Restoration

Jesus, there is nowhere else to
run to when I’m feeling this way,
feeling the same familiar thing racing
through my empty mind, leaving empty tracks
and traces of where the pain has been before, and
will be again in time.
Like something remembered a long time ago,
it comes and stays a while, the memory never
quickly fading- recounted a thousand times over.
But you, Jesus...
You’re there, there among my world I pretend
isn’t crumbling, and maybe it isn’t, but
my human heart you forgave is desperate for revival, cries out
for healing hands to save me again
and again and again, please
let me know you’re still here, Jesus, while
I hide my face for a while and escape the
thick cloud and shadow of those things I
never wanted to leave behind- now, I hide from them because
they haunt me.
Jesus, in you I take refuge, and
in you I dwell safely, my hiding place and my rock.
Let your mercy amaze and astound me, and your strength
to overcome what is overcoming me.
Raise me higher above this. Lift me. Lead me
back to you where I’ve always belonged, where
you stilled me and moved me at the same time, and
where I did not desire control over my life that is useless when I am not
beside you, sweet Jesus.
I try to number the stars when you have called them
all by name... but you knew mine first, for
you love me with a greater love yet.
Restore me.

This too is yours, Father.

Basketball

they cover themselves, wrists and foreheads,
with crayola colored blue and black sweat bands that
will eventually serve no purpose as they
send forcefully the dotted sphere back and
forth
around the window shaped court, and
watch it bounce rhythmically like a piece of orange, rubber fruit
into the corners.
They wipe earned perspiration from
creased and glossy brows kissed by late afternoon
sun that stains their skin, blemished
by an athlete’s ambition, and they
talk about former games and disappointed scores
in the past month, that drive
them to the blacktop to be better than that, different
from the empty futures of yesterday’s
heros who failed them, black and white, and they strive for when
wild and enraged fans scream their names instead, from metal, rocking
bleachers and living room sofas, and
they only engage in conversation when someone isn’t making a clear shot
or aiming for concentration, aiming
for above the red rim.
Running-worn tennis shoes glide like
new skate blades on ice, as
quickened stops and swift turns mark the steaming, scorched
pavement made for sport and made
for the savage victory shouts and wins
planned ahead of time.
Damp and uncomfortable T-shirts are discarded as burdens
with sweat-stained advertisements, pictures
of faces, those once heroes, and bold words
that drive them to further ability, words like
“be the best you can be”, and swishes of
“just do it”, on their backs, and some wonder why they can’t...
And so the game is continued at fault for tied rounds
and equal shots, permitting weather and quiet onlookers who share
the dream
of living for the sake of the sport.

"May I continue to find favor in your eyes..." -The Story Of Ruth

She had never tasted death so bitterly before. The mournful days would come and settle heavily like raised beads of cold sweat upon her fevered brow, as she lay awake beneath stars, weeping almost angrily at the loss of the only thing which kept her young, kept her at peace- her husband, Elimelech, and her two sons, Mahlon and Kilion. How she rejoiced in the happiness they once brought to her. She let the fresh images of her sons’ weddings be carried by remembrance through her tired mind, and even still, reflected on them gladly when in the company of her two daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth. They were without doubt, something like her own daughters, for the maternal bond like cord between them held them together in the midst of their trial- where death relentlessly stole from them not once, not twice, but three blistering times the lives of those they loved most dearly.

But there came a season when the very worst of their mourning had, at last, subsided. Naomi gave gentle instruction to her two daughters-in-law, encouraging them to pack their things and return home, where they would be more fit to move on with their lives, for the Lord had provided for them food and aid when it was of most needed. But when Naomi declared she would remain in the land with her people, Ruth became concerned. She loved her mother-in-law, dearly, and could not help but be fixed to her side. Naomi pressed Ruth’s return home further.
“Go back to your mother’s home. May the Lord show kindness to you, as you have shown kindness to you dead and to me. May the Lord grant that you will find rest in the home of another husband.” But Ruth only shook her head and clung to her friend’s arms.
“I will go back with you to your people,” Ruth said, while tears of distress traveled down her cheeks. How could she withhold her love for her mother-in-law, the woman who had cared for her deeply, and remained with her through the death of her husband? She would not seek happiness in anywhere but with her. But Naomi said again, “return home, my daughter. Why would you come with me? Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husband? Return home.”
“But it is not another husband that I seek, it is only that I continue with you. And if the Lord wills I marry another man, then it will be so in the land of your people. You see, where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me.” At this, they wept together, overcome by emotion and most earnest love for one another. And Ruth left with Naomi.

