Let's Run Instead

As I sit on a bench up at the park, I glance up from my page and notice a little boy and his father playing on the swings. They look perfect together- the little boy a beautiful resemblance of his dad. Their eyes match. Their hair both the color of sun-kissed sand. I watch as the boy hops down from the swing and reaches for the hands of his father, who gladly stoops to hold him. He looks into the brilliant blue eyes of his little boy and says softly, “it’s time to go home.” As they stand, the boy tugs gently at his dad’s pant leg, adoringly gazing up at him. “Carry me on your shoulders, daddy”, he pleads. But the father smiles and shakes his head, clasping the tiny hand of his son in his own and says, “how about we run together instead?” And they do, the strong arms of the father gently upholding his little boy as they run side by side.

***

I cannot help but wonder... is it not the same with our Father? Does not the Creator of man desire to run along side His children as we continue this human race? We are often like that little boy, pulling on our Daddy’s pant leg and begging Him to carry us on His shoulders, when He would so much rather run beside us and help us stand. He delights in taking hold of our hand, and with His almighty strength, pulling us along. We should not expect to be leisurely carried through this whole life. We have to have our feet on the ground, running the race. And we have to know that our Father is able, more than able, He who comes to Earth and willingly runs at our side.

Trust

The wheel glides with ease between the bends of my certain hands. Sharply, when I tell it to. Gently, when I move it so. The enlivening sensation of control tingles in the tips of my fingers, the smooth motion of the steering wheel going back and forth around the turns. Steady on stretches of nothing. Trembling on paths of uneven terrain. I smile at the power, and the freedom, and the liberating, all encompassing feeling of entire control. Can I ever let it go?

Don’t go down that road. I’m telling you now, and you need to listen to Me. Stop the car. Do you have any idea what is down there? Things you can’t see, and things you don’t want to see. Things that lurk in the tangible shadows, and creep through vines of passing doubt, uncertainty, evil, and destruction. You can’t see them, but I can. I know the road ahead is unlike the one you travel so leisurely now. Trust me. Stop the car. Let me drive.

Something takes me by surprise. The wheel, once so powerless without me, slips from my casual grasp and wavers in its own directions. I try to take hold of it again, my knuckles white with the tension in my fingers, and focus my eyes on the clouded road before me. I cannot see. My vision is obscured as a mist of fear settles like fog, and I struggle to keep driving straight ahead. I panic. I scream. I let go and throw up my hands. Then, strong arms I’ve seen before come securely around me and reach for the wheel, taking hold firmly.

Surrender.

The road is suddenly visible, as the cloud of doubt subsides and casts itself away, and I can see clearly through the windows. The driving is steady. Smooth. Straight. I no longer rock back and forth with every bump and rock I hit. I feel stable and confident as the arms take control of the wheel before me, as I am mercifully robbed of my power I once had.

Watch what happens when I have control. Nothing can go wrong. I promise.

***

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” - Proverbs 3:5&6

----------

You can only watch me fall
and know that without you
I am nothing at all, but you see me as more
than just another line on the shore, more than only
a quiet child, desperate and lonely
and you long to kneel down to earth and reach
to touch your creation and begin to teach me everything
I need to get through the pain
to turn to you and not go back
to what I used to be before that, Jesus, hold me close to you
I’m falling to uncertain truths.

Mary's Eyes

I could not help but smile to myself as I looked down
on the three women walking side by side, their baskets of spice and bitter herbs
resting tilted on their hips, and the fragrant bundles of sun-kissed
wild flowers, bound together by handmade twine, rested atop the gathered foods
and the aromas which I breathed into them, clung to their wraps.

It pleased me to hear the chimes of life in their voices again, as they
talked among each other, and took the width of the worn and trodden path
beneath them, as they stepped slowly, savoring time
and speaking with smiles and soft laughter, spirit that had been so absent from them
only days before, when their hearts were torn in two for me, when I
would have given anything to come down from my stake and dry
the tears that poured from their weary eyes, and to hold in my arms
their trembling bodies, which shook with grief and pain
but I could not.

