Dear Hearts

I'm finding you everywhere now.

The stale and lonely days still linger in my soul;
the days when there was nobody;
the days when I was alone;
the days when nobody cared;
and I remember them
with a sorrow
that goes deeper than before.

You were here all along.

How could I not have seen?
How could I have been so blind?
How could I have failed to cherished you?

But I know the answer.
I could only see myself.
I wanted you to reach in
and I wouldn't risk giving to you
for fear of being rejected.

But God opened my heart.

Oh, now you are my treasure,
my friends and beloved ones!

I hoard your triumphs and confidences
and cry tears of joy
every time I am able
to encourage or help you.
I long to be more than I am
so I can give more to you.

I plead with God to be all He is
for your benefit through me.
And if I am not the one
to carry joy or peace into your life,
I rejoice always
to find He has used someone else.

Dear ones,
you are my treasures
because God has poured His grace
through me to you,
and through you to me.
Let us rejoice in all He is,
and in the way He uses you
to expand His glory
further than I could possibly know.

Acid Washed Love

(love) 
acid washes behind the mask, 
pristine and non-sterile death preserved alive 
by automatons' heart compression, 
caring by rote, 
but seeking, 
always seeking 
to make another one of them, 
alike, 
the same,
... 
burning away the differences 
through chemical preservation, 
to become masked and stale, 
injecting outward loving like a pulse, 
yet only waiting to draw others in, 
to become alike, 
the same, 
non-sterile.

Breathe softly and awaken, 
dear one,
caught in a web of scent and sound,
enraptured and giddy among gifts and goblets,
tasty temptations poisoned by expectations
of return on investment
and sacrifice of generosity.

Open those blinded eyes 
and see through the vapor.
Turn your face to the sunlight 
and wash your eyes with water, 
clear, from the mountaintops.
Tears and the sting
of awakening bring suffering
gushing through stifled limbs
but carry recognition
of the deception 
with the pulse of life.

Open their windows
to let fresh air cleanse the vapors,
and eat sparingly, 
only what the sun has cleansed.
Hold gently the hands
that would tear
at living flesh
and offer warmth
without demand.

Your expressive face,
and compassionate heart 
stand in brilliant contrast
until the masks slip
as their poison-injected existence 
burns in the light,
and with every beat
of their non-sterile hearts
they begin to feel
that there is a better vision,
though they shudder and flee
at the change,
and burn in the light of knowing 
the difference,
unique and generous,
...love...

---

This poem was written in response to "Fumigation" by Kim.

Reason to Write

This or that thought
pours out
like a stream of existance
no better or worse
than all that is
contributing,
drop by drizzle,
into the flow
that pours across the landscape
and thunders down the mountains,
to rush
and growl
through the valleys,
and spread wide
upon the plains,
where, together,
they evaporate
and rise
or slowly sink
and cause plants to breathe
to nourish
the air
and the body
before flinging out wings,
white
and ethereal,
to return to the skies,
where I breathe in,
breathe out,
and write
the flavor,
and the air,
and the chill flow
of living water
upon my tongue,
because I'm alive,
and I love to
belong to
the rain,
and the thunder
of the falls,
and the green
of the plains
with you.

A pile of CDs

There are some psychotic poets out there, artists also, and when they are let loose

insanity erupts.

Also note the merely crazy or the intentionally cute, the punsters and the sarcastic, sweet, silly, or ordinary.

In the end

art and titles are my only impressions as the cases pass through my fingers.

Later

I am left with the assurance that even the ordinary and average is dangerously precarious.

---

We bought a store-full of  CDs  to resell on Amazon. And I now know more about CD art than I care to. *grin* I can't call the above a poem, I guess. Heh.

Pray

There is more than touch
or breath of sound
and echo of meaning.
Existence.
Existing.
Surrounding events
from molecule
to dream.
And isn't it good
to carry a thought
and wonder at hope
with confidence
in the arms 
of a presence
ever greater
than can be known?
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
See the glitter 
of gold
beneath the storm,
a promise
of becoming more
than before,
while
thunderclouds
nourish the earth
with torrential rain.

---

Written as a direct result of reading the poem "Whys and Wherefores."

A Few of Your Comments (And a response)

I've been thinking for a while that it's a pity to leave some of the comments you all have left on my blog down in the dusty depths where they won't be appreciated by more people. And since thoughts are crumbling out, stale, these days, this is the ideal time to share a few of your thoughts, which encouraged or made me laugh.

First, and most recently, my beloved, missionary-pilot brother, who is also the best brother in the world and deserving of an award for surviving my big-sister invasions for all these years, posted a poem in response to "Found Thought."

