lives
But what will they do with the uncovered
Will fragile souls be able to survive?

Look to the eastern gate of the sunrise
Where the sky burns red with the dawn
For the day of destiny is marked with demise
And the fleeing of this young fawn.

Strong pillars of this house will crumble
The mightiest will all be brought low
Until only the foundations remain in the rubble
To begin anew, to let the trees grow

When the smoke of fires long kept hidden
Finally clears from off tomorrow's eyes
Then answer they the calls when bidden
This destined child's earliest cries

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Open Your Eyes

Sorrowful seekers in crimson snow
Where do the sky's tears run to?
When all the world was colored blue
and the earth shattered with your sighs

Glass is fragile when you walk upon
The sea that never ends its crashing
Raven feathers in her hair
Fell away with dawns burning light

When weaving tangled light chords
Wrap around your wrists, so warm
Can only that old crucifix
Break through these concrete shells

But run you did, yes run so fast
Across the universe of burning stars
So fast, so far, on this path to nowhere
Anywhere but there, where you saw your face

The crack broke clear across the sky
The burning light awoke your heart
The fingers tearing at your eyes
So that you might see once more

But then the light fell away
And once more you were wide awake
But yet you walked through the wide world
With eyes wide shut to everything

To passing angels on wings of bronze
To passing dreams from up above
To roads that led to brighter days
But you would not open your eyes.

But you will not open your eyes...

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Mysteries

When I was a young boy
And my feet made of clay
I remember meeting her
On that clear summer day

I was with my best friend
We had come for the band
They played my favorite song
When I saw her stand

Did you see her
Did you see her
Standing out of the crowd
Did you hear her
Did you hear her
Singing out loud
Can anyone tell me
Who is this girl I see?
Part the veil of this new found
Mystery

She sang like a siren
She looked like a venus
She shone as a beacon
Across the gulf between us

Her mind was taller
Her neck was strong
Her ways seemed higher
And her thoughts fell long

Did you see her
Did you see her
Standing out of the crowd
Did you hear her
Did you hear her
Unravel thoughts out loud
Can anyone tell me
Who is this girl I see?
Part the veil of this deepening
Mystery

But her heart was heavy
Too heavy for us to bare
She made herself noble
Because inside she was scared
Scared of trusting again
After tasting that hell
So instead she rose up
Locked deep in her shell

Did you see her
Did you see her
Looking so proud
Did you hear her
Did you hear her
Crying out loud
Can anyone tell me
Who is she really?
Does she even know
Her own mystery

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

Eh, personally didn't like how this one came out... I think its partially because I wrote the first half, knowing where I was going with it, then I went to sleep and woke up, thinking I would finish it real quick, only to realize I had forgotten where I was going with it... so yeah, turned out kinda blah in my opinion...

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Traveler

He gazed out upon the grey city. Giant monument to the works of man, it stood as a gleaming sore upon the banks of the brown river. Large windows gleamed lazily upon the slight white light that permeated the clouds above, seeping through them and finally touching upon the soot covered windowpanes. The city had a thousand chimneys billowing a thousand columns of black smoke into the white air above the grey buildings.

He turned his back upon the sight, and strode towards the waiting hansom. It was black as ebony, with neat little windows and a neat little driver, with a plump belly and a stove top hat which had seen better days. Outlined upon the windows and the door’s handle was the silver insignia of the couch company, two gleaming branches heavy with fruit, carried by a raven.

He entered the handsome and soon it set off. He traveled alone, as the city flew by, with its men and women in black clothes with white faces and grey eyes breathing the heavy air outside. The rushing brown river, the only source of color, flowed slowly and thickly as if burdened by its own silt. The city had been his home, for too long, and now he was departing. Now that he had discovered his next destination.

The hansom drove on till it reached the outskirts of the city. There where the trees, blackened with soot, were slowly creeping back into civilization, the hansom stopped to pick up another passenger. It was an elder gentleman, with long dropping eyes weighed down by longer drooping eyebrows of white. His figure shook, as he held the ashen white shawl around his shoulders, coughing and cursing as he was helped aboard. He too was going to the station.

“Well, now, young man. Who exactly are you and what are you about? Hmm!” He demanded gruffly.

“I am who I claim to be and I do what I am told.” The man answered looking towards the forest that suddenly sprung up on either side of the hansom as it had begun to move.

