King Peace, you hold these fractured pieces
still. In authority, you hold them still. When the world rattles, incomprehensible, You are in and through all things, sustaining. We would smash our bones our minds our souls to breaking and you, King Peace, feel the weight of our aching and offer rest. You are not like the gods we worship in our angst and boiling, for you are self-controlled and clear in your purposes and will. You do not manipulate or beat into submission because your character is that of justice and freedom and mercy and love. You will not be false to your nature because it is the highest good and you are honest. Still. King Peace, let my heart be still before you, trusting and faithful and honest. Oh still. Safety is being surrounded,
Surrounded by life and held safe In the arms of the King. Safety is being seen through, All the way through and still loved. Safety is being welcomed And encouraged to grow and to rest. Safety is empathy and listening And sharing in sorrow and joy. Safety is honesty and discernment And wisdom in relationship. Safety is a willingness to be held And met in real, deep places without fear. The day before my twenty-second birthday I got dressed and ready and started an ultra-marathon race in Colorado. I had not prepared well enough at all, so I walked the first 10 miles of the route, then tapped out and hitched a ride back to family with the race organizer’s husband. I was both a little humbled, not being entirely surprised that the altitude and magnitude of the race were too much for me, and proud of myself for doing a 10 mile hike in the mountains all alone. On my birthday, we relaxed and had some delicious ice cream. And thus began year twenty-two.
June blurred past. My grandpa was hospitalized and the diagnosis got progressively worse, then better, and then one day I was at work and got the call no one wants to make or receive: “Come to the hospital to say goodbye.” I had not prepared for this either. He always recovered before. And when I got there, my words of gratitude and love for my grandpa didn’t flow. I froze. I cried. But when I met him in the eyes, his love for life and his family were evident in his deliberate gaze. He was seventy-nine, very close to eighty, so this day was not fitting in well with his Hundred-Year-Plan. We gathered, we prayed, we stayed together. Late in the evening some of us left to get some rest and I was on a pallet on the floor by my parents’ bed when the text came that he was gone. He had joined the ranks of Heaven and was in pain no longer. His life was celebrated at churches in two different states because his ministry and investment were significant in both places. We his grandchildren heard stories of his Christlike, optimistic care for people we had never met. His life had been full because it was so poured out and dedicated to people. What a legacy. Summer kept moving. It was the first summer since 2013 I was not at Laity Lodge Youth/Family Camp and I felt somewhat displaced. I read East of Eden. It exceeded my expectations. Roommates and I enjoyed summer nights seeing a play or watching movies on the Magnolia Silos lawn. My college roommates/best friends visited. I taught in the first and second grade class at church on Sundays. Summer came to an end. People asked how my summer had been. I said, “Good,” mostly because you don’t just casually say, “My grandpa died and I’m still figuring out how to process that loss since I’m close with my grandparents and this is new for me. Grieving this way is new for me.” Fall arrived on the calendar, the weather didn’t quite follow suit, and I was Stage Manager for a fundraising event for Waco Civic Theatre and I took a short acting class and I signed up to participate in a community art and poetry event focused on mental health and I began a course on world missions at church and I was still teaching Sunday school and the fall was busy at work. Life was full. I journeyed to New York City to see my dear friend and a Broadway show and it was quite a good trip. We had a grand cousin reunion in Iowa in October and then it was November and I began Stage Managing for Baskerville and recited a poem of mine at Ekphrasis and gradually got behind on my reading for the Perspectives class at church and then it was Christmastime. I agreed to take on a speaking role in a small play that was set to run in January. January came and we began Baskerville round two in Killeen, which meant late nights and carpooling and laughing and being sort of exhausted all the time. The Autobahn show got moved to February. My brother got engaged (wooo!!) and Baskerville ended and I got an ensemble part in Three Musketeers, performed in Autobahn and somehow it was March. And then it was April and Easter and wow I had been absent from lifegroup for months, but could now return. The friends there took my weary self and hugged me right back into the fam, and I wept. The busyness of the past months had been full of wonderful new friendships and stepping into roles I was built for and all kinds of growth, but it had also been full of loneliness, unease, and a feeling of not quite reaching my potential. The months were also ripe with turmoil in our nation and world and shifting of family relationships as siblings’ lives adjusted to their new normals and wow look another Facebook friend is