I thought I found a wishing well
for coin it was hungering
with wrinkled brow
I tossed one in, aimless
clearly I lost my mind.
Now, my coin at large,
I ponder,
Yes, I wish I'd kept
my money!

Nancy, in response to "Been Sick," posted:

it's good
to rest
that is what
i've been told
especially when
you have a cold
or the flu
or a pain in the
um...
well, it's true

Glynn made me laugh with his response to "Dear Beauty."

Dear Us: we have been blessed with a beautiful poem. About beauty.

Kathleen, in response to "Paradise Bloom."

I love how you describe it. For me, it feels like deliciously drowning, yet being able to breathe perfectly. Finally, with poetry the pictures in my head have a way to live. What a relief. Poetry has released and explained so much.[...]This picture is lovely. Tell us, after we rest with it a while, the story.

And in response to your request, Kathleen, I'll try to verbalize "Paradise Bloom" for a moment, or at least a few of my thoughts about my abstract work in general. We'll see where this goes.

I always start with a line, purposely keeping set goals at bay, thrusting away the definition of an image and thinking only of that single line. Once the curves of that first line are set in ink, immovable, I then take what I have and begin to explore. It's a discovery of balance, of accepting mistakes and jagged jolts from a jostled elbow, of filling space and leaving it empty, of pushing in depth and pulling out light.

For me, this process represents life. We have the decisions already made, set in ink in our lives. Dismayed by the lines already laid, there is the temptation to give up, or trace over and over again the same path until the paper tears and life falls through the shreds. But if we look at what is already there, there is always an overflow of grace, the blank spaces of the page, waiting to be filled, and full of potential. For children of the King of kings, there is a promise of balance, that all the lines laid will come together in the end to create a pattern, an image.

And so, with my pen, I learn to balance. I accept my limitations within the space of the page. I draw and color and fill, and add. With pen there is no subtracting. Yet, miraculously, in the end I find beauty. And every time I complete a drawing I realize that God is a far greater artist than I, and He certainly knows how to use what has been, is, and will be. It's a promise.

I am only content, it seems, with something more than the ordinary. An external flow. Ideas and thought, pouring through and out. It must touch something or someone other than myself to be worth cherishing. I grow stale and confined within myself in the inflow of every day, even when I see it's value and cherish the treasures.

Nature. Family. Friendship. Home. All beautiful. All pleasant. All good.

But there is a landscape beyond them, a place that glows with a shining light of a presence greater than time and place, and it is this I seek, these moments so intangible, yet imprinted on my memory like fire, leaving a glow that continues to outshine even the best of my greatest efforts.

I could learn to fly and never touch the essence of those moments, for they are not my own. They were given to me, poured through from outside, and it is that presence I crave, a light that burns through the everyday existence with true vision, with wisdom, with insight, with strength.

Would you like to see those treasures?

Perhaps.

But they will seem plain to you, without knowing their Source, without seeing how much greater they are than I ever could be, without knowing with the confidence I can claim, that these never were sourced in me to start, and that I could never even have thought of beginning them.

- Correcting my children with patience and understanding, outside my normal procedures and strength.
- Loving and giving compassion and kindness where my ordinary self would run in self-protection or return evil for evil.
- Writing a letter to a stranger, sharing a message of truth, a message I still do not remember, words I wish I could say to myself once again, only knowing I wrote pages on a sun-filled afternoon, and the surprise of a reported response and the good that resulted.... A good I never saw with my own eyes, and can only trust lasted and grew.
- Words to random strangers of sudden fluency and insight, hugging women I do not know, and wondering what has come over me, even as I see in their eyes a new life and hope, a gift I didn't give, but that I was there to see given.
- Standing among friends with trembling knees, and opening my mouth to speak. So often after these moments, I can only remember the vaguest outline of the words and ideas. My confidence comes from the response of those, wiser than I, who tell me I spoke truth and wisdom.

It is the One who removes me from my limitations, who shines where I am no light, who gives where I have nothing.

Yes, in the day to day of my own strength, there is nothing to hold up before your eyes. I can only pray that even when I don't recognize it these events continue to occur. After all, how can I demand to know it every time? It would merely become pride. I am only grateful that I have been permitted to sense and understand that God is fulfilling His promise to be more than I am, through me.

Because of this, even when life is ordinary, I continue pursuing truth, within and without, searching for that sparkle of Presence on the edge of a leaf, in the borders of relationships, in a sudden outpouring of words, in the graceful flow of line and image.