I watched closely as they approached the tomb, guarded by
fallen men and a glow of angelic light which seeped brilliantly
through the circular entrance, to where the stone was rolled away and
left open a path to which their eyes followed, troubled at first
but I knew they would be in awe upon their discovery when they entered
and found the angel waiting patiently, just as I had told him to
there on the bed of rock where I was laid, where his fingers toyed
with the linens that clothed me no more, and he said to them
“Be not afraid, women, your Jesus is risen!”
And never could anyone describe her look, Mary’s eyes that I saw
that grew with sudden vibrance, and life thought to be forever lost,
eyes that glistened with Me
because love was stronger than My death.

Sometimes Your Glory

Sometimes we don’t want to give
today another chance, and another time around to live
the life that keeps on knocking, pounding on the doors of insecurity
and what lies behind barricaded windows, hidden iniquity
all consuming burdens that weigh heavy on our minds
and sometimes it seems there isn’t enough time
in this world, and it slips away too soon

Sometimes we don’t want to try
the waters of the uncertain life that waits ahead
so strong we think we are, but we crumble like ruins instead
but what do we have to lose? If we could just let go...
and learn more of what it means to trust in You
to leap from giant mountains, lined with edges of trust
and sometimes it seems we forget we were brought from only dust
of the earth, and became more

Sometimes the path is clear
and unbroken lines trace over steps of fear
we walk and we cease to fall
because hope and strength are here to see us through it all, and we
rejoice in simplicity, which is like breathing fresh air
never to forget that among such life, You are there
and sometimes there are blessings undisguised and waiting
in this life, to be thought upon

Sometimes Your glory is found
in what we often overlook when our eyes are fixed
to the shifting ground, and we forget to glance
up and see what was made for us to marvel at magnificence
and promises made before time could dawn upon earth’s
ever changing face, and sometimes we pray for rain
of glory, to see it once again.

Sometimes Your Glory

Sometimes we don’t want to give
today another chance, and another time around to live
the life that keeps on knocking, pounding on the doors of insecurity
and what lies behind barricaded windows, hidden iniquity
all consuming burdens that weigh heavy on our minds
and sometimes it seems there isn’t enough time
in this world, and it slips away too soon

Sometimes we don’t want to try
the waters of the uncertain life that waits ahead
so strong we think we are, but we crumble like ruins instead
but what do we have to lose? If we could just let go...
and learn more of what it means to trust in You
to leap from giant mountains, lined with edges of trust
and sometimes it seems we forget we were brought from only dust
of the earth, and became more

Sometimes the path is clear
and unbroken lines trace over steps of fear
we walk and we cease to fall
because hope and strength are here to see us through it all, and we
rejoice in simplicity, which is like breathing fresh air
never to forget that among such life, You are there
and sometimes there are blessings undisguised and waiting
in this life, to be thought upon

Sometimes Your glory is found
in what we often overlook when our eyes are fixed
to the shifting ground, and we forget to glance
up and see what was made for us to marvel at magnificence
and promises made before time could dawn upon earth’s
ever changing face, and sometimes we pray for rain
of glory, to see it once again.

Take Me Home

She sits alone on the floor in her room, knees tucked securely to her chest, and she holds her bible tightly to herself, as though the hands of some unseeable thing were trying to pry it from her arms, robbing her of comfort and placing upon her solitary self, affliction and fear. Why this again, Jesus? Sometimes it was not merely enough to read the words of her Father- she needed to tangibly cradle it against her, and feel the assurance, the solace which seeped through its tattered pages, worn with time and eyes, for she had been here before. It hurt to return again.
She can taste the saltiness of her tears as they travel down her cheeks, and fall to the corners of her mouth. They are much expected visitors. I’m sorry for crying. Sounds of quiet whimpers escape her closed lips, though she tries to hush them with thoughts of shame for such emotion, yet struggles to veil her mind and heart’s unspoken distraint. She cannot help but feel this way. She cannot help but unfold her hands and look down upon their humanness, then lift them beyond the limitations of her ceiling, and to the Almighty who sits on high and waits for her, reaching to take hold of those hands, and draw them to His face. I don’t deserve you.
She cannot help but wonder if she is the only one in the world that ever felt this way. Perhaps she is, but no one can know to her extent. She clasps one hand over her heart, as though aching with physical pain, and closes her eyes to blind her from the world. Just for a while. I can’t do this anymore. There is no one to hold her in arms of certainty, and no one to still her trembling form, which is overwhelmed with hurt so desperate, so consuming, that she longs for her soul to lift and leave her aching body, to fly on widespread wings and soar again. She questions her willingness to try again, the willingness that takes her by the wrist and spins her to where her feet meet the ground again, and she rides out the trial, the willingness that whispers against her pounding ears words that scream perseverance, hope. She waits for those words againg. Just take me home, Jesus.