“Heh! What a pup! Fine, if it’s philosophical banter you want, you shall have it! I am the voice of prudence and wisdom, experience gained through years of bitter toil. I am come to lend sanity and reality to your dreamy existence.” The old gentleman said, taking out a long ivory pipe, shaped as a bull and lighting it.

“I see. Well then, Wisdom, you may call me Youth, or Ideal, or Hope if you like. Either way, I am your antagonist and your polar opposite. I see potential in all the world and all within it. There is still so much left to be done.” He said smiling.

“Ah, but you are mistaken in that. We are not so different after all. I too see potential throughout all of creation… but I see the true potential, the potential for harm! The dangers that lurk out there in the world, boy, are exponentially greater than the few happenchance’s of happiness. Why, look at this hansom we share, it has much more potential for some kind of disaster to take place. Yet, the only thing that it can do that is not a dangerous potential is merely an uneventful ride.” The old gentleman said, drawing deeply from the pipe, making small embers glow in the hollow of its bowl.

“But what are the odds of any of those disasters truly happening to our couch particularly?” He countered, once more gazing upon the trees, “And even if, as you say, reaching out destination is the only good that can come of it, is that not the greatest good we could hope for? Reaching our destiny?”

“Destiny? What does a child know of destiny? A single raindrop is destined to reach the ocean, but it cannot comprehend its vastness, nor can it begin to understand the deep things hidden within its dark aquamarine folds. No, you have no idea of destiny, young man.” The old gentleman said gruffly before pulling at his pipe and releasing a thick cloud of scented white smoke into the interior of the dimly lit hansom.

“Well, that may be true, but look, it is as I said, we are here, and we did not perish, but instead, reached the end of our journey. See, we have arrived at the train station.” He said as they came to a stop.

They were in the middle of the evergreen woods, the imperial giants of the arboreal world’s dawn standing sentry around the gleaming copper and brass train station. Its interior was lit with many bright burning gas lamps whose small flames flickered and wicked in the gentle breeze of noontime, as dusty motes played upon the beams of sepia sunlight that breathed gold into the very air.

But as he stood by the stop, he saw the three tracks before him, each with a waiting train expect for one. The one. The one he had come to take to the distant land of his quest. And now, it seemed that it was not where it was suppose to be. He walked to the warm, brass counter, and spoke with the attendant in her green woolen uniform. As she answered, he couldn’t help but notice the lines on her face increasing rapidly with the slightest emotion, as if she wore a thick glob of pancake make up across her face. The news struck deep. His train was not coming at all.

“What was it you spoke to me of destiny, boy?” asked the old gentleman, still sucking on his ivory pipe.

“The train was robbed and derailed. But even in that is more potential for good. You see, either one of these other two trains will take me where I need to go. I just need to wait a bit longer, that’s all.” He answered, looking at the two gleaming black bodies of the locomotives.

“But which will you choose? You can’t take both. The one goes by the great canyon, where the sun burns each shade of the sunset into the gorge’s stones in the most magnificent display of power! But the other goes by the lake, surrounded by the gleaming mountains, where the moon’s pure light gleams of the glaciers and sparkles on the crystals in the lakebed. Both are magnificent. Both are beautiful. Both ought to be seen at least once before one dies.” The old gentleman said with uncharacteristic passion.

“But I am only going one way. I will not get to see both.” He said sullenly. “But which way should I go?”

“Heheheh! You see! I have won! Now you understand the true bittersweet potential in life, its greatest strife! It is choice! For even if none of my grim predictions ever come true, you will still have to decide between paths and people and loves and when you do, you will have to sacrifice the other path and all its happy potential. That is the true bitter, horrid, heartbreaking potential of life!”

And having said that, the old gentleman drew hard on his ivory pipe and blew out a fierce cloud of white smoke that soon encompassed him entirely. All the while cackling as he did so. Then as the wind blew the smoke clear, the old gentleman was gone. All that remained was the scent of tobacco on the wind, and the echo of the antagonistic laugh in the hollow places of the station.

He stood there, watching to two trains for what felt like a lifetime. He knew he would have to choose eventually, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized the logical choice. But it meant never seeing the other path, which was equally appealing to his soul. But he didn’t have time to waste. He had more important things to do.