I hope never to be content with good-enough-to-get-by, for I long to be used by God in every ordinary and extra-ordinary way that could possibly bring Him glory. And if it can happen without me knowing it, then it is better to give everything I can find to give, rather than holding the inflow and confining it to my stale world in selfish, self-preservation.

This sort of choice comes with the danger of revealing my sins and faults. It comes with the chance of making poor choices in mistaken hope of giving something of value; of revealing I consider something valuable that is mere cheap imitation.

But then, that is what the Church is for. And I trust Christ will use His body to correct me where I go wrong and to grow and shape and use me. Because we are all in the same position, seeking His glory.

Comparison

Always imperfect,
shadowed, forlorn,
broken, defeated,
shaken and torn,
tattered and frayed,
foul and unclean,
there's nothing you say
that can really demean,
for I'm always lower
than the words that you say
and it's no surprise
that you see it this way.

True, you also
are caught in this mess
only looking at me
leaves you free to feel best
and I understand
that it's easy that way
to feel good about life
and to get through the day.

The true measure
and standard
you seem to ignore
will never waver
nor change
what it's for
and it makes us
feel small
and low in esteem
but starting from truth
gives more good than it seems.

You see,
with that law
comes help and strong aide
to lift us high
and cleans, not degrades.
It removes us from prison
and breaks all the chains
so we'll never be trapped
and we can make claim
to a freedom
unseen
below in the depths
where the strongest of prisoners
lord over the rest.

The reason I'm here
is not to be lord,
but to serve
and to share
this law I adore
for it's not merely rules
to press us all down
but a living Redeemer
of grace-filled renown
and the truth that I wear
is not a foul chain
but a guide to the best
in this life
we can claim.

When this service is done
my Master awaits
to give me position
beyond His palace gates.
But I wish you to know
that you can come too.
This offer can only
be limited by you.

---

Ugh ... once again, it's not the poem I thought I was writing. *sighs* One of these days, it will come out right.

Found Thought

I found a thought and fed it well
with pensive pondering;
watched it grow,
swelling into the spaces
I cleared in my mind.
Now that it's so large,
I wonder,
what did I bring home
after all?

Sometimes you can't help yourself ... or something

"Easter Baby"

photo by Anna

(manipulation thereof by yours truly)

This is what happens when my friends put inspiring photos of their children somewhere that I can download them ... well, when I feel like it, anyway. I changed the colors of everything except baby's skin. Well, the graffiti is mine. Hehehe. 'Twas fun!

My dear friend Anna permitted me to share this with you, for which I'm very grateful, since it turned out even better than I had envisioned it when I first saw this sweet infant munching on her bassinet.

A Breath of Rain

My friend Debbie posts so rarely on her "other blog" that I had forgotten it existed. But today she reminded me (oh, how I do love RSS feeds!) with a poignant poem of rain and memories and appreciation of beauty.

Please, would you stop by to read and comment on her poem or some of her posts from last year? With a little encouragement, she might post more often, and that would make me very happy! (Since I love reading what she writes...)

Visit Debbie's World.

Glass Heart - Part 3 - The End

Back to part 1
Back to part 2
At long last she crawled to her feet, surrounded and supported by the robe of light that had broken the chain. She examined the door once again, then reached out cautiously to grasp the handle.

Amazed, the watchers crept closer, wondering what would happen if the heavy bolt securing the latch were to break. A tremor shuddered through the structure, light flared, and the entire door shattered and tumbled in a mass of twisted metal and splintered wood. She stood, holding the handle with an expression of amazement. Finally, she turned and tossed it into the fire, then returned again and again, carrying the door piece by piece to the flames. She walked lightly, and smiled as she worked, clearly relieved by the result of the experience.

They wondered at the sight, reminded of their desire to interact with the girl who seemed all too content to remain confined and separate. Now the door had been shattered, and there was clearly no other entrance to her heart. But even as they began to sigh in resignation and retreat to their usual ways, the fire flared, sending a blinding tendril of light into the walls, tracing the boundaries and patterns of the structure supporting the glass. They stopped and stared as a joyous melody poured through in that moment. Could this be her song?

One turned to examine the glass, wondering what the light had done, and the girl dropped her load of broken wood and ran forward with a welcoming smile. As she approached, the pane melted open and she reached out to grasp the watcher's hand.

"Come in!" she sang, and the air of her environment poured out in sweet welcome.

"What was that door?" the watcher stammered, stepping through the opening.

She glanced over at the remnants and frowned. "I never knew," she said, with a regretful sigh, "I built that entry so people could invite me to visit their hearts. I waited and waited for someone to open it and call to me and felt so rejected when nobody even knocked. But I finally know that a heart is structured by doors that only open from inside, and all along I should have been reaching out instead."