Venice (-52 Days-)

the canal was quiet and nearly still as we drifted patiently along the surface
of the salty smelling water, which splashed in turn up against the side of the gondola
tiny droplets of the cool, summer liquid sprinkling the inside of the boat-like swimmer
which carried us with unprotesting ease, and rocked steadily back and forth with every pierce
of the boatman’s oar into the dark water beneath
where it would then ripple like a stone’s throw into an untouched pond, then with gentle strength
would he glide the wooden stick through the canal
and send the lengthy gondola sailing along; effortlessly it seemed to move us
and I could not help but lean over its pointed bow, extending my fingertips to graze the cool,
wet surface of the water, and see the uncertain fish rapidly turn at the threat of my hand
and swim in another direction, wishing they could see what I could
and the sweet, melodic voice of the boatman rang strongly through the winding canal
as he sang the tunes of his only language, music of old, and of his home
music that told the tales of ancient, and unforgotten chronicles, and though we could not
interpret his words enough to grasp their meaning
we listened and breathed in the beauty of rising and falling melodies, the ascension
of the aging voice that once chimed with youth
we listened
and drifted away.

Amazing Grace

“God gives people grace that He actually intends to go to other people. When God wants to give grace, He gives it to a person to give to you. This is amazing, because God not only wants you to be a recipient of grace, but a channel of grace as well. What a privilege to be a steward of that grace!” - Pastor Scott

Oh, Father,
Help me to receive that grace broken and humbled. Help me to know that I am far from deserving of the mercy you lavish upon my life, far from worthy of that amazing grace I know so well, and love so dearly. Without it, I am nothing. Lead me to a life that is altogether devoted to extending the grace and love and mercy and compassion that has been abundantly shown to me. Lord, help me to love the unlovable. Help me to show mercy to those who are not merciful, for they need it the most. Help me to have compassion on my persecutors, and those who do not know you. And help me to be an ever flowing channel of that sweet grace, even when it is not returned, so that You may be seen in me. Make me a steward of Your amazing grace.

Sweetly Falling

How can we keep alive
the love that once met us here?
I know it hasn’t been long
since last we were dwelling in
the humbled and joyful heart
the bond that once kept us standing strong

We hold tight to what we can
walk steadily, keeping faith
but how can we pass through it all?
the memories start to fade
and we can’t see where to go
when fear, like shadows, begin to fall

Tonight can you promise me
that you’ll be my anchor to
hold me fast to the ground?
when blow ceaseless, angry winds
that try to sweep me away
and there, among you’ll be found

Will you forget yesterday?
Will you forget tomorrow too?
etch them like words on your heart
the past held too much to be
thrown away carelessly
let this be the time that you start

That you open up your eyes
remembering all that was
and all that in time will be
maybe then when you glance
across old, fading photographs
it will be history you see

History that surely held
more than just rhymes and tales
of the hours that passed us by
those days never seemed too long
and this feeling never wrong
to beg for just one more try

And maybe then we’ll go back
maybe we’ll take a chance
to see what the future might give
and what blessings are in store
but how could we ask for more
in this life of abundance we live?

Oh, how in perfect joy!
how beautiful would it be
for love to reign once again
for sweetly He’d let us fall
to arms that held us through it all
to love that came first from Him

Love unconditional
love without faltering
holding us certain and tight
love that can have no end
love that threads swift to mend
can that love meet us here tonight?

Florence (-61 Days-)

The terra cotta rooftops are cold to the touch of our bare feet
while we walk along their shingled surfaces
when no one else is watching, or telling us to climb down before we fall
we wait until the glowing, red sphere that is the sun, sets into the fold
of the valleys far off, and when the shadows begin to cradle the busy city
lulling it to sleep with the songs of ancient Italy
and it is then that the moon gives a pale, haunting light to our footsteps, and creating
pools of silver light that we dance in as quietly as we can
only letting our voices rise when the chime of the city bell is loud enough to drown them
and when the shouts and cries of celebration in a distant home
can be heard throughout the streets, coursing through the allies
and mingling with the light and tempered breeze that carries their sound
drizzling it along the walls of ancient cathedrals, and flooding
the cobblestone paths around the park
and we are dying to sing aloud, but refrain and walk a winding trail along the rooftops
where one is nearly touching the other
their rusty colored shingles close to overlapping, and yet
leaving space enough for one to look searchingly through, and see the life in between the cracks
watch the elderly women hang daily laundry and cloths from wire strands
watch the arms of men go back and forth as they move the bows of their fiddles
here the vigor in their voices
watch the children play with rocks and paper dolls in the allies, lit by the amber lights
which pour forth from the square windows of their homes
watch the scraggy dogs search desperately through the garbage cans, and the few
black and brown cats scurry from street to street
like you and I from rooftop to rooftop
before the sun awakes again, and the morning echoes its yesterday.