When they arrived in Bethlehem, the barley harvest was beginning to take place. In search of food, Ruth approached Naomi and said to her, “let me go to the fields and pick up the leftover grain behind anyone in whose eyes I find favor.” When Naomi consented, Ruth went into the fields and began to glean behind the many harvesters that were going about the same way. The sun beat down hard on her aching back, arched over to sweep from the ground, the dried grain trickling from the overflow of the bags of the other workers. But this field where Ruth worked belonged to a man named Boaz, who was from the clan of Elimelech, Naomi’s husband. When Boaz arrived for the first time since the barley harvest had begun, he smiled joyfully at the harvesters, calling out to them “the Lord be with you!” And in return, a triumphant shout from the workers rang, “the Lord bless you!” While arms and hats tossed high into the air in exclamation. Ruth only smiled at the diligent and jubilant group, then continued with her own work. Boaz caught notice of her not long after, when he looked about and saw that she was the only woman in the fields. Her hair was let down and cascaded wildly about her shoulders and back, like silk brunette waves. Her clothes were tattered and worn with work, and the hem of her wraps was fraying at the constant brushing of the dusty ground beneath her. Her face, scared with fatigue and the soil of the earth, gleamed with tiny beads of sweat along her cheeks and forehead. Even still, Boaz took notice of her, and found her profoundly beautiful. Wondering who she was and what brought her to his fields, he pulled aside the foreman of his harvesters and asked him, “whose young woman is that?” and pointed her to at a distance. The foreman smiled at his master’s curiosity and replied, “she is the Moabitess who came back from Moab with Naomi. She went into the field and has worked steadily from morning till now, except for a short rest in the shelter.” Thanking his servant for the insight, Boaz went to talk to Ruth.
She was in the center of the field, working farther behind the others there, and humming a bright tune to herself so as to keep from growing more weary. Boaz approached her and said, “My daughter, listen to me. Don’t go and glean in another field and don’t go away from here. Stay here with my servant girls. Watch the field where the men are harvesting, and follow along after the girls. And whenever you are thirsty, go and get a drink from the water jars the men have filled.” His kindness overwhelmed her. His generosity touched her. In submission and humble gratitude, she knelt at his feet and with her skirt, brushed from his sandals the dust that had gathered on them. In a near whisper she looked up and asked, “why have I found such favor in your eyes that you notice me- a foreigner?” Boaz placed a strong and gentle hand on her head. “I’ve been told all about what you have done for your mother-in-law since the death of your husband- how you left your father and mother and your homeland and came to live with a people you did not know before. May the Lord repay you for what you have done. May you be richly rewarded by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge.” Ruth looked to the ground. “May I continue to find favor in your eyes, my lord,” she said, “you have given me comfort and have spoken kindly to your servant- though I do not have the standing of one of your servant girls.” With that they parted, and Ruth returned home in high spirits for the night.

When Ruth came in through the doors of the house, Naomi was waiting for her quietly by the window. With a glad embrace, Ruth kissed the cheek of her mother-in-law and exclaimed, “the Lord has blessed me on this day!” Naomi held the hands of her daughter tight in her own and asked, “Where did you glean today? Where did you work? Blessed be the man who took notice of you!” In reply, Ruth explained where she had been working that day, and told her about Boaz. At the sound of his name, Naomi’s eyes glowed with brilliance and familiarity, embracing again her daughter. “The Lord bless him!” she exclaimed, her voice crackling with gentle age, “he has not stopped showing his kindness to the living and the dead. You see, that man is our close relative; he is one of our kinsman-redeemers.” Ruth, overjoyed and after much conversation with her dear friend, left and fell asleep in the quiet of her room, gazing upon the reflected angular shapes of pale moonlight while in prayer to her Father, thanking Him for the blessing that day had brought to her so unexpectedly.