Chronos of Love

--->Day by day
I wince from the hurt
of your sandpaper love
clinging to the ointment of

I won't hold it against you.

--->Night by night
I soak tears into the pillow
to wash the welts
of resentment before they fester

I won't hold it against you.

--->Week by week
I treasure the list
of your talents and best
and quietly accept the rest

I won't hold it against you.

--->Month by month
I choose to stay
and continue to love honestly
holding firm against your imposition

I won't hold it against you.

--->Year by year
I wait and watch
loving you always
and if you never change

I won't hold it against you.

Directing your attention ...

I've had a link to Featured Artists and Bloggers in my sidebar for some time, though I've neglected it shamefully. However, today I took the time to update the list, which I will continue over the weeks and months to come. So, do click through (though I think many of you know each other already) and visit the list from time to time.

I hope you will be encouraged or inspired as I have been.

Glass Heart - Part 2

 Back to Part 1

The tall, rectangular object leaning up against the wall of her shelter was the only shadowed item that managed to hide any of the interior from the bemused gaze of the watchers. She would often stand before it with a fearful mien, almost as if she expected something to leap out at her, and never stepped too close. So one day when the invisible wind rippled through the covering, her terrified expression was no surprise.

They leaned forward, expectantly, waiting to see what could affect her so, pressing their hands against the glass in hope of sharing some encouragement. But she shivered in place and would not look around as the shadows fell from the surface, and there, leaning up against the wall, stood a door. It certainly didn't suit its surroundings, this rough-planed object, heavy with locks, chains, and bars. She seemed to know it also, and crept to the fire where she curled up cautiously, and trembled.

After a time, she began to look from the door to the fire and back again, as if wondering how she could manage her usual process of casting the undesirable into the flames. They pressed against the glass, wondering how they could help in such a project, surely too large for her to manage. If only the door were properly embedded in the wall, they could finally attempt to reach her. But the chill panes of glass were too much for them, and they could only watch and beg the invisible being of wind, flame, and light to assist her where they could not.

At long last, she approached the door, clearly resisting the invisible force leading her. Turning her face away, she reached tentatively toward the surface. She winced as her fingers touched one of the heavy chains. They watched as light flared around her resistant form, and the chain fell with a clatter and tumbled into the fire.

She dropped to the floor and huddled inside a gentle whirlwind that caught the cascade of tears streaming down her cheeks and flung those, also, into the flame where they spun like jewels and sank into the rough shape of the now-burning chain.  For the first time, an echo of sound throbbed outside the structure, a wail of loneliness and fear, and the watchers shivered in dismay as they realized that this was the sound of her voice. How could this level of agony exist within such a secure and well-lit heart?
Part 3 (End)

Painting the Phone ... literally

Next time I'll use something other than a toothpick. But it's better than black?

...

Got the idea from Nancy.

Glass Heart - Part 1

In her heart the light had clearly taken up residence. It was only beneath the coverings over her secrets that shadow remained. But for the most part, her heart was well-lit, revealing the flaws, but also somehow refreshing and renewing all that lay exposed.

They came to lean up against the glass walls and gaze into her residence to see her pain, frustration, and joys. They watched her bask in the light during the day and curl up around the fiery glow enshrined at the center when life darkened. And she seemed lonely to them, but never alone, always speaking to an invisible companion who seemed to reside within that core flame.

Sometimes an unseen hand would lift the covering over this or that pile, and she could be seen arguing, fighting to hide it once again, her voice silenced by the glass. Other times she would slowly begin to sort, reluctantly tossing blackened objects into the fire and shelving others amid the myriad of experiences already displayed beneath the light.

During these occasions the fire would sometimes return an object to her, restored, and then she would dance, holding the shape carefully, studying the beauty now residing in their center. She kept a special shelf for these, and they always maintained a radiance that could not be obscured even by the brightest light of day.

Yet no one could enter. None could touch the lonely figure caught in her heart of glass, though many wished to reach her. Even when she noticed them, there was still the glass separating them as she pressed her fingers against the panes with an expression of confusion, as if wondering how to reach through.

Click for part 2
Part 3 (End)

Been sick

No poetry
No art
Not even photos
Not editing old work to post in the interim
...
I'll be back eventually

Far Away

Far away is like a wall.
I cannot see your face.
Yet through the gaps in the mortar
We gently roll and place
Letters, pictures, love;
And share communication,
Glad that now it takes
But a moment between nations.