engaged and no, there is still no special man in my life, and yes, I am still in Waco working. I process strong emotion through writing and it was a prolific year for me. Stressful moments met with contemplation and a sincere hope that Jesus is really in control when the near things and the huge things seem hopeless and depleted. When spring came and I made room for rest, He continued speaking, as He had been all along, and I finally began to listen. Whether directly or through conversation with friends or music I’m sure was crafted to speak straight to my soul, Jesus is continually holding my heart and soul and looking me directly in the eyes to remind me of His love. He crafted my heart for intimacy. He gave me the gift of feeling things richly and the bent to express those rich feelings in words. He set my mind up to care about doing my work well and with integrity, and through His miraculous sacrifice and resurrection life, offers me the chance to accept grace and humility when I don’t meet my own expectations. He calls me daughter, beloved, and asks that I keep my focus on Him. For Mother’s Day I had the honor of standing with my mama at my home church and reading some of my poems as part of my mama’s sermon about God’s heart for His children and the unique love and the calling of motherhood as a mother in the Kingdom. Then we did Baskerville again for a third (and final?) time at an art center in Clifton, Texas and it was a joy-filled reunion run. I’ve stepped into a Director role in the World Changers kids ministry at my church. I am slowly working towards learning what it means to sing and play piano (wish me all the luck and patience). I am looking into my twenty-third year with an abundance of peace and awe and giggly joy and hopefully an increasingly humble spirit because the Holy Spirit is within me. I have locked eyes with the King who crafted me with care; He is moving and speaking and breaking through shadows and strongholds. He is generous and loving and so much more than enough. So to year twenty-three: Welcome! I’m open to all the adventure and rest and growth you may hold. The great mane is just before me, the piercing eyes and the awesome teeth, with his mouth wide open as if to consume, and I am powerless to face him, the lion.
It has been cold for so long, always winter, and my heart has fallen numb to the old hopes, to the stories of sun-warmth and celebration, which spread forth in the presence and wake of this king-lion from across the seas. I have never seen him, only heard the tales from the stubbornly faithful keepers of the prophesies and memories of this lion, who is said to be both fearsome and good. But I have never seen him, and it has been cold for so long. The queen is here in power, in a show of force, in physical form. She controls the weather, the forests, and she provides tempting delights. She is tangible. So I have turned to her service, to surrender the deceived believers and help maintain the cold. But I meet a light full of wonder: A child, honest and searching, and we have tea. This light, she believes in holidays, in joy within the cold season that I have never seen, and the numbness of my heart melts to an aching hope, but I must turn her in. But I don’t. I let her go. And the queen, at the first word of my fickleness, tears my humble abode to shreds and traps my heart, my full self, in stone. And now the lion I never knew, the lion I scarcely believed in, the lion whose heart I betrayed, has sought me out and stands before me with his mouth wide open as if to consume. And, instead, he breathes and my self awakes from its stone sleep, transforming to flesh and bone and spirit. I am released to move, to dance, to run, to celebrate, to eat, to laugh, and to fight alongside him for holiday and for spring. He whom I dared not believe in, he came for me, before I could even think to ask for pardon. King-lion, I cannot understand your mercy on me, but I feel it in me and it speaks true. I will follow you. What will you make of yourself
in this world, friend? Something, I hope, for your sake. For this world tips dismal and bitter with a wind whiff and we’re helpless, we’ll all stumble, but for grace. Grace: It tears our pride down, mightily, and rightfully, and when our guard’s down, ooof it hurts so good to be seen in all our mess and still embraced with sincerity and clarity by a God who wants to meet us face to face. Face Him and glory be those eyes are honest, the strongest and most gentle all at once, He says I’m loved, cared for, set free if I’ll just drink from this living source I’ll see and know that He is good and my liberty comes from surrender: not what I make of myself, but what I let Him make of me. I meet you in the eyes, child,
And I am not ashamed of you. You cannot, and need not strive to, earn My love. My love is a gift, a blessing, and I give freely, So believe Me when I say I love you. I meet you in the eyes, child, And you are known by Me. My Spirit inside you is resurrection life, Working through the threads of your being, Trading fear for faith, So believe Me when I say I love you. I meet you in the eyes, child, And My grace is sufficient for you. So you may move in My joy and power; My Word says I am with you, So believe Me when I say I love you. God’s love is not hollow, brittle, or less substantial than it seems.