He Could Not Help But Love

I think upon the sight of him
the ruggedness of well worn and treading soles to mingle with earthly soil
and the dusty spread of his calloused hands, human fingers raking
through the thickness of human hair, untamed and unkept, and being tossed by the wind
so boldly coursing around him, to graze his flesh that was sacred in disguise
and to feather the tear-struck cheeks, kissed by the sun, and by the Creator before he was sent
to dwell there among the vilest of men, and among
the unsaved and unforgiven souls who knew not but anger and hate, greed and envy
and when he paused to look on them
to let his eyes travel up and down the sinful, malicious bodies of evil,
he could not help but love them, and could not help
but break with compassion, at the sight of them becoming what he cannot look on
and we ask him why such mercy he would bestow upon them, and why
he would choose to descend from on high, that he may enter into
their world that shunned him
why he would walk the dusty paths of the earth... temptation, unguided
why he would partake of the daily food of the people... poison, venom
why he would speak with the masters of deceit... hatred, lies
why he would teach the unteachable
why he would bear the unbearable
why he would touch the untouchable
why he would die for the ones who wished death on him
and he says it was because he could not help but love them.

Homesick

-The summer air is warm and heavy, gently washing upon the red rooftops of the humble southern village, and then trickles down gradually to the porch of one in particular, where the litt,le brown-eyed boy sits like an Indian at his mama’s feet as she mends the holes in the knees of his pants. His dirty hands rest patiently in his lap, his round eyes following the rock of his mama’s chair, back and forth, back and forth - the soothing creek of splintering wood as she rocks forward each time. His mama had taken upon the task of encouraging him to go and play with the other children, as they frolicked about like deer in the upper fields, but he found the meek and wise company of his loving guardian to be much more fulfilling. Being no older than eight years old, his inquisitive mind meet him here, pondering the greater things in life, and asking of his mama for answers she hardly knows herself. The oaks provide a cool shelter over the little porch, and the two talk quietly as the day passes them by.-

“What’s it gonna be like in heaven, mama?”

“Heaven? Why, I don’t know, baby. Never recall seein’ it myself.”

“Well, what happens when we get there?”

“When we get to heaven, we’ll see a great big gate, made outta pearls like the ones on nanny’s necklace, only they’ll be so big and so round, your hand won’t be able to fit around ‘em.”

“Is that where Jesus is, mama?”

“No, baby. Jesus ain’t at the gate of pearls. Jesus is inside heaven.”

“Well, what’s at the gate then? There’s gotta be somebody there, right? Somebody’s gotta make sure the bad guys don’t sneak into heaven right, mama?”

“There ain’t gonna be no bad guys in heaven, baby. St. Peter’s gonna be there, sittin’ on his big chair made outta solid silver. He’ll be sittin’ there with his great big book. They call it the Book of Life, and it’s gonna have your name in it, and my name, and papa’s name. Them names are the souls that get called into heaven, you know. Them names are the saved ones, the ones that get to see Jesus.”

“And I’m gonna get to see Jesus. Right, mama?”

“Yes, baby; you gonna see Jesus all right. You gonna see him, and he’s gonna call you up on his lap to sit a while. You his baby too, you know.”

“But what about the gates, mama? How can I get through them pearly gates?”

“Oh, baby, those gates are gonna swing wide for you. They’s gonna swing so wide, and you’ll go dancin’ through like you never danced before, right into the arms of Jesus.”

“But mama, what am I gonna say to him?”

“Why, what do you think you gonna say to em?”

“I’s gonna tell him that I love him. And I’s gonna thank him for papa and you.”

“And do you know what else is waitin’ for you up there in heaven, baby?”

“What’s that?”