Echo .... Echo .... Echo

echo
       echo
              echo
                     echo
burden
      sorrow

do you hear all those words
                      do you hear the broken cries
do you hear that weeping voice
                      from the darkness where it sighs
echo
       echo
             darkness
                     darkness
cry out
but the words are trapped inside
                       and we cry in the night
and there's nothing to break out
                       no one to bring the light
and we know it comes
                      from a source beyond our sight
we wash away the shadow
                     breath of joy brings heart to right
echo
        echo
               bright
reflection
we remember the moon
                    when the darkness closes in
we echo back the light
                    and remember there's a sun
echo
       echo
              sunlight
       joy of
              sunrise

---

Today as I read Claire's poem, "Quieten Me" I remembered the above poem that I'd never really cleaned up properly. 

And in answer to her posted question at the end ... I think everyone does, at times. Go read her post to find out what the question was. *grin*

Senses for Grace

Kathleen posted a series of thoughtful and poetic photographs "Shattered Glass" twined with words last week, and I have thought of them repeatedly ever since. She graciously told me I could display my favorite of her photos here, alongside my response to the beauty she captured.

Touch
Broken edges of death's deceptive consequences,
Raggedly stacked without delicacy.
See
A stream of grace overflowing,
Reflecting light from surfaces softened by the flow.
Smell
The cleansed air, direct from the mountain peaks
Where pure snow melts before the warming sun.
Taste
The chill sweetness of living water,
Washing away the flavor of bitterness and death.
Hear:
The melody of infinite creativity
Directing an orchestra among the covered shards.

"Oh taste and see that the Lord is good!" - Psalm 34:8

Blocks of Time

Plans

When did time
become the material
to build walls of separation,
rather than smoothing the path
of relationship?

Possibilities

---

Just ... a thought.

Dear Beauty,

You are ever-present, yet ever-elusive, within my grasp, yet so far away.
I wonder sometimes if I will ever manage to tangle my fingers in the threads of your shadow
or even wear you, as it would be an honor to do.
I am not satisfied with merely admiring glimpses of you from afar.
I want to contribute to your existence in a meaningful fashion.
But you exist outside my input, and all I can do is trail after you
and always look to see your treasures anywhere I can find them.
I know there is nothing I can do to improve you.
I can only imitate what has already been done perfectly before I ever existed.
But my imitation is, indeed, a sincere tribute to you.
I know who made you and who it is that wears your shape as a perfect fit.
And, do you know? I've been permitted the promise of wearing you too
because your master has made it his gift to me!
But I wanted you to know that I know it wouldn't be possible without his kindness.
It's an honor to know you, to see you, to be near you.
Because I want to learn from your designer
how to shape beauty as he has done
so I can offer it to him again
somehow a small gift
to thank him.
And I think it's amazing that he helps me learn to see your shapes
and handle the glow of your presence with fingers too rough for your status.

Metamorphosis

I stopped amid the bustle of daily life to look down at her youthful face, knowing my words would only cause separation. "I don't believe in light, so stop talking about it."

She pressed her fingers gently to the ring on her finger, as if to remind herself that she had chosen me, and raised her head. "Very well. I'm sure light will break through the shadows surrounding you, and I'll wait the rest of my life, if necessary, to see it happen. I'll pursue transparency so you can see the light in me, though it may not be as you expect, since I am not the source of the light, but only a marred reflective surface."

Silence closed around us, blocking out the chatter of a thousand voices. 

Darkness covered my world with an impenetrable veil. She stood before me, eyes wide, a shadow among shadows in a waxwork museum of death. 

Unable to move or look away, I could only meet that determined gaze and wait for the vision's end.
 
Gradually I realized her eyes had begun to glow. Time crowded against me, pulsing forward as I watched the light grow stronger, then pour through, surrounding the dark pupil with the glorious hue of back-lit stained glass. I could also see, between her parted lips, a muted radiance as if her throat were filled with fire.

Around us, the waxworks pressed in and pulled back, like waves pushed by the tide, dashing against us, cracking her surface. Some caught a glow of their own before floating away, while others brought their own portion of light and seemed to fuel hers. Inevitably the cracks accumulated. 

As portions of her waxen form broke off, they revealed a translucent surface beneath. The tracery of veins brightened within the multitude of shadowed obstacles and deep fissures still blocking the light which now could be seen filling the core of her being. Captivated by the gleaming impossibility before me, yet frustrated by the remnant of broken shadows clinging to her frame, I could not look away.

Radiant tears poured from her eyes, soaking into the broken crust surrounding her. Thick chunks of darkness melted slowly, then crumbled away. Flames blazed, now, spreading renewal rather than destruction, replacing the charred bone with filaments of light. As the tide crashed against her, the fissures and fragments seemed to form ever more rapidly, but always light poured out to fill those spaces.