For several days, Ruth returned to Boaz and his fields, working diligently and hopefully behind the other workers as they gleaned and harvested. One evening when Ruth returned home, she found Naomi sitting in her chair and looking at the ground thoughtfully, her brow wrinkled and her eyes troubled. Ruth inquired the reason for her distressed look, bending down on her knees to eye level with her mother-in-law, who rocked gently back and forth in the creaking chair. Naomi cupped the face of her beautiful friend in her hands, and smiled warmly saying, “My daughter, should I not try to find a home for you, where you will be well provided for? Is not Boaz, with whose servant girls you have been, a kinsman of ours? Tonight he will be winnowing barley on the threshing floor. Wash and perfume yourself, and put on your best clothes. Then go down to the threshing floor, but don’t let him know you are there until he has finished eating and drinking. When he lies down, note the place where he is lying. Then go and uncover his feet and lie down. He will tell you what to do.” Ruth did as she was instructed, for she trusted earnestly the wisdom of Naomi, and washed and perfumed herself as though fit for a wedding celebration, clothed in fine linen and adorned her hair with bits of lavender. She looked breathtaking.

When Ruth arrived at the open doors of the threshing floor, she held her breath and closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer, “if it is my further service he desires, Lord, then may it be so.” Then, she entered quietly and stood at the back of the room. She could see Boaz there for he was alone on the floors, having just finished supper. When he rested contented against a large pile of grain, Ruth approached him timidly, knowing he could not see her in the darkness of the room and his eyes were heavy with sleep. When his breathing was deep and he no longer seemed to be awake, Ruth came near him slowly and kneeled, uncovering the blanket from his feet. She lay down on the floor just as Naomi had told her to do. It seemed such a strange way to answer her question. She glanced upward from where she lay, but no sound came from Boaz. Not long after, something startled him and he woke, noticing the woman laying at his feet. “Who are you?” he asked, and blinked his eyes repeatedly to adjust to the dim, amber light which shone from a lone candle in the room, nearly gone. “I am your servant, Ruth” she replied, “spread the corner of your blanket over me, since you are a kinsman-redeemer.” Boaz smiled warmly at her devotion, saying, “The Lord bless you, my daughter. This kindness is greater than that which you showed earlier: You have not run after the younger men, whether rich or poor. And now, my daughter, don’t be afraid. I will do for you all you ask. All my fellow townsmen know that you are a woman of noble character. Lie here until morning.” And so she remained in submission to Boaz, that night, and for the rest of their lives as not merely servant and master, but one.

Pretend

She takes another invisible someone by
the hand and leads him to a stone and peeled bark
prepared table, with settings of empty and folded leaves
and brilliantly crafted plates from little thoughts
that saw them first, and saw
the few rocks that looked, in unexplainable intellect, worthy of being served
on them at her no longer lonesome occasion taking place,
the gathering in the backyard she would host
in honor of ceased rain, where I watched from a window that seemed to
be made for quiet onlookers who were not invited, and who
forgot somehow the way to pretend.
I can see her speaking with her guests while she serves
delicately prepared pebbles stolen from the riverbed earlier
and small fragments of fallen leaves, that are
accompanied by imported puddle water from the sidewalk
brewed to a tepid, earthly perfection.
Her personified stranger does not
speak but gives her sufficient company as always
beneath the ever weeping willow tree that shelters
their midmorning feast of carefully created courses she takes pride in, and
her upright form sits atop a miniature tree stump, padded with
verdant moss left behind from time, and rolled into place
with eager effort, before a table fit for make-believe kings.
Freshly selected bouquets of wind-wilted
dandelions and grass blades
adorn the table, upheld by dried cakes of mud, and match
the crown on her head, which dubs her princess, seated
beside a quiet, unseen prince.

Pantoum

I had to write this poem for class. It's a pantoum, which is a form of writing that follows strict guidelines; however, I bent one of the rules and didn't rhyme it. ;) But, see if you can figure out the formula. This is a fairly short pantoum, so it should be easy to see the pattern.

____

He was never meant to fall in love
with the wax sealed and mail-tired white that enveloped
unlined pages of hurried and accidental promises
when they were introduced- faceless and unfamiliar

Holding the wax broken and mail-tired white that enveloped
her long ascending desperate rhymes written in red
he laughed when they were courting faceless and unfamiliar
trying not to become one like a prisoner in an open cell

But her long ascending desperate rhymes written in red
became to him a crimson blur behind doubt-clouded eyes
as he tried not to become one like a prisoner in an open cell
for he was never meant to fall in love.

That Name

"She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins..." -Matthew 1:21

___

"Wonderful name, how my heart thrills to hear it- the name of my risen Redeemer and King! It falls like music of heaven on my spirit, and fills me with rapture divine while I sing. Jesus, wonderful name! Sweeter than all the world to me; Jesus, ever the same, now through all eternity."