So he finally boarded a black locomotive and walked to his tidy compartment. The day on the train passed quickly, and by the time he had reached his stop, the sun was setting in fierce and fiery passion, burning the clouds and setting fire to the purple heavens. He stepped down from the platform in the forgotten city, where not a sound was heard except for the creeping shadows of night. And immediately, all though and turmoil of his own choice were forgotten. He had arrived at his destination, and now he had a task before him. He walked up to the large, looming building, lit his candle, and stepped inside.

His lonely voice echoed in the high vaults of the empty cathedral. The rows of pews were derelict and dust covered, while hangings of cobwebs draped down across the wide, dusty nave. He held up the single candle as he walked further into the humid air, like a cloying dying breath held inside a moist body. The pale moonlight, glided over the surfaces like liquid silver, outlining the shapes of massive pillars, arches, angels, gargoyles, and things which weren’t really there.

He had come this far and he had to see for himself. He swallowed and walked further into the large, empty building. His shadow fell across the grey marble, growing further and further until it came to the end of the long nave. And there it settled, like some black bird of ill omen, upon the altar. Upon his destination and destiny.

Fools in our Lives

"Go from the presence of a foolish man when thou perceivest not in him the lips of knowledge." - Proverbs 14:7 (KJV)

"[Love] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails." I Cor 13:7-8a (NKJV)

We all have them. Those friends, family members, or coworkers who are always making one bad decision after another. You know their kind: the ones who make decisions without thinking of the consequences, who live life as if the moment was all the existed, who regularly say and do things which are completely moronic and have no idea that they do. They are the ones who make Type B people look bad. They are what the Bible calls, fools.

Now, there's nothing wrong with a little foolishness now and again. Finding joy out of simplicity is one of the ways in which we, as humans, cope with the constant stress of actually being alert to our actions and words and their effects on others. The key difference is that for a fool, that foolish behavior and lack of foresight, has become such an integral part of who they are, that it is the source of their identity. They are not called the "farmer who does foolish things" or the "son who acts foolishly", they are called "fools" because that has become the entirety of their identity.

At this point, you probably have some names floating around in your head. I know I'm doing my best not to and still have them there. That is another consequence that being a fool has, and that they are so blissfully unaware of, that everyone they encounter can plainly tell that they are fools and that it will work to sabotage their lives and futures. In the long run, there really are no benefits that arise from being a fool.

So the question then becomes, how do we respond to these fools in our lives. Their actions set them on a course that leads to disaster. The Word makes it clear over and over again that the paths of fools leads to poverty, wickedness, and destruction. What are we, as Christians, suppose to do about them?

The Bible is interesting in that it provides two answers to this, the above verses. And like so many things in life that are more complicated than we truly realize, at first glance, it would seem that the two contradict each other. The one verse is a summation of the entire book of Proverbs, and any book of wisdom in the Bible (James, et al) which states that those who are wise should not waste their time on the fools. The other verse sums up what could be considered to sum up the books of grace (Pauline Epistles, Psalms, et al) when it states that our love for others should endure and bear all things. This presents a dilemma.

It is infinitely wiser to abandon a fool for the simple reason that they walk a different path than the wise. It is the same principle of being unequally yoked in any labor. A fool will waste a wise individual's time, and wasting time is one of the worst things we can do, since time is one of our most precious resources here on earth. The Bible talks a lot about "cast[ing] pearls before swine" and giving the "children's bread to the dogs", essentially, giving something of value to those who will never appreciate the value of it. A fool will waste your time, energy, and resources and will never even think about it. And that is only the beginning. Fools not only bring destruction into their own lives, but those around them as well. A wise person should follow the advice of Solomn when he says, "depart from a fool when you realize he lacks knowledge."

And yet, through all of these things, love can persevere. Love suffers for a very long time at the hands of the fools and is still kind to them. Love is not puffed up in its own conceited wisdom, and so does not think evil of anyone. Love reaches out to those who need it the most, regardless of their situation, position, or past. Love keeps no record of wrongs. Love stems from a root of grace, and so has grace for all. Love conquers all.

So which do we do then? Are we to love people regardless and persevere with them, or are we to recognize a fool for a fool, and depart from their ways which lead to destruction? Which path do we take: the path of wisdom or the path of love? In many places in scripture the two paths do diverge strongly. When one loves somebody, the way God loves them, you cannot help but be moved to some form of action. That is true love. Yet often the actions that are the fruit of love, are contradictory to what would be a wise use of time/energy/resource/life. God calls us to love but He also calls us to wisdom. So which is the better path then?