Still the translucent portions showed the tracery of old breaking, though the remaining cracks and fissures were filled with the luminescence now permeating her form. Even her hair was aflame, and every contact within the rushing tide of time was now affected, either seared or transformed by the light consuming her. Standing before me, she seemed an illuminated glass statue, still bearing the same compassionate expression. 

I realized that the darkness surrounding me had been pushed back by that light, held in place only by the tendrils I clutched in my hands. I looked around at other figures, also in process of transformation, some further along than she, scattered through the waxwork landscape like beacons amid the ocean of darkness. I watched lightning flare to life within the face of a distant form and wondered whether the light was really winning, as she had said.

The vision faded, and time released me.

Before me, with parchment skin and wispy grey hair, she gazed up with milky eyes and touched my face. "Come along after Christ, my beloved. Do not cling to empty shadows any longer."

Among the white sheets, she closed her eyes and went still. 

A gleaming landscape burst through the walls of the room like an eraser, leaving no shadow or flaw within the  borders of its intrusion. I felt the chair beneath me quiver as if it were insubstantial and the floor melted  as mist against solid reality. A radiant form, dripping light like a fountain, emerged and reached out a hand to touch her face. I watched as the transparent glass figure of my vision superimposed itself over the empty shadow of her frail body, then suddenly burst into flame. This was the path she had chosen, then--not to impede light, but to be consumed?

I bowed my head, wondering if she had known it would be so meaningless. 

A finger of fire touched my face and I looked up. She stood before me, innocent of mark or shadow, and the light from the hand that had consumed her now filled her living form with a perfection I couldn't comprehend. "Do you finally see?" she asked, as the shadowed fog of life slipped like a curtain, shutting out the glorious world. She stepped back, fitting into the incredible scenery as if she'd been created to live in it, while the grey-white of the wall re-formed around the empty shadow of her aged, clay shell.

It was time, as it had been all along, to make my choice.

---

I've often thought about the verse about wives winning their husbands without a word. This was the result. Here is an article I found containing the reference, and a complimentary thought.

Shattered Safety

Thunder and tempest roil beyond
The fragment of shelter I hung in the frame
Separating my heart from the echoes of pain.
Enough of my own.
No need to share.
But the curtain billows;
Here are gaps, there a tear,
And tears splash through
Like a torrent of rain
Then I weep for a peace too long gone.

Tremor and shudder of unstable ground
No footing for wanderers trembling and shaking;
On those pathways still stumbling,
While safe-havens fall,
I cover my ears
So I won't hear their call.
On this solid foundation
I'm safe and secured.
While their heart-cries are muffled,
I tremble in fear
Of the torment revealed by the sound.

Oh, give me the strength to step out of this place
To touch shattered visions and sharp-broken hearts
With a gentle assurance of new lives to start
And to share this foundation,
The peace here inside
That shines with bright light
Through the tears that I've cried,
And to suffer beside them,
Not glance from afar.
Lord, tear down the curtain that shelters my face.


---


Sarah's "For Girl's Only:  Naked" (which was found via Glynn's blog) was the final straw that tipped this poem through my fingers; and visit Kathleen's visually inspiring "Shattered Glass" because of which I had thought this poem would be entirely different in mood and result,... but this is what happens when the poetry is fueled by more than one influence. Also add a plethora of recent events and my aversion to watching the news to the mix and ... well, it's no surprise.

A Pile of Pedestals

As a child, I was lifted up by the average church-goer into a precarious place of pseudo-perfection, idealized and noticed for the position I had been placed in through no effort of my own. My parents were missionaries, and not in some comfortable country fascinated supporters could comprehend visiting, but in the third world and out where there was no electricity or running water, no less. Apparently the portal to this place was ragged with sharpened edges no mere mortal would choose to cross. I developed a strong dislike for pedestal thinking.

Granted, if asked, these people would have quickly denied the attitude behind their actions. Reason, when called upon, would quickly bring them to realize that we were just as fallible as the next person ... but! And, yes, there is often that hesitation. Because, as always, the devoted are different when placed in a world where average is acceptable and separation is insurmountable.

What many wouldn't see or admit is that by claiming the same Christ they were under the same call, to a local location and a more modern setting, perhaps, but called just the same. And the pedestal they placed beneath us was no more nor less than their own resistance to filling that call; although, admittedly, many had been trained to view us this way by the church culture around them and were passionately pursuing Christ's glory in ways we also admired.

What I always wished they would see was their own ability and the possibilities around them. Missionaries are men and women saved by grace, and no more holy or righteous than any other believer who depends on Christ's Spirit, who is the power within us to perform every good work. It is all the more meaningful that He uses broken people for His glory, and that knowledge should set us apart only in that we are broken in and by His hands. Is this any different than the average believer? I think not!

