Just You and Me

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Just You and Me

 June 21, 2005 on 8:39 pm | In Poetry | No Comments
Seems wakefulness is a curse of mine.
Well or ill, I lie sleepless—
Staring at the ceiling, checking the time, mind going…
Slow or fast, just going…
Tonight it is illness and a song that sings
Of Christ’s love for me and His arms
Open wide reaching for my company,
While all I can do is cough ceaselessly,
Longing for quiet rest.
Ah, Lord, I cannot understand either of us—
Your mysterious ways and my confused, willful ones.
I am tired…
Of circumstances, of uncertainties,
Of doctors and counselors and friends with advice,
Of responsibilities that keep me pushing on and on and on…
I miss the tangible sense of your presence that once I felt
And while I long to lay my burdens on you,
Somehow, I don’t know how any more.
Someone said the other day to let you carry me.
That, too, is beyond my abilities.
So, I sit here, pen in hand,
Trying to make sense of it all
In some vague hope that getting it on paper
Will bring me understanding
…Or at least momentary surcease.
This, I have come to know again—
Married or no, it has all come back to just you and me.

Journaling 3/1/04

June 21, 2005 on 8:31 pm | In Random Thoughts | No Comments

This tension between knowing that I don’t deserve ___, and knowing that I am blessed as the daughter of the king is something that I have yet to come to grips with. On the one hand, I must acknowledge that since He is the potter and I am the clay, I am supposed to not complain, not question, but to simply seek through the trials His face and how His image is being formed in me. On the other hand, I am not sure there is another hand. His love is unquestioned towards me. Still, I find myself struggling with the manifestations of that love. I have multiple scriptures that tell me: He is my provider. He is my protector. He is my strength. He is the source of all that I need. When the things that I feel I need are withheld from me, I find it difficult to not condemn myself for a failure to meet some standard of behavior. How else can I justify to myself the fact that a need of some sort is not being met? I cannot blame God—the all-knowing, all-good, wholly loving, holy, infinite creator of the universe—for such a lack… can I? It is these moments when I wish I could come to an acceptance that since He knows what I need, then obviously what I feel I need cannot be a real need… can it? Either that, or I simply need growth in that particular area and therefore, I am being tested. To find my satisfaction in Him… to find contentment in Him… to find… I don’t know… in Him. To “let go and let God” is a thing that I hate to hear because it sounds so accusing to my ears. It places the blame for my malcontent, for my shortage, for my lack of blessing, for my failure to take the negative and make something positive… squarely back on my own shoulders. This is where the condemnation and guilt become unbearable. I rage against my own humanity in moments like this. I grasp at grace and scurry for mercy, wondering if I will be stuck in my misery or delivered against the odds from something I deserve anyway.

The Barrier of Language

June 21, 2005 on 8:19 pm | In Writings | No Comments

Poring over words and letters and bits of punctuation scattered through the text at hand, I find myself brought to tears again. The underlying intention of the writer has more weight with me than the bytes of language used to express the intent. Heart has more meaning that words. In this, I identify with the writer through their chosen medium of expression. I can attempt to tell my story, to express my feeling, to admonish, to teach, to encourage, or to correct… and find myself completely barricaded in behind the words I try to use.

So often, it is not what I write that matters. It is more truly the things that remain unsaid or unwritten. I feel compassion; I write pity. I feel grief; I write of tears—a bare scratching of the surface. I feel enraged and wounded; I write angry epithets. I feel overwhelming joy; I write happy exclamations. All of the lines and curves and scratches are paltry representations of a spoken language that cannot tell the heart’s truest emotions, except as mere shadows of expression.

But occasionally I am honored with insight and understanding of another’s heart feebly put down on paper… and I am moved. Once in a while I find that someone has been graced to hear my heart in print… and I am grateful. Please, Lord, let your Spirit move through the barrier of language so that heart can communicate with heart for your divine purposes and for your glory.

The Poet

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The Poet

 June 21, 2005 on 8:17 pm | In Poetry | No Comments
I write the dreams of angels with my pen
Like cascading waterfalls streaming across a blank page
Words… letters… mere symbols of sounds
Which bear poignant meaning only to those with
A listening ear… or perhaps an attentive eye.
I sing the songs of mute souls, brushing my pen across
The heartstrings of those who cannot weep
Until tears flow like laughter bubbling out of a delighted child.
Blank “white” stares up at me sometimes like a red flag in front of a bull—
Challenging me to reach inside my core, to draw out a drink for the thirsty.
Sometimes I find only desert sand, but I still reach
Pawing through memories and emotions,
Thoughts and ideas flitting just beyond my fingertips.
If I sit still long enough and wait patiently enough,
I am rewarded with rich treasure—
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The words flow then, like a fountain, as angels
Paint their dreams across my heart.
My pen moves in its own rhythm, dancing to an unheard beat.
I am aware of the hearts around me
Longing for the drum to play their song
Sing their sorrows, utter their longings…
Each one wishing to be known by another.
It is a lonely existence sometimes, this dreaming with angels.
As I write what others feel, I find myself set apart.
Where is the soul who will hear my silent song—
The inexpressible longing for “other” to meet with me,
To understand me, to tell me I am desired and accepted?
My Creator comforts me when I can be eased by no other—
Whispers that destiny, though not yet seen, is still real… and imminent,
If I but let it come, flowing through my pen as the gift that it is—
Reaching, touching, healing through me,
Sometimes to me, but not for me alone.
So, I keep on writing the dreams of angels,
Letting myself take flight on the wings of words…

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