Like many things in life, the answer cannot be computed down to a simple binary yes/no. The Word talks often about loving someone enough to NOT interfere, to allow some chastisement to come into their life. Even God does it to us, allowing us to bear the consequences of some of our actions so we may learn from them and grow closer to Him. And similarly, when we have true wisdom, we cannot help but be moved to compassion when we gain understanding of the circumstances that often make a person a fool. No one truly chooses to be one. So we see that the situation is more complex than simply picking a path.

If we were to choose just one method of dealing with a fool, we would ourselves descend into foolishness. Essentially, most things, when kept in moderation and administered within the bounds of God established institutions, are beneficial to humans. It was not for naught that God said, "It is very good" when He was finished making the earth. What makes a fool is essentially their decision to overindulge in foolishness, until it becomes their very identity. They are out of balance. But to choose only one method of addressing them (as the problem), is equally as foolish.

The reason for this is simple. To live in our temporal world is to change. We equate life with it. Yes, there is still a measure of constance and endurance in many things, but one of the most sure things we are certain of on earth is that things always change. The best and most applicable example of this are the seasons. As they change, the world changes with them in their constant pattern. So also, we go through various seasons in our lives, and our fools go through seasons in their lives. Recognizing this is essential in deciding how to address them.

There will be times when we will have to take steps to help them, even when we feel we do not want to. There will be times when we will have to step back, even when we desperately want to intervene. God uses them and uses their situation in our lives to grow us, but only as long as we remain sensitive to His word. Sometimes He may ask us to do teh unwise thing, to allow them into a place in our heart and trust them in a way where they have let us down and hurt us before. As hard as it is, love keeps no record of wrongs. And that same love that drives us to take action, must sometimes be tempered with wisdom to recognize that inaction can be a form of action in and of itself, as a method to wait and let the Lord do what we cannot. In all of this, God dictates the seasons and God will dictate the path that we must take during it. Staying sensitive to His word and His will is what will ultimately guide us to the place where wisdom and love are united in our lives and in our actions.

"Call to me and I will answer and show you great and unsearchable things which you have not known." - Jeremiah 33:3 (NIV)

Friday, July 10, 2009

Dreamers

His lonely voice echoed in the high vaults of the empty cathedral. The rows of pews were derelict and dust covered, while hangings of cobwebs draped down across the wide, dusty nave. He held up the single candle as he walked further into the humid air, like a cloying dying breath held inside a moist body. The pale moonlight, glided over the surfaces like liquid silver, outlining the shapes of massive pillars, arches, angels, gargoyles, and things which weren’t really there.

He had come this far and he had to see for himself. He swallowed and walked further into the large, empty building. His shadow fell across the grey marble, growing further and further until it came to the end of the long nave. And there it settled, like some black bird of ill omen, upon the altar.

As he passed the tarnished candle sconces they began to flicker to life, long yellow flames of yesteryear, reawakened in their warmth and youth. The soft glow of the candles spread out like a slow moving current of gold, breathing life into the old building, the soft sound of music beginning to play upon the air.

And then he blinked. And it was all silent and silver once more. The humid air had turned icy as the wind blew through the broken stained glass windows, which stood now like stone spider webs, missing all their color. It was as if all color had been drained from the room, like it was all made of ash and would blow away in the wind at any second. All except for the area illuminated by his single candle.

“Light.” He spoke silently.

And all the candles long forgotten obeyed, jumping to life, quivering with anticipation that he could maybe be the one. The one they had been waiting for. The one to breathe life into the old cathedral again. The ivy and briars that had crept in through the walls, whispered in the wind that ran across their gleaming leaves, almost a giggle with what was to come. The man walked further in, the cobwebs drawing back in fear, disintegrating into the rafters, and even there the light found them and they were undone.

“Music.” He spoke again.

And the call of the instruments answered him. It flooded in the windows, running across the marble floors and spreading across the foliage, causing the mantles of green to burst forth in pure white roses. The scent drifted heavily upon the perfumed air like sweet incense offered up to the heavens. The music brought color back into the tapestries which fluttered in the musical, perfumed breezes, as if the figures upon them longed to step down and dance one more.