---

Dear Church,

Do not place the call of others above your own.

Missionaries love, befriend and serve others.
Can you not do the same?

Missionaries study God's Word
and seek to apply it first to their own lives,
then to the lives of those around them.
Is this not something you seek to do?

Missionaries choose to view their lives
as a sacrifice before God.
Have you not sacrificed your life to God?

Who said that you are not already in the place
to which you have been called?
Are you any less responsible
than the man who lives in Africa,
or the woman who lives in South America?

Take your pedestal and
... well ...
crush it.
Recognize that we are all equally redeemed.

With love from an MK who refuses that pedestal,
thank you very much!
It is precarious up there, with a 100% guarantee of falling.
I choose solid ground and the assisting hand of my Redeemer.
Won't you join me?

---

This rant was ignited by multiple posts around the High Calling Blog network, most recently a series of posts over at Bibledude.net. For clarity, I'm very happy that other people see this same flaw in church culture and recommend the above links to you for deeper thought and reflection.

Photo:  "Api and Culture" by Karenee - Api is a South American hot beverage made from fine-ground purple corn, lemon, and cinnamon, and could easily be called a cereal or pudding when it cools and thickens.

I know you take pictures ... so

It's time to contribute a photo to Bibledude's found art: capture [beauty] photography project. Follow the link for details. Participating photographers have the chance to gain a copy of Leeana Tankersley's book, Found Art: Discovering Beauty in Foreign Places.

Here is the photo I contributed.

I bet you can capture (or have already caught) some unexpected beauty in your home or neighborhood! No excuses, now. I know you see beauty. Just hold your camera, point it toward the beauty, and push the button.... There is your contribution!

Adrenaline

They call it chemical, but it is a fire
singeing the tracery of the nerves,
spreading through the body
to hesitate in the tremble of fingertips,
building the throb of the heart
into a heavy pulse
to pound amid the strength
of muscle and tendon
till the contraction and resistance
blaze and surge with tension
and the air chills against awakened skin
while every quickened breath
feeds the flame.

---

This is drawn from experience. I wondered if I could write a physical sensation. How did I do?

Fragments of Focus

I've been looking over my shoulder a lot recently,
to glimpse yet again the dismembered corpse of my life
splayed in fragments, neatly labeled,
and while the vision is terrifying,
it is far better to know what I have done.

Too, I see now, through lenses newly repaired,
what it might be to unite the parts again into a living whole,
a song of motion flowing with beauty through connection
and redemption pulsing in its veins
so it may breathe color upon the sky,
cry the rhythm of the heart,
fly upon wings feathered with words,
and bleed hope from the scars of the breaking.

---

This is one of the poems that has been a part of the blockade in my mind, a build-up of branches of thought too large to move easily which catch even smaller concepts until only a trickle pours through. I'm not sure whether you may expect a deluge any time soon, but this one has been scraping the boundaries of my existence for days and I'm glad to finally have it out where I can pin it down and make it behave a little better.

Although, I think some of that block isn't poetry at all, which means I'm going to have to write articles or stories to dislodge them, and that means using self-discipline, one of the parts of my life that I often lose beneath the couch, whether labeled or not. I do wonder, if it were permanently connected what would happen next?

There's no way I can attribute all the thought-triggers for this poem. So go explore the High Calling Blog Network and my linked list of blogs to the right and see for yourself how it ties in.

Focus of Vision

I set my goals and dream ...
with my eyes on the face of my Savior,
seeking neither to aim lower
than the place He has set for me,
nor to add trappings
of worldly recognition,
for either would blind my heart
to His abundant grace.

---

This is a mid-prepping-dinner thought that drove me to the living room between toasting the noodles and adding the cabbage to type it as quickly as possible before returning to complete the recipe.

Facade

Look!
Look at me!
Call against the forceful wind of obscurity,
and gesture.
Come!
Come and see!
Ducking behind the gracious facade,
huddle in the shadows of half-truth
and cry tears of
fear
pain
loneliness
...
remaining unseen.

Owning Innocence

Marus knelt in the bushes and gazed up at the Innocent, who sang softly, resting on a pile of pillows that filled her glass balcony as she turned her face up to the sunlight. Above, the sky glowed blue through the heavy panes of the dome enclosing her world, and she smiled with an serenity too rare not to protect. He tensed at the feel of a blade at his throat, expected as it was, and breathed a shallow gulp of the pristine air, carefully filtered for both toxin and dirt to preserve that fragile life, so sheltered and unknowing.

