Category Archives: Poetry

Persecution

I have been thinking lately of how we are taught to love. We are taught to love in the larger sense of the word: not to feel but to act. There is a dichotomy here that must not be ignored, lest you find yourself relying solely on the feeling which tends to waver. We have the ability to order our actions. This is why love must fall under this category of our lives as well! 🙂

The bible teaches over and over again that we should love to the point of offending people. Jesus told us that we should expect persecution for following the way that he loved. The disciples and apostles understood this in a way that we don’t. They were drug from their homes, imprisoned, beaten, and some even put to death for the sake of love. So, naturally, I wrote a poem.*

They pulled me by my elbows out into the streets.

Those same elbows, ten years younger, rested on the table as my Lord spoke to me of love.

Serving rich red wine around the group of friends:

We wondered while we sipped if this was once water, and smiled in remembrance of His party tricks.

We didn’t know then what we know now- We were still celebrating a wedding.

Now my feet drag through the sun warmed dust. I can’t help myself

as I give into sin:

digging my heels into the dirt a little more to make their job harder.

Oh, “Love thy neighbor”

I pick up my feet and walk.

Repentance.

Check.

My ears perk up at the familiar sounds of soldiers ransacking

my things.

Pure muscle, they are.

And pure soul, I am reminded.

Is it sinful to smile, knowing I’ve barely anything to my name?

I have much more tangible things to give than teapots and a sleeping mat.

They are more than welcome to a little wisdom and a lot of love.

I will wait behind a few bars of iron,

settled snuggly in,

humming a hymn.

They will come at midnight if the ground shakes.

Thanks for reading! 🙂

*disclaimer: this poem is not technically accurate in theology. 🙂

 

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Untitled.

Something in you is different than something in me and suddenly

we are two trains…

one is traveling at the rate of 74 km per hour and while trying to convert that to miles to figure the approximate point in time they will reach the intersection,

the other is practically jumping its tracks because

graffiti is art too

and two lovebirds are eloping in one of her cars.

For heaven’s sake, pop the cork and sit on that chair.

Not the brown one, but the big fluffy one that I thought could be off limits the first few times. Like maybe one of those sitcom dads would appear at the top of the stairs wagging his finger to the amusement of the studio audience.

It didn’t happen.

I will curl up on the ottoman and have the audacity to paw at your knees every so often in a sort of mixed up, shaken

hopeful expectation.  Not today?

ok. Maybe tomorrow.

But for tonight that knee-high-to-a-grasshopper-red-headed-kid

is whispering

sweet somethings:

Is God real?

And God is leaning in dizzyingly close.

He wants

to hear the answer

so that

He can rejoice too…

Like that time I got excited about the oreos, mulitplied by

infinity

minus

the regret.

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Peace

Though the waves may crash around

As praying hands for me to drown,

With my last breath, my last decree

That my next, be next to Thee.

Though the sun may tempt my thirst,

And desert sands may do their worst,

As the deer pants for relief,

I shall long to taste belief.

Beneath the moon the Darkness lies,

Not to be seen lest in disguise,

Wrapped in shadow and draped in night

One goal only: to vanquish Light.

I shall not fear, though fear draws close,

In His peace I shall repose.

For He has promised and will uphold,

In Him rest for my weary soul.

 

 

 

 

 

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Between the ( )s.

There are a precious many things I (have) learn(ed) in this life:

1. how to fuse two metals ( ) with an oxyacetylene torch

2. at what precise setting my toaster will yield the preferred ratio of light brown to that delicious ( ) umber

3. that in order to make a child feel truly adequate they must toe the ( ) line between expectation and praise

4. making friends ( ) can be done ( ) gently and wordlessly and within three minutes

5. that there is an acrobatic balance to conveying a point to ( ) a room full of wide-eyed kindergarteners ( )

6. how to frame in a room ( ) painting an entire wall, preventing ( ) mistakes

7. at just what point he will ( ) be proud of me

8. that life is meant to be ( ) lived

1. (without creating a pool of red hot liquid)
2. (and somehow still elusive)
3. (somewhat arbitrarily created)
4. (and enemies) (on occasion)
5. (and utterly confusing) (who sometimes flourish better in the confusion, anyways)
6. (before) (and sometimes doctoring)
7. (begin to)
8. (excavated between its small curved lines and beneath the noise of the obvious rather than just)

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Juxtaposition

Digging below the clutter and
Diving beneath the noise
We are warmed by the peace of silence
And sovereignty wraps around our shoulders like an embrace

 

Sinking below the stirring sounds
Leaving distractions alone to serve no purpose
We surround ourselves in your presence
Our eyes delight in the simple searching of your face

 

 

 

How much more the tone of your voice within the context of the quiet
How much more the warmth in your eyes when there is nothing else to pull our gaze from yours.
How diminished is our self-seeking voice
And how august our words of praise
When our voice is allowed to reach your ears.

 

 

 

Pressing in, further still
We are rewarded, in turn, by mercy
Gently speaking worth into our being
Gently affirming our significance within your design

 

The hunger that was absent just moments before
Is insatiable now.
It is manifested in the way that we cannot even begin to imagine
Walking away from the fire.

 

 

How much more the touch of your hand when we crave your guidance
How much more the comfort of your arms when we can no longer hold our own weight.
How quiet are our worries and
How confident our smiles
When we are allowed to share in your significance.

 

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Communion.

The Prodigal.

I am fighting in the stifling heat.

I cannot muster the strength to lift my eyes to search for the possibility of rain to heal my throat.

I feel every inhale as rasping pain and every exhale as the wish for it to be my last.

Just willing one foot in front of the other is draining me faster than the world can replenish.

Beads of sweat that my body can barely afford to spare have made

trail marks down my dust covered face and arms,

and I can trace every wrong step I have taken in every single missing thread

in my servant’s cloth.

Each tear tells me of the times I cried in desperation as I fell into the weight of it all.

Each stain reminds me that I have slept in the earth and communed with the soil.

The hunger is now consuming me. Not hunger for food, for I have known the shame of desiring to steal from the lowliest of all.

The hunger for what I remember.

The hunger to be hungry no more.

And there you are, Husband.

And there you are.

And here you are.

I have imagined your form. I have imagined your figure.

I have surely imagined the way the tears from your eyes are washing my undeserving face.

I have imagined the  honor of your arms around my neck.

I can feel the weight of you pressing into me, willing my heart closer. But the weight is lighter than air.

The weight is uplifting.

And soon my feet can no longer feel the earth beneath them, nor even the weight of my own body.

I am breathing deeply the sweet sent of your neck as you wrap me closer and closer.

You are speaking, but I have never cared less what words have left your lips,

just the tone of your voice has soothed me into reverence.

You are proposing again and again Husband.

You are asking for my hand.

You are asking me to be alive.

You are asking me, with awestruck eyes, to return your gaze when once I wished for you not to exist at all.

While I stumble beside your graceful footfalls,

The world gazes at me with renewed eyes and whispers,

“have you seen a more beautiful wife?”

“have you seen a Husband with more loving eyes?”

And as You slide a ring upon my hand,

You adorn me with far more than clothing and jewels,

You adorn me with the memory of who I am.

Of who I was always meant to be.

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Decibels.

Love is a small voice.

It is not the loud thunderous shout that demands a reciprocation of sacrifice,

But a quiet

I am here.

And you are here.

Let us be here together.

 

 

A friend asked me to write on my thoughts of love. And I don’t mean the ooey gooey romantic kind. I mean Love in general. This is as far as I got. 🙂

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