But this light and this life that had awoken in the cathedral had touched all but one place. The apex of the long nave, where the altar still stood, thick and cool, bathed in the silver lines of the moon upon its dark surface. The light around him seemed to dullen and fade at the reminder of the cold end of the long aisle. He has been walking towards it the entire time, passing glowing candles and crowds of tapestries, his own tallow candle’s flame stretching long and thick, with blue smoke curling heavenward from it. Now, he had reached the end.

There stood the two statues, gleaming cold marble in the pale moonlight, with eyes that begged for some brave soul to traverse the cathedral and break the spell of the twilight. And he had come. He gazed upon the incense braziers on either side of the altar and snapped his fingers, each answering the call by sparking to life, long tendrils of purple smoke beginning to reach to the arches above.

“My love.” He spoke as he knelt at the cold altar.

Upon the solid block of immovable granite was spread a thick mantle of softest, deepest, bluest velvet. Upon this bed lay a figure in perfect repose, her ivory skin catching the moonlight and holding it hostage. Her hands, like two perfectly interwoven silver willow branches held a single, white lily to her as dear as life itself. Her hair, crowned with a wreath of lilies, spread out in long tresses that captured the colors of the living heartwood inside the ancient forests of the world, each shade of brown and chestnut and auburn flowing gently into one another. Her eyes were closed, as if in perfect sleep, but her brows were furrowed, as if she could see but did not want to.

“You are an enigma. You call to me to rescue you, to save you from this never ending sleep, from the nightmares, and yet, when I come here, you wish to continue dreaming. What is it you want from me? Do you even know what you really want? Will you be happy if I wake you and you realize this has all been a dream till now?”

She gave no answer, her silence was deafening, the music having stopped when he had addressed her. He noticed flames all around him, hidden in ambulatories and niches, flicker to life upon rose colored candles, till they were surrounded by a sea of flickering flames. Flickering heartbeats. Breathing with the two of them.

“But how can I keep you like this? You are happy, yes, but you are not really living. You are imprisoned within yourself, in a prison of your own making. How can I live, knowing that you are not?”

He stepped upon the veined marble steps leading up to the solid altar, and leaned over her, watching the slow and steady move of her shallow breathing. A single tear gleamed from the corner of her eye and trailed down her ivory cheek. He caught it before it reached her sea of hair, and raised it up on his finger, watching the moon and candle light caught inside the crystal orb.

“I’m sorry. I know you’ve felt pain. Just as much as I have. We’ve both been on a very long journey, and it has been so easy to think that I was the only one… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stood back up straight and looked back upon the lit cathedral, warm and glowing as the tapestries and flames and white roses all watched him with eager anticipation. They begged him to free her, to awaken her from this long dream.

“My princess. May I kiss you? It will make all this go away. The dreams and the nightmares. The false good and the false bad and all the other imitations in between. All I need is your permission and the slumber will end and your life will begin. But I won’t force you. If you want the fantasy, then I will not force you to find the truth. All you have to do is say yes.”

She still lay there, her eyes shut firmly, her moist lips folding ever so gently, with a slight quiver, as if her inner turmoil was being fought right there upon her soft mouth. He leaned forward with anticipation, urging her with all his soul to give that long looked for answer. But then the quiver stopped, her brow rose in haughty pride. And she slipped into the soft folds of slumber once more.

“Then you have decided.” He said, stepped and turning, walking from the altar.

As he walked, time seemed to slow, a cold wind sweeping up behind him, the candles fluttering out and changing to rivulets of grey smoke running upward. The entire room grew grey once more, expect for the halo of rose candles around her alter, which enveloped her in a soft, pink glow. He walked onward, his eyes closed in pain. He had prepared for this. He would not shed a tear. He had promised himself.

“Yes.” Her whisper flew across the empty room.

He turned to see her rising up slowly from her cold bed of stone, eyes still closed. Her mouth quivered as she struggled to utter the words. Tears began running down both her cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies in a hurricane. And then she opened her eyes.

“Yes. I don’t want to sleep anymore!”

He ran to her, candles jumping to life, music rising in crescendo, roses blooming once more. He bounded up the altar steps and through his strong arms around her, his eyes moist with unbidden tears as well. His met hers and the warm glow of the candles of the cathedral seemed to draw in just around the two of them. Then he leaned forward and captured her lips.