"What do you think you are doing here?" The voice was too soft in contrast to the practiced grip which shifted to counter every possible move of resistance as Marus found himself compelled back over the threshold he had finally crossed after years of planning and effort.

So obvious, the answer to the question, so Marus kept silent, turning his head to pursue every last glimpse of the treasure so few would ever see, an innocent girl resting without a care, the jewel set in a glass castle amid the delicate greenery of a meadow within the shelter of the domed forest; and all of it financed by his family business and a display of the power of his name.

"Beautiful!" He exclaimed, once the doors were firmly shut, knowing that the rush of movement behind him could only be the frantic activity of a special unit of Cleansed Protectors, kept separate even from the Guardians, and the only ones permitted within sight of the Innocent. Already the codes would have been changed, and new security measures would soon be implemented. Another door slammed closed and silence filled the now-empty corridor.

His unseen captor thrust him into a room, barren but for the communication screen upon which Father's face loomed ominously, and left.

"Have you betrayed me?" Father nodded toward another monitor, then glared into the room again in a manner almost as intimidating as if he were actually present. "Did she see you?"

"No, Father, even I am not such a fool." Marus bowed his head. This, too, was a part of the plan. He tasted the metallic flavor of chemicals in the air. Already, truth drugs. He trusted his mouth with the words he'd practiced for years so they would taste true to his mind, now easier to speak than those shadows of thought for which his father would kill without hesitation.

"I bribed, stole and spied to get this far, Father. The only men I killed were those you would have eliminated anyway for their treachery. I am in your hands, as you know, for my life and my profit. Your control is unbroken." He lifted his head and met his father's gaze. "This treasure, of all your treasure, is the only one I had never seen. I wish to preserve the value of the Innocent as you do. Though for my own profit I wished to see her, just once, with my own eyes. Even you have thought of it, Father. Do not deny it."

"Press and pull with your words and body language, then steady and hold when you have them where you want them,..." the way to manage men had been ingrained in Marus since childhood, and his father's expression revealed the usual expectation that this was so, a qualified acceptance of the story.

It was enough, Marus knew. Even to see the Innocent he would not have risked his own life, not when he could watch her upon the screens at any time.

Father finally nodded. "You have improved the security in your own way, and I don't desire to lose the investment I've placed in you for such a trifle." It was the expected response, but Marus still fingered the gun in his sleeve and tasted the air carefully. The Guardians had their own ritual methods of protecting Innocents, and if they disagreed with Father about preserving his life, they might hope to escape to one of the other high families. Even with a loss of rank from betrayal, experience guarding an Innocent would make them desirable.

Marus nodded. "I will return, Father."

He turned to the door as the screen went blank and sighed softly when it opened immediately. Only three more doors to cross, and he would consider himself safe from their reprisal. Although, a battle might be a pleasure after the irritation of facing Father.

He strode down the empty corridor toward the exit barricades, openly holding his weapon. The Guardians must know he had improved security during his escapade. Only with access to the most deep of his family secrets and years of planning and research on the character of the guards had he managed to enter. Only one flaw remained in the system. He activated the power on his weapon as he reached the massive vault doors.

Two Guardians bracketted the final doorway, holding the elegant and powerful weapons of their trade. A large pool of blood stained the floor behind the counter where the prior guard had stood earlier, turning his head carefully so as not to notice Marus dialing the code.

"You eliminated Rile?"

Germain, the Guardian to the right nodded, his eyes bulging with scarcely restrained fury. The man maintained a loyalty to the Innocent which Marcus simply couldn't comprehend. He would probably protect her even if there was no profit in it. But then, that trait was one of the reasons why he could be a Guardian.

"Germain, you know that by seeing her I increase her value to me, and also my intention to preserve her. Thank you for eliminating Rile for me."

The man grimaced, but held his weapon aside. "You will never enter again. That is enough for me."

Marus shrugged as the door silently opened. "I am sure your protection is better for my entry. It is enough for us both. You will both receive a bonus, as will Axion, who detected me. Good day, Guardians. I greet you farewell."

Behind him, the camouflage descended over the cavern door as he walked slowly down the hill, recalling his memory of the girl as the adrenaline of the adventure faded from his blood. Only after entering the transport he had hidden in the valley did he murmur, "I have every intention of entering again, but I'll let you feel safe ... for now."

---

This story came from an idea I had of a culture so filled with evil that simple innocence has become a treasure and a curiosity. I might explore it from a few more viewpoints sometime, since the Guardians and the other layers of protection sheltering the Innocent from the world fascinate me. I have several ideas. We shall see.