God’s love is fullness, the core and foundation of being. God’s love is not fickle, capricious, or subject to moods that swing. God’s love is constant, beyond time, and just in judgment and mercy. God’s love is not vague, incomplete, or uncertain of its plans. God’s love is specific, absolute, and faithful to its purposes. God’s love speaks, dances, and sings. God’s love heals, laughs, and redeems. God’s love is the truth and rightness of things. Here is my heart coming out of my chest,
And You see me, And You know me, And You bear my heart with respect And with a love so profound my heart Weeps and leaps with joy - Abba, Father good and holy, You take My heart in Your hands and You are Faithful to Your promises and You sanctify, And Jesus, King, You redeem, You are a patient and gracious healer Binding my heart-wounds and covering My iniquities with Your blood. Your blood is final victory and Your Spirit, Holy, mighty Spirit around my heart is grace. No two snowflakes,
It is said, to pander to our pride In our uniqueness, as if it weren’t inherent, No two snowflakes are just alike. But if we are not like, how can we be met By another and understood to the fullest Of our being, how may we be seen? Not by our own wit or merits, that’s certain. And so we pass here and there, drifting alone, Or we dive headlong to the ground, to melt, To meld so that we may be like, near solidly Like and inseparable, till we change form. Here now we are fluid beings, running off To join a stream and then a larger body, Or if the pressure is just right we’ll go silently To vapor, shapeless and unsure of ourselves. No two snowflakes, It can be said, to appeal to our wonder In our creator, as if His word could return void, No two snowflakes are just alike. You know statistically speaking, it is ridiculously easier to believe the lies we are so ungenerously bestowed from the onset of our conception than the Truth of the One who formed us.
The Truth is always speaking, but the lies are thickly seeping into our well-meaning thoughts and conversation like a toxic gas leak, so subtle and ubiquitous it blurs our vision slowly and makes us wreak collectively of falsehood until some saintly prophet stops and begins to clear the air. But in hearts so conditioned to live in fear the prophet-speak may be warped grossly into shame and breed a festering isolation. You know it does sound unpleasant, but self-pity loves a party where it can stick a pin through every place an imperfection could be until we are stuck thoroughly through, immobilized by criticism and loathing. And so sits our hearts, perhaps unbeknownst even to our own minds, but when it comes up in conversation or situation - that one thing, you know the one? - it hits a pressure point and we crumple or explode or freeze because latent lies seize every opportunity to terrorize us, but like, it’s funny, right? Self-deprecation and making a joke of our dear depression, our loneliness? Ha. Hilarious. So when it comes up, and it does, we make a slip-shod quip and are on our way, outwardly. Inwards, the overarm drops and the record starts spinning, scratching out the notes of that one shortcoming. Round and round, on repeat. Idiot. Ugly. Unwanted. Failure. Fraud. Mistake. And it’s a steady beating. And it’s so loud in our thoughts we’re dead certain anyone in proximity is hearing the same thing of us and believing it and it’s debilitating. So we must give ourselves the grace to pause. Take the overarm off that spinning record, remove the record, and just breathe. Frankly, we don’t occupy the headspace of others as much as we think we do, and the ones who are thinking of us often are likely sending love. Breathe. Shake shoulders loose. Get in the sunlight. Look that track of lies in the face honestly and see it for what it is: Misconceptions blown out of proportion. Now when it comes up again, and it will, we have to choose to not set that record scratching, but instead to pause and listen. The Truth is always speaking. The Truth is consistent in its narrative and its intentions. The Truth sees the image of God in us when we do not recognize it in ourselves. The Truth is God made flesh and human fully feeling the entire weight of lies, wrath, and evil and swallowing that brutal pain so that we don’t have to. We may choose to take on that burden, but it is not for us, it has been paid in full by grace unfathomable and legitimate. The Truth is more persistent than the lies. The Truth has died and resurrected and spoken life into the cosmos, and the lies can only die when they are met with the light of Truth. So when it comes up, be humble and listen. The Truth is always speaking. |
AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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