To Be Known

To be known
to be loved and heard
to be shown a soul
that welcomes my own--
in a word--whole.

To be trusted
to be taken in
to be dusted of pride
and humbly adjusted--
shaken--to confide.

To be blessed
to be washed undeserved
of a messy mistake
and cleansed with rest--
to be served--to take.

To be known
is my heart's desire.
Alone, I yearn
and thrash and groan--
and reach higher--to learn. . .

that

I am known
by My Maker
I am owned by His blood.
And I kneel at His throne--
overtaken by love.


(This post is part of a conversation at Velvet Ashes.) 

Glue: A Poem about Sticking Together

Forget the tape or velcro or string.
Give me glue.
I need others like I need air.
I need you--
to bring with you a mingling goo
that merges our souls into a pair.
With prayer and sharing
that verges on daring,
let's stick together
tenaciously,
committed whether we're
mismatched hues
or a knitted blend,
with love attached
vivaciously.
Glue me to you,
my friend.

Artbox: The Leftovers Syndrome

Leftovers.
It's what's for dinner even if I cook something new.
The kids finish, and I eat what's left on their plates.

Leftovers.
It's what's in my bathroom cabinet.
I finish his almost-squeezed-out toothpaste.
And I salvage the last drops of everything.

Leftovers.
It's what time I have for myself.
After everyone is fed and clean and smiling in their sleep,
I kick up my feet into a criss-cross-applesauce on my desk chair
to write and read and scribble and be.

Leftovers.
It's what's in our artbox.
Broken crayons, scraps of construction paper,
Half-filled paint tubs, sticker sheets stuck together--
and we attack it all.
Clawing for the best leftovers,
we dig in our fingers for the scraps,
for the mess of what's left
to make something new.
Glue galore and stickers atop painted surfaces,
glitter and splashes of goo,
plus maybe some playdough, for texture--
all becoming more.

Leftovers.
I may feel like the bottom of the pile.
I may carry the weight of needs and wants and tantrums and sicknesses.
I may lack the shiny flint of newness
And the wholeness and shapeliness of my younger self.

But then I wouldn't belong in the artbox . . .
Because in there, you're ready for blending,
mixing, creating, molding, and building.
In there, I get to combine my messy moments
with the broken and little and half-bit pieces around me
to fill, beautify, satisfy--
to glorify.

And in that completion I realize that the most precious pieces
often come from the bottom,
from digging deep and finding the one thought lost,
the one thought forgotten,
the one left only to be treasured
in togetherness.

So paint over the buttons
and scribble with the stickers.
Dig for torn origami sheets
and felt scraps and glue.
Create overlap and understanding,
building a new mound of loveliness
with leftovers.




{This post is part of 5-minute Friday--a writing collection each week based on a one-word prompt.}

Writer Realized

Will I fill the role I dream
Real and whole and all it seems?
Indeed known--but better poured:
Thoughts and plots and poems un-stored;
Echoing my soul's delight,
Resounding in etched black and white.

Recognition kills the art:
Ebbing beauty from its heart,
Arresting fame from a puerile ploy,
Leaving a name instead of joy.
Imbed beneath each writer's urge,
Zealous truth must somehow splurge--
Engulfing all and flowing o'er,
Deluging pages with something more.



{This post is part of 5-minute Friday--a writing collection each week based on a one-word prompt.}

How Lovely and How Lowly

How lovely and how lowly...
Creation His solely...
Holy.

Yet in compassion He donned
the pungent robe of outcast man
to be--gone
from home's perfection
to this world of misdirection,
to face bold and dark rejection.
His plan, still
a choice, of will
to leave heaven for earth,
to enshroud His worth,
to encapsulate the Word
in a single human voice
by birth--
human yet pure,
divine reduced to dust,
a must
for us:
our Cure.

In Your Presence

Worthy, high and holy,
admired, adored--
You, God, are great.
My heart full but lowly,
I wait
then lift my sight--
once darkened now restored--
to behold Your glory,
to read Your bright, bold story
of right,
of truth, of beauty, of compassion,
of rescue,
of un-rational grace,
of my mess--You
took
my place.