“Think real hard, baby, real hard. What’s your Sunday school teacher tell you’s up there? What are you gonna walk all over when you get there?”

“Streets of gold!”

“That’s right! And Jesus is gonna walk right there by your side all the time, and he’s gonna tell you all the things you never knew before. He’s gonna tell you just how he made you, and how he picked them dark eyes of yours from the rich soil of the earth. And he’s gonna tell you how he made up your name, and tell you how many hairs be on your head. Do you know why he’s gonna tell you all these things?"

“Why’s he gonna?”

“Cuz he loves you, baby. He loves you even more than papa and me. He loves you even more than that there oak tree standin’ tall. He loves you even more than them singin’ birds in the willow out back. He loves you even more than them clouds up there a ways, and more than the grass growin’ green under your feet. That’s why he’s gonna make sure you get up to heaven with him.”

“How long, mama? How long do I gotta wait to go to heaven?”

“Oh, baby, don’t be thinkin’ about heaven so soon. You’s gonna spoil its sweetness that way. You just stick ‘round here for as long as you can, then when he’s ready for you, he’ll take you there, and you’s gonna soar Home to him. And I’ll see you there, baby. I’ll see you there.”

***

"Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life."
-Revelation 21:27

Rome (-66 Days-)

Brilliant are the lights that dance like flames
along the endless, freely flowing ancient sky, tonight untamed
which shelters the crumbling work below
the uncertain standings of timeless ruins, holding history still unknown
in the foundations of their grandeur
so immortal are the memories there, and the stories graciously pour
seeping through the cracks
where solemn men once leaned upon their aching, weary backs
of the pillars still standing tall, not greater than the victory
that spills around the breaking walls
and the music that can still be heard, no sweeter was it long ago
than now, as inquisitive fingertips brush along their surfaces below
ears inclined to hear the hymns
sung from a thousand voices carried by a thousand winds
and the musty smell of savory spices still lingering
in the halls once filled with hauntingly, resounding singing
in a language unspoken
cutting the tangible, heavy air so long unbroken
voices of deep, abyssal strength
pulled from hours of chanting the feeling of pain
when death once filled the chambers in malicious, dark form
of angered men with hearts enraged and yet, shamefully forlorn
the battle begun and now
there is but this left to show that among their rage, somehow
victory had her sweet revenge
to leave the temples standing strong enough, clear the hateful stench
and draw the people to them like gold
to witness the triumph of beauty, and ask them to reverently behold
what came after the fallen reign
what did not crumble, and the magnificence of old that still remained
and now, we marvel at such a place.

Like Sheep...

Her eyes were the same color as the storm of the night she died. We thought the wind would pass through that afternoon, and settle in the eastern hills before the sun began to set. We were wrong. It carried into our village, from the spring of which all winds begin, their origin where animal like instincts are breathed into their strands, wild and relentless, evil. And though their temper was mild at first, brushing gently along our faces and playing with our hair as we worked in the garden, disturbing the leaves of the trees, there was malice and anger behind them, indwelling them, making them what they should have never been. It was almost like we could smell it- that evil, lingering so heavily in the air, almost like we could touch it with our hands, dusty and worn with earth. But we did not listen carefully enough to the warnings. The storm closed in around us like shadows at night, when all is still, and you can hear the sound of fear. The winds howled like a thousand wolves, ringing their haunting notes in the air, and letting them mingle with our own cries of distress and fright. We trembled like the trees out front as we listened from the cellar beneath the old, rustic house, which later, would not be standing so strongly; we had grown up there, the three of us- me, brother, and sister. We held each other together in a tight and constricting ball on the dusty floor, my face pressed into the baby-soft hair of sister, breathing the smell of soil and earth, and my hand resting atop the head of brother as he shook violently, as like the lamp above our heads, and the rows of jars filled with preserves which lined the shelves around us. I clutched the tiny forms of my brother and sister in utter refusal of allowing the twirling monster, in rage above us, to snatch them from my grasp. I could feel the warm tears on sister’s cheek as I brushed the matted hair from her face; it was then that she suddenly pulled from my hold and stood abruptly.
“The kitties!” she cried, above the scream of the storm, “we left the kitties upstairs! We hafta get the kitties!” With that, she rushed to the cellar door and unlocked the hatch before I could lift brother off my lap and stand. “No!” I shouted, so loud it made him cry. “No! Stay here!” Sister couldn’t hear me. Instead she left the cellar in a rush, toward the kitchen where we kept the kittens during the night. I followed after her, leaving brother by himself in the dark of the cellar, knowing he could not walk without help. So many images flashed before my eyes, that I could not see where I was going. I was dizzy. Confused. Afraid. I saw sister ahead of me, her tiny figure darting about and avoiding objects that were being thrown around us. She held her hands out in front of her, and reached for the kitchen door. “No!” I screamed again, until my lungs felt they were bleeding from the strength of my voice. I took hold of her wrist, but she quickly spun around and away from my grasp, into the kitchen. It was then that it happened. She entered the kitchen, but not too soon later did I see the wall break lose from its aging foundations, with the force of the angry wind behind it, and collapse in on her. I couldn’t see, the dust obscuring my vision. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hear my own cry. I couldn’t hear hers. And I trembled at the image of her pulling away from my grasp on her life. She chose not to listen to me.

