I build my own pigsty and wallow.
But, daughter, there is Kingdom work to do. I wrap myself up in deflective material. But, daughter, your heart is for feeling. I swallow my tongue and hush up. But, daughter, your words are for testimony. Daughter, I continually choose you. Daughter, I continually love you. Daughter, I continually call you Mine. Daughter, I know your wounds and heartache and pain. Daughter, I am with you in your dark places, with you, and calling you into My light. Daughter, I tenderly care for your heart. Father, I will trust You. Father, I will believe Your love. Father, I will listen to and obey You. Because, Father, You are totally good. I am short and the youngest of five
So I have spent abundant time looking up The line for inspiration and wisdom and humor Confidants and critics and caretakers These people with blood like mine are there As legends in my eyes and as dear friends Siblings with strengths diverse and specific To balance and sharpen each other in love Sharing joy and sorrow and the mundane Given to one another at birth and choosing To stay given we champion our kin in growth Hold snuggly in grief and laugh oh we laugh I am the youngest and I have learned much Through seeing and being well seen What privilege it is to be fifth The manner in which we go matters, dearly,
And there is a special grace in going together Through the mire and meadows of humility, Embracing our strength and our fragility. There is a meter in the music we run to, Even in its variances there is a quality true And unchanging, which will inform our route, Our pacing for that present passing time. Time transitions, so we must stay attuned And watchful. Running in a pack prompts attack From that divisive mindset, dark comparison, So we must be smart and diligent in our care For one another. Honor as sister and brother Learning to be dependable co-runners Who recognize each other’s pains and walk Without guilt-tripping and talk with honesty. On the path to being made perfect we none Of us have yet achieved the goal so our role Is to be genuine in our need and unbelief, To allow ourselves to be brought into the tent Of the medic who has run, is running, will run This race through and who knows completely Our insufficiency and so draws us to himself Through one another so he may bind up Our wounds and renew our road-weary spirits As only the medic-creator can: with fullness. Oh this medic is attentive, gracious, unafraid Of our lack and brokenness for he can mend Muscle and heart string and soul and his hope Is that we will invite him to, so we may grasp His hand as we learn to run again, healing, Eyes trained ever on him, no fear of death. It is in our continually maturing dependence On him that his melody and rhythm sync our Movement with his, pulsing out hope to those We meet who share the invitation to come, Follow where he leads. We must be active In our welcome, in our encouragement, In our calling forth and seeing one another As he does. We must run in such a way. We are sprinting at omniscience
But we cannot fathom the cost To our sanity, to our humanity, When we neglect rest for our thoughts. Too much too quickly and the overwhelming Overwhelms until we are numb to the news Of another tragedy, triumph, or mundane Moment. Numb. We’ve seen it all before. Still we are sprinting, dogged in our lack Of restraint. We are hysterical and bleeding Out, yes that is a blood trail behind us, Dried dark blood mixed with the bright new. At war with ourselves and this mad pacing, Crashing through the barriers and thickets Which were never on the true path to begin With, but we will have it our own bloody ways. Dearly beloved, when we cannot agree how To move forward, we side-step and we trip And we blame every single one but our own Person. Shame will not untether us from this. Shame will have us drip dripping in dross, Hearts too oily to get a grip on ourselves And appreciate the things that are good, For shame seeks to disenfranchise gratitude. And there is much to recover, to restore. If we would just pause to consider the weight Of our daily decisions and words and thoughts, We may be slower to run towards false gods. For we are makers in the image of the grand Creator, but our grasp has limits and our soul Will bear the consequences of this ragged Racing, this untrained, haughty motion. Contemplation is not tantamount To complacency. Our empathy will not be Productive without training and discipline And a therapeutic sense of humor. Hold. Gather your breath and your dear thoughts And hold them in place for a moment there. Just there. Consider their substance. Listen. Wait. There is grace for the moment, now go. |
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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