Your light enfolds my being,
the brightness sears my seeing.
Outpoured--
Your presence is freeing.

May I connect with Your gaze
and respect You with praise
and reflect You, my Lord,
always.

Amen.

Purge Me of Vanity

Humanity engorges itself on pride.
Behind the "me me me," it hides
the sick, puke-spew of a futile chase
to embrace self-worth or worse:
a feigned place in heaven.
Fast--
and feast on Bread then.
Drink of the Holy Ghost,
but most--
Gouge out your viral vanity,
your fast-food-sanity.
Then take your seat beneath the rest
to stay
for His dinner,
and beat your breast and pray:
"Have mercy on me--the sinner!"

May I, Maybe?

May I be Your child
as I parent my own?

While calming wild tantrums
and correcting disobedience
maybe...
I can crawl up near Your heart
and steady my beat
to Yours?

While concocting meals
and blending baby food
maybe...
I can sit at Your table
and be fed
Your nourishing Word?

While juggling laundry
and groceries and
cleaning and shopping
maybe...
I can sit on Your shoulders
for the high perspective of
purpose and progress
instead of chaos.

While living with children
attached to my every limb
and breaking
every silence
maybe...
I can cling fiercely to
Your nail-pierced hand
and find rest in knowing
my loving Father never tires to hear
my voice.

While I parent my child,
may I be Yours?

Interruptions by the Spirit

Schedule loosely in your planner,
leaving room in your moments,
in your manner,
saving a step in your stride
to venture outside
for added components.
Keep an ear to the Spirit,
filtering noise as you hear it,
so an instant's choice
isn't shackled to your plans,
but instead:
open to His voice.
Tackle the fetish to fill
each time slot in pen--
and wed your will
to His:
who, what, and when.

Faith, Grace, and Growth

God, give me comprehension
of this tension
between faith and works.
Do requirements lurk
behind the gift of grace?
Why is there a race
to run
if the winning is done?

What about those
who pose
as believers
(with the loot of "fruit")--
Aren't they deceivers?
What about Christians
who follow the letter
but never get better--
Don't they shame the mission?

What then is the connection
between belief and deeds?
Is it a balance--equal?
Or a progression
with works as the sequel?
What impedes
their coexistence?
Rejection to subjection.
A conscious resistance.

Because "salvation is by grace
through faith,"
we must place
works as evidence
of the Spirit's residence.
Where there is no fruit,
there is no root.
For the Bible said,
"Faith without works is dead."

A Pure Reflection

Godliness cannot be separated
from relationships.
For when I slip
and resort to pride--
even of my own holiness--
my godliness is negated.
I hide,
comfy in my phoniness
unless I hear the Holy Spirit
and prune the rotten fruit
or weed out the bitter shoot.
Shear it--
the hypocrisy, the denial,
flaunting godliness in bad style.
Fear it--
the anger of a holy One
if I misrepresent
His Son.
Revere it--
truth and charity,
hope and clarity.
Let them take root:
the pure reflection of
Perfection is worth my
ardent pursuit.

Beloved, be still

Beloved,

be still:

remember.

Betrothed,

be silent:

return.

Be fixed on Me:

surrender.

Open your heart

and yearn.

Be freed from lust,

worry, and pride.

Be pure and whole,

My bride.

Beguiled child,

be less.

Abide in Me:

through fasting be free

to bless.

Release your ties

to this temporal world:

be emptied

o soul, from guise.

Be filled with Me

and live,

Beloved,

as wise.

Communion

Bread of the earth,
fruit of the vine,
silence and truth--
a birth of divine
awareness to deprivation,
salvation, and youth,
age, and fatality.

Carnality leashed,
its rage muzzled in grace,
discipline, and faith.
Remembrance reached
by a taste of His pain,
a glimpse of His face--
battered, betrayed
by a kiss.
It matters today.
"Do this."

A sip of spilled love,
a new covenant of
Christ as the Man,
the unblemished and true
sacrifice--
the Lamb from above,
Jesus.
The price paid for you,
for us.