“We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.” - Isaiah 53:6

my pen feels heavy in the uncertain grasp of
my fingers which cannot find where to begin this time
and even as the ink flows freely, blackened drops and brushed
scratches along the pure white page
I find that nothing is there, and the aching muscles in my hand
have nothing to prove themselves
of their work they so often regard as victory after enduring a wait so long
which takes from them life, at times
but a wait that is rewarding because it was earned in need for completion
and I am left to realize that they might, they must, possess minds of their own
leaving me alone to watch as they work, and
see what can be made of their thoughts and mysterious inspirations, which seem
to flow endlessly, when I am incapable
and left rooted in awe, for their words cannot possibly be my own...

I don’t want to write, now..
perhaps later.

The Marvelous Exchange

I wish that I could have seen the glory
of the victory won over darkness and sin, to witness
the fall of light for a moment in time, feeling an eternity
and praying for it to end

If somehow I could have closed my eyes
and be taken away, back to that blessed hour of triumph
in disguise, so that only those who loved could see what was truly there
and they did love
for the shadows fell, and brilliance of warmth and light
tumbled freely across the dying faces
I among them, even to this day I stand there and break

I long to have felt the mighty hand invisible
reach to touch even the vile skin of a sinner like me
and call me home, call me His forever and always
a child, an object of undeserved grace
to be one who died there with him, and did not release the certain grasp
of faith, bringing me life anew, and humility
which led me to that hill
to witness the marvelous exchange.

Someone like You

Someone who is gentle, Jesus...
with a spirit that is meek when it needs to be
and does not lift a hand in anger or dispute, but rather
lowers it to his side, and holds mine gently.

Someone who is strong, Jesus...
not only in body but in mind, willing and able
and fights to stand with strength that draws from you, and
holds his ground when the world can only crumble.

Someone who is pleasant, Jesus...
the kind of person that one would long to be around
and fills a room with echoing laughter and expressive smiles
letting harmony, happiness in voice resound.

Someone who is near, Jesus...
when the shadows fold in around us like arms
and we cannot see before our eyes, what is to come next
to hold me still, and keep us from earthly harm.

Someone who is patient, Jesus...
with the gift of ability to hold on and wait
and does not lose faith in what is to come, in knowing
You will not let anything come a moment too late.

Someone who is diligent, Jesus...
under the beating sun as he works his land
knowing it is an absolute blessing, as he feels the daily struggle
and the rich, warm soil beneath his hands.

Someone who is bold, Jesus...
in declaring the reason he has to live
and making known the joy that comes from You
all You’ve given for him to go and give.

Someone who is loving, Jesus...
of me, his friend and forever his own
and of You, his Lord and first love of all
bind us together and lead us home.

Someone like You, Jesus.

Enough (-75 Days-)

I am falling in love
with a place that is not my own
still, I call it home
because when I look upon the
photos taken for those who cannot see
what lies beyond their world, the beauty
I leave this place and close
my eyes to drift away to where
pictures try so hard to take me there
it isn’t enough...
oh, please give me an open door
and lead me unafraid to where I’ve never been before
gladly will I stoop
to meet those who cannot stand
reach to give them my hand
to wordlessly acclaim all
you are, and have been to me
may it be Jesus they see
make me gentle
because in a land of ancient strength
there are still broken lives, consuming pain
I know I can’t take away
but maybe when you let me touch
their trembling hands
maybe that will be enough...