___

Oh, that name! That rings with a sound to pierce the air
and pierce the hearts of stone,
That name whose music is soft to the ears of the aching, and whose
strength upholds the weary who are planted on the soil of the race.
That name brilliantly colored across the eternal skies, and sung
from the lips of every nation in a thousand different words, as they
lift up their forgiven hands in praise.
That name majestically carried by the courts of the winds, to where
the mountains and the trees herald their King, and swiftly on
to delve into the deepest valley and to the ocean’s floor, where even
the tumbling sand cries out His name.
That name that is declared day and night, from the pulpits of those who
were called to lead, and to announce the greatness and the healing
found in the splendor of the Lord, who they again and again proclaim
among the church, the body, the pardoned and purchased.
That name that healed, and forgave, and promised, and taught, and loved,
and endures. That name that is adorned in glory, upheld in honor,
clothed in greatness, mantled with righteousness, marked with mercy.
That name that is Jesus.

___

"No voice can sing, no heart can frame, nor can the memory find a sweeter sound than Jesus' name, the Savior of man kind.

I love you, Jesus

Orange Fields

My pen pauses to breathe as I steal a long glance out the rain-struck winow. The fields are orange again. You know the ones I speak of, where we used to run and surrender our bare feet to the eternal grassy stretch of what they called “nothing”, and “insignificant”- the place where the tall blades reached our waist, when their fragile backs were not arched by demanding winds who forced them to bow before the goddess sun, hanging high and brilliant in our unceasing skies. And when she could shine no longer for that day, the rolling fold of the valleys would open for her to settle into, cradling the immense orb of light in their pocket and singing sweetly a lullaby to calm creation, while early evening winds brushed against our sun-kissed skin. We’d delve into those lasting days that offered so much, while we unknowingly gave back so little. It was ritual for us to escape the confinements that were home, and run to the orange fields still glowing with the stain of amber light from what the sun had left, guessing our hours that remained before the velvet robe of imperial blue and royal violet night was spread across the sky again, as we knew it would- like a soundless phantom. But night could not send us away. We would be soon accompanied by the early sparks that seemed to dance with one another, suspended and weaving through the sky like tiny threads and silver beads made up of something untouchable. We would lay on our backs beneath that sky to see them all, making artless impressions of our figures on the trampled grass, and brushing them away with our hands when we stood to leave, so that no one would know we were there except us. I cannot remember if a word was ever said, or needed, there in our world where nothing else existed. Our voices were only heard softly mingling with the hushed whisper of air coursing through the earth when we endeavored to number the stars. “One, two, three... or did I already count that one?” They were infinite. And do you remember the song we used to sing while we rushed home for fear of worried guardians awaiting our nightly return? I’m forgetting too...

Waiting

He stepped in through the doors of her early life
which creaked with what time had gently worn away
gathering dust on forgotten hinges of failed efforts and tries.
And he broke the weary lock of “never again”, she had placed
to barricade the entrance of where she dwelled alone, fearing
to let another take her by the hand and promise forever to her.
But the gentleness he offered showed her love, the kind of love
that served the empty places she no longer thought upon, and
guarded her at night while she slept, warding off the things that
often slipped in through the cracks into her mind.
And she learned to love again, leaving behind the brokenness
and living for the precious time he gave to her,
and she could only say...

I can’t promise you the world, can’t promise you
a thousand times around the sun, but since we’ve just begun,
I’ll promise that through every brand new day we face,
wherever you are, I’ll find my place and always will I be
the one that waits here patiently,
if you ever need me,
love will be my anchor holding steadfast to the floor
when you can’t take the world anymore,
I promise to be here
waiting.

The days quickly passed them by beneath the overgrown
vines of youth that hung with brilliance from their eternal skies
sheltering them from manifestations of the world beyond
their reach, still limited by infant dreams they would conquer.
But new faces hung on different walls they often leaned against,
never turned around to see, but when he did there was something new
that captivated his searching mind and at last
convinced his heart to open eyes of its own to the once thought, unlikely-
perhaps perfect. And so he daringly ventured from his own captivity
to what he admired from a distant cliff of doubt, now certain to step off
and unknowingly help her understand she was his prison.
So he gently said goodbye without much reason, for she already knew
and she could only say...