The body by the bread,
the blessing by the wine--
The holy table spread with what bears
His perfect design.
The Lord declares,
"Come dine."

By Pain He Saves

The pain He bore,
the disdain and rejection
of perfection, the shame of betrayal He wore,
and more--the injection
of sin's curse
and the battering of
what was worse--
a forsaking Father
spattering wrath on
a spotless Soul...
His role was taking
my place.
His goal: sufficient grace.
With satisfaction He bled.
The red stains of His sacrifice
suffice,
sealing our healing
with pains.

All Glory His

Lord, You work through winds
and waves, bright rays, snow, and drought.
You judge sin, cravings, and wayward doubt
through methods we cannot understand.
We cannot come to plan Your ways,
Your breath on us,
Your choices that are all-wise and just.
What parts we play are wealth to some--
the proud who misconceive Your sole throne.
Your voice is truth. We are dust.
The glory is Yours alone.
We pray. We listen.
We trust.
You write the story, Lord.
May we never take credit for a miracle,
an answered prayer, or more--
the dealings with us creations.
You said it. You steer us all.
The mere patience of Your allowing us
to participate in Your will:
What a joy and honor!

Let us not toy with our importance,
remembering to don our foolish minds
with humility,
perchance we eclipse the glory of God
by claiming our hands were at work.
The futility! To murk the shine of shekinah?
Deny the naming of our plans,
the faming of our lips.

Lord, we ask for grace
and a place in Your purposes,
knowing we are clay
molded to Your services,
knowing the outside winds, waters, and trees
obey.
May we also bow--
on our knees, nay, on our faces--
and erase traces of our pride
now.

I Need You Near

My stricken heart beats faster even though
I know it speeds me toward foreboding fear.
My moistened eyes squint back the coming tear
To keep up facades of my courageous undertow.
My knotted head twists more in futile searches
To find the miracle eluding me,
To find the happy end including me.
Still, no easy outlet yet emerges.
Am I to walk this valley then, my Lord?
I see darkness ahead and linger in the light.
I see danger to dread and hesitate to fight.
Be with me, O God, with Your Spirit and Your Word,
For I meant it when I said my life is Yours,
Stay near is all my aching heart implores.

My Prayer Tonight

Let my speech be sweet:
Please help my intentions and actions
meet—that they may produce fruit
and higher fractions of Your perfection,
Your flawless state so high above our reach
yet drenched with love for each of us
who waits...and yearns for Your direction.
Please teach me to trust,
as I grow and ache and learn
and muster a semblance of boldness
amidst the cold pall of pain--
a stained smile basking in balm,
a broken bastion gripping His palm--
You hold the world, fastened in force.
You hold me too,
of course.
Keep me near Your heart
that I may feel the rhythm of Your will
and hear the part I am to play,
that I may be still against Your chest
and rest.

O, Creator God

The snow falls delicately like Your grace
The rain brings freshness like Your mercies
The sun beams warmth like Your love
The wind sweeps away the old like Your forgiveness
And I rest in the security of Your goodness
O, Creator God

Continually Believing

Faith cannot be a one-time thing--
a forgotten action in the past tense.
Instead, it's continual like a ring--
unending and sealed in endless sense.
Our God is not distant or distracted;
He is present and involved with us.
Then why do we live with belief subtracted
and with worry lining what we discuss?
With salvation in our then and now,
we must make choices that reveal our belief.
Even when God hides the "why" or "how,"
trusting in Him brings incredible relief.
Let us cling to His Word and begin receiving
the victory that comes from continually believing.

Eyes Upward: A sonnet on transition

I'm on the brink of change in time and place,
An airplane's flight away from foreign lands,
An instant's switch in food, in words, in race,
Before me beams a light on God's great plan--
Still, fear can grip a well-intentioned heart
And lead my feet to trip when following
So that I flinch when it is time to start.
(Anxiety burns and tempts some wallowing.)
But God is there as much as He is here,
And prayer works just as well abroad.
As I pause, I hear His "do not fear,"
And bow my head to obediently nod.
The mission field is ripe and ready, Lord.
Send me now and keep my eyes upward.