And life and light burst forth from the altar. The windows glowed with the old glass restored. Where once hung cobwebs now fluttered silks in the breeze. The tapestries literally came to life, people stepping down from them as if they were doorways. The entire cathedral was soon alive with people talking and celebrating by the time the two parted.

“Thank you.” She whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He answered.

And so they both woke from the dream into something much better.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

This Too…

God is the flame
That illuminates yesterday
And makes the cold
Memories warmer
Collecting rains and streams
Of running emotions
All together
In His ocean’s of joy
So that in hindsight
All things are better
And easier to see

God is the breath
That fills the moment
Burning with energy
Birthing crisp life
Folding out its branches
Ripe with potential
Filling the present
With untold beauty
If we would only
See it

God is the hand
Holding out tomorrow
The everlasting hope
That all things will change
That no matter the present
Things can get better
Gathering all strings
To a single point
Closter to Him

God is the voice
Calling from eternity
In the long gone memory
Or the hope of tomorrow
So that in the moment
We may see Him behind
It all

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Dying to Fly

Doresetic nights seep through the cracks
Of weary eyelids, striving with slumber
For possession of your soul
When the world tumbles down
Through the cracks in the pillows
Where will you open
Your eyes next?

They are coming, they are coming
They are getting ever closer
To finding the secret
You desperately hide
In that bottomless well
Called your darkest soul
Light a match
Let it in.
Begin.

But then you will fall from this high precipice
Into the dark void of the unknown
What lies at the bottom, who can fathom?
Will comforting love catch you in pillow arms
Or will you break on the concrete of judgement
All alone in your world of sorrows
As their backs turn away
Will anyone stay?
Obey?

No, the risk outweighs the benefits by far
The fear of falling will ground your flight
Wings clipped short by insecurity
You will remain, hanging on this branch
Jutting from the cliffs
Over the unknown
Never letting anyone
See you fly
The sun might melt your waxen wings
The moon may hide her light
Won’t guide you home
So your remain
All alone
On the cliff
Making friends with the moss
And your lonely sighs
Dreames die.

So… fly

Sunday, July 5, 2009

My Friend

I watch you fall
Like sand through my fingers
I can't seem
To hold on to you anymore
No matter how hard I try
These wounds too soon forgotten
You break away once more
And don't return a single call
You're taking a path
Where I cannot follow
You're becoming a person
Who I've never known
Where once stood firmly
A pillar of integrity
Why could I not see
that you were made of sandstone?
When your life began to crumble
The hourglass has now been turned
The past cannot be unmade
Or wasted time recovered
But please, please. Please!
Hear my calls!
Don't waste your life
before it is over!
Don't throw away your future
because of the past!
Don't take a path
where I cannot follow...
Remember the days
When I was still called
Your friend.
Don't say it's all over
Don't say you're alone
Don't say its the end
It isn't
Since I cannot hold
On to you any longer
I will trust that my Jesus
has you safe in His hands
That He will lead you onward
Till you come back again
But until that day
Though it pains me to say
Goodbye until we meet again
You'll always be
My friend

Friday, July 3, 2009

Lonely Lullaby

There she stands
Outside in the pouring rain
There she stands
Trying hard not to show the pain
There she cries
And I don’t know what to say to her
There she stands
And begs for that old lullaby

About the prince that charged in
Just in a nick of time
Who swept her up
And told her all would be alright
Who gazed in her eyes
And told her she was beautiful
Wipe away the tears she cried
And she would never be alone

I watch her go
Through her days pretending all is fine
I watch her grow
Walking on for miles and miles and miles
But still she stands
Right on that same spot she stood before
And I cannot lie
It frustrates me to watch this old line replay

As she thinks she finds that prince
From her lullaby
And trusts her heart again
For who knows the how many-th time
And I just wanna scream
Or turn my back and not care anymore
But then I see the tears in her eyes
That loneliness inside

So, there she stands
Outside in the pouring rain
Trying one more time
To hold all her tears in again
I’d walk up beside her
Umbrella in my hand
To shelter her from this world
Until she runs… one more time

Please don’t misread
These lines from a man’s heart
This urge to shelter
The father, brother, husband’s part
Mine is a love
Pure, platonic but true
And this is why I cannot act
These things I would want to do

So while she stands there
I’ll stand beside her
And when they hurt her
I will hide her
Till finally she finds him
That missing puzzle piece
Only then ends my watch
When she finds peace