I never promised you the world, never promised you
a thousand times to begin again, but since we are human,
I’ll promise that through every brand new day we see,
wherever you go, I’ll try to find my place and still I’ll be
the one that waits here patiently,
if you ever need me,
love will be my anchor keeping steady to the ground
when you feel powerless and bound
I promise to be here
waiting.

Life returns to places it had visited before
and pauses to remember all the times it spent in
adoration of simplicity, beauty found in what remains there
on the shore of yesterday and the day before that, where she
often visited just to think upon the “maybes” and the “somehows”
that always felt familiar. And while she sees the scars left traced
along the fractured heart she tried to disown at times, she recalls their reason,
sees the reward of the strength that drew from pain and aching, and
wonders at the perseverance of a human’s love.
And so she tilts her head toward her skies that, still, move boundlessly
around her fragile life of glass, and hopes that the heaven beyond them
will bring him back to her, if she must wait that long
but for now she can only say...

If I could, I’d promise you the world, I’d promise you
a thousand times around the sun, but now that we’ve begun,
I’ll promise that if there is another day for you and I,
wherever you are, I’ll find my place and try to be
the one that waits here patiently,
if you even need me,
love will be my anchor holding me unshakable
when your heart is feeling breakable
I promise to be here
waiting.

Red Ink

Just let me breathe the past in one more time
to taste the sweetness of its air, remembering the things
that once were, now drift away like breaking clouds
now swept along the shoreline of the forgotten
now the painter’s color brushed on surfaces of neglect
while you, artist
create a masterpiece of denial.

Longing to retrace the steps we took,
I glance the only way I’ve ever known,
now caught inside this cage of something I fear
will hold me far too tight for even keys of coming
chances to unlock, cannot break free
and I gaze again through bars made up of
reasons why I could not reach the only dream
written on my heart in lasting red ink
I cannot erase.

The paper is creased a thousand times over the
words that begged to come from my mouth, begged
to know the feeling of voice and the
sound of their own meaning from the lips of one
who feared them the most, and who
fought to never set them free from their enslavement
to myself, as long as they were mine
as long as they were children of my pen, as long
as I could hold them dear in my hands, because they
would, I know, become earth’s prey.

Just let me remember
how the footsteps on this broken path were made
and what the callouses on my weary hands
signified- the soil of mortal life and predestined dreams which
ran between my fingers, slipping away like hourglass sand
like time
like my love for everything that, to you,
never existed.

I'll Never Be A Writer...

There are some things I fear to write about. And I often try, for the mere test to see how close I can come to grasping their meaning, their image, their emotion, their reality. I fail more often than not. I try harder than I should. There are some things in the human race that become part of us, and cannot be written about in such a way that they are properly placed on the pedestal of meaning that they should be. I’ve unwillingly placed cracks in those pedestals, trying to write about something I just wasn’t made to write about. You see, there is writing, and then there is writing well. It’s the humanness in me that forces me to sit down and try again and again until I get it right. But with some things, I don’t ever get it right. With some things, I destroy just a little more of their significance by trying to describe them. And yet, it’s the impossibility of those things that drives me to achieving their portrayal. Why is that? I fear if I cannot know them through writing, I cannot know them at all.

Unspoken

We can’t feel the gentle spin
of the earth as it takes its course through space
...wearing away places on its gloss of time
gradually erasing the markings hours left behind.
Etched upon the face of a day
are writings of a faithful heart whose hand
moves brilliantly so as to take in
the breath of something remembered again...
And so undyingly the hand is quick to write
what never became words
at fault for having thought the earth was young
...and the days ample
and hoping it had only just begun.
But eyes beyond the writer’s own
will never lean far enough over shoulders
which hide unspoken sounds
feared to be said aloud...
And when the hand rests its pen
atop the colorless page
gently stained with aging, useless rhyme
it will unwillingly leave it there
to be fed to starving time.

I Will Be Here

Tomorrow morning if you wake up and the sun does not appear
I will be here
If in the dark, we lose sight of love, hold my hand, and have no fear
I will be here...

She looked beautiful. Usually, what draws me to those who are older than me, are their solid hearts of wisdom and experience in what it means just to learn and to love. She has that too, without a doubt. But today, she glowed with a radiance I had never seen before. Happiness danced like firelight in her eyes, joy painted an everlasting smile broad across her face, and I knew she was falling in love all over again.

I will be here, when you feel like being quiet
When you need to speak your mind, I will listen
And I will be here, when the laughter turns to crying
Through the winning, losing and trying
We'll be together
I will be here...

The black and stretched limousine arrived shortly, making its elegant entrance along the driveway as our glances followed it with eagerness. Jack, with his undying formality carried with him through the years, held the door open as Grandma and Grandpa climbed into the limousine, quickly followed by all eleven of their grandchildren to ride with them to the church. I cannot remember a ride ever so wonderful as that one, surrounded by my closest family, my cousins (most of which are boys, so one can only imagine the energy that occupied the car) who are rather brothers and sisters to me. I believe we brought out the forgotten youth in our grandparents that day.

Tomorrow morning, if you wake up and the future is unclear
I will be here
Just as sure as seasons were made for change, our lifetimes were made for these years
So I will be here...

The old country church was overflowing with family and friends, where long awaited reunions between loved ones jubilantly took place. A triumph in itself. But the vibrant voices were hushed when the entrance music began to play the old US Navy march, “Anchors Away” and Grandma and Grandpa entered. This music was played for a perfectly wonderful reason. Before my grandpa joined the Navy, he fell in love with my grandma. Being called away was difficult for both of the young lovers, but they continued to combine their worlds through writing letters. Grandma’s kept them in a box in her attic, promising to let me read them someday. It was over the phone one day that Grandpa proposed to her, for the wait to return home was just too long for his anxious heart to endure in asking for her hand.

I will be here, and you can cry on my shoulder
When the mirror tells us we're older, I will hold you
And I will be here, to watch you grow in beauty
And tell you all the things you are to me
I will be here...

The afternoon could not have been more perfect for them. They were entranced by the presence of familiar faces, spoken recollected memories, their wedding music, slide shows of past times, pictures, embraces, laughter, and dedications. Grandma’s wedding dress was displayed to the side of the room, where beside it an old video of her wedding preparation was projected against the white wall. Though the film was well aged, it was amazing to see what she and Grandpa looked like when they were that young. I could hardly recognize them. But as I stood and watched the soundless film glow on the wall, I marveled at the look on Grandma’s face- the look which she echoed that day, fifty years later. Such joy. Such certainty. No wonder Grandpa loved her so much And then, glancing from the video to where they sat together at a table, there was no lessened love. It had only increased with time, grown as they did. And their cheeks were dampened with the gloss of broken tears. Remembering.

I will be true to the promise I have made
To you and to the One who gave you to me...

The celebration of lasting love was finished with final embraces and congratulations, waving off devoted friends and family, as the sweet sounds of their wedding music adorned the background once again, “Oh Promise Me”, “I Love You Truly”, and I know they would have danced together if age had not robbed them of their energy so greatly. But the tired look in Grandpa’s eyes did not exceed the brilliance of their joy. He looked on his bride adoringly even then. Saw her silvery white hair curled on the top of her head. Saw her ever blue eyes. Saw her shaky hands and unsteady walk. Saw her heart, which had grown in wisdom that overflowed from her, and into the lives of the people around her. He loved her even more then. And when he gently kissed her wrinkled cheek, it made me hope for such love one day.

I will be here...

River of My Life

Wandering around this empty place
I know so well
Must be the bitterness of failure I taste
And fear enfolds me, making me a slave
To itself
While I fall and beg You to save
The defiled life I’m known to lead
A heart of stone
That pleads for You desperately
Take me...

Oh fill the river of my life again
Let waters never ceasing flow from deep within
Because I am stained with markings of my sin
And running dry
Fill me with water that’s alive.

I’ve seen the faces that were meant to shine
Seen the lives
And some where thought as heroes of mine
But slowly did they fade when You came near
And I need You
Again, to meet with me here
Because You are sufficient for a broken life
More than enough
To cover over this earthly strife
Take me...

Oh fill the river of my life again
Let waters never ceasing flow from deep within
Because I am stained with markings of my sin
And running dry
Fill me with water that’s alive.

How many pieces can make up the mess
That is my heart?
Scattered about floors of emptiness
Trampled upon by heedless feet
Above my wounds
Urged to where failing and soil meet
And they cannot be put together again
By human hands
Only you can make joy from sin
Take me...

Oh fill the river of my life again
Let waters never ceasing flow from deep within
Because I am stained with markings of my sin
And running dry
Fill me with water that’s alive.

The Father's Arms

She said she’d met Him once before
on her knees in the corner of the sanctuary’s floor,
when all her dreams fell again
and she begged for something more, someone
to take the sin away,
to give her a reason to live for today
and while the music filled the quiet place of prayer,
she dwelled on the thoughts and tears
that told her no one was there, yet still she cried
for Him, surrounded by flickering candlelight
and tried to stand but found no strength,
fell into the Father’s arms again.

He said he’d heard the story once before
sitting on the hard, coldness of the worn gym floor,
when the words deeply set in
and broke to his heart’s core, but later,
forgotten by years so quickly flying by
and it became all he could do just to try
again, and wake up every morning with the same pain
the same tearing of worlds
that his every tomorrow seemed to bring, and he walked
but could not run, heard the whispers of distant talk
and traced steps to where he started,
fell into the Father’s arms again.

She said she’d been there once before
walked through the little white chapel’s doors
and sat in the back row
where no one would hear her footsteps on the floor, but now
she struggles to even stand to walk
and her quickly aging voice trembles when she talks
to her daughter, on the phone in her wooden rocking chair
though her ears struggle for sound
just to know someone is there, and she longs
to see where time has so swiftly gone
and if she could remember her faith,
fall into the Father’s arms again.

He said he’d known it once before
that something great awaited the saved in store
and as he falls on knee
to kiss the ground and say goodbye once more, he remembers
the love she brought him through the years,
the joy that gave him life, now bringing him tears
he thinks of her beauty, and her brilliant smile
still radiant as ever with age
that he’ll see again in a while, but as for now
he prays and ask just how
long it will be before he too can go,
fall into the Father’s arms again.

Choir Eyes

This morning I could see faces I’ve never seen before, glance on people
who come through the doors of the church, and leave without a spoken word to anyone.
I know they don’t want to be seen, but I can see them now. What are they thinking when
their eyes are closed but no song is coming from their mouths?
Are they just listening for God?
Something happens to them when they are there,
something that gives them life,
and always brings them through the doors again.

From where I stood, I could see the children holding their daddy’s fingers, and moving
back and forth impatiently.
They reach no higher than a belt buckle. They do not know the meaning
of the words that ring around them, and yet those words are slowly wearing away the layer
on their small hearts, and becoming part of them.
Though they whined and fussed, and anxiously
kicked the backs of their seats against the rhythm of the music,
I know that one day the songs of worship will reach them profoundly, truly.
I know these few little ones will one day help lead our church.
They hold the future of the body in same hands that often
lead them to trouble during worship.

This morning I could see the running blush and tear-struck cheeks of the woman
who forgot her Savior years ago, and she lifted her hands to beg Him to take her again.
I could see the elderly man dressed in tweed gray and removing his hat
in submission as he used all the strength he could to sing those sweet old hymns,
while his voice crackled with age. I could hear the crying baby in the very back, watched
as his mother swayed him back and forth to the soft rhythm of worship
and whispered the words against his ear. I could see the quiet boy in front
standing alone, while praise filled every part of him until he could not help
but lift his hands.
And I could see the oneness of the church,
the unity of the body,
the bride of Christ.

“We need to remain one in the Spirit and one in the Lord, even when we are in different places. And what pulls us together is the reality of a risen Savior; we are all listening to the same Lord, and any shred of unity that we have is because of Jesus.” -Pastor Scott

Milan (-45 Days-)

A pattern of verdant grass blades shoot from the ground, and we step
on their delicate and fragile arches, which bend submissively beneath our feet,
oppressed and crushed to the Earth’s floor, while we unknowingly diminish their glory.

Through the Y-shaped bends in the tall maple trees, we can peer
through branches created long before we were, and fix our eyes on the shifting
crowds of no more than a few at once, who move and blend together like the aromas of cooking
on a warm, summer evening when they become one in the heavy air.

And we behold the magnificence of the grand cathedral, ringing with the hums
and haunting sounds of chanting, which rise and seep through the stone walls in abundance
and pour out onto the cobblestone paths and busy streets,
and we marvel at its stature, its enchanting construction which bleeds brilliance from
every one of its pinnacles, from the peaks of every tower.

Soft light gathers in the creases of ancient sculpting, created by diligent hands
that once moved with agility as it shaped the white and streaked marble,
the glazed plaster that now forms the human design as art, and we take notice
of the perfect hands, intricate fingertips, arched legs, tilted heads, sorrowful expressions
which effortlessly gather the glances of they who pass, and wonder
as we do.