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Shedding skin like serpents
Rubbing all the rough away;
Slithering softly round to take off
All the crusty hardness on my heart.
I finally weep in weary longing
Lying quiet at the feet of Him
Who bears the scars where I have struck
In anger at my plight,
I wait for Judah’s lion claws
To reach into the core inside where I have
Hidden, hiding all the flaws
That really He has always seen.
With anguished cries I still submit
To Love behind the stripping of my lies
And beyond the pain a sweet, sweet fragrance
Rises as the scent of petals crushed
Beneath the heel that bruises< —>
Joy in sorrow bathing dancing feet< —>
I find the child inside the dragon
Trusting in the gentle grip that holds me
In His everlasting arms.
Rubbing all the rough away;
Slithering softly round to take off
All the crusty hardness on my heart.
I finally weep in weary longing
Lying quiet at the feet of Him
Who bears the scars where I have struck
In anger at my plight,
I wait for Judah’s lion claws
To reach into the core inside where I have
Hidden, hiding all the flaws
That really He has always seen.
With anguished cries I still submit
To Love behind the stripping of my lies
And beyond the pain a sweet, sweet fragrance
Rises as the scent of petals crushed
Beneath the heel that bruises< —>
Joy in sorrow bathing dancing feet< —>
I find the child inside the dragon
Trusting in the gentle grip that holds me
In His everlasting arms.
poised on the edge, a precipice of poignancy,
i ponder, pointlessly, sightlessly,
empty of real thought.
vague impressions wander across my mind
like vagabonds trampling a garden.
i stand staring, unmoving,
frozen, almost, into a single moment
while the silent emptiness beckons me
with the familiarity of an old friend.
this deep canyon of irrationality
yawns with a cool warmth,
“remember when…”
only the memories spin themselves together
into a single dark corner
like the one inside where i used to hide
…and i cannot bear to express anything.
most of me longs for that still small place again
where nothing hurt because
it was “out there” while i was “in here”.
yet some small part of me knows
i can never go back.
i wish to lean forward, fall off the edge,
let go of reality,
but a tiny, stubborn core fights for sanity
as if my life depended on it.
i thought i had won this one before.
facing it again is more than i can bear.
somehow, some way, some time,
i must quit pondering, turn round and
step away from the dangerous past “comforts”.
it is only a quagmire of
death drawing me towards death.
numb withdrawal from life
can only hurt me more and
frightens those who love me.
Holy God, draw me back to life again.
only You can.
i ponder, pointlessly, sightlessly,
empty of real thought.
vague impressions wander across my mind
like vagabonds trampling a garden.
i stand staring, unmoving,
frozen, almost, into a single moment
while the silent emptiness beckons me
with the familiarity of an old friend.
this deep canyon of irrationality
yawns with a cool warmth,
“remember when…”
only the memories spin themselves together
into a single dark corner
like the one inside where i used to hide
…and i cannot bear to express anything.
most of me longs for that still small place again
where nothing hurt because
it was “out there” while i was “in here”.
yet some small part of me knows
i can never go back.
i wish to lean forward, fall off the edge,
let go of reality,
but a tiny, stubborn core fights for sanity
as if my life depended on it.
i thought i had won this one before.
facing it again is more than i can bear.
somehow, some way, some time,
i must quit pondering, turn round and
step away from the dangerous past “comforts”.
it is only a quagmire of
death drawing me towards death.
numb withdrawal from life
can only hurt me more and
frightens those who love me.
Holy God, draw me back to life again.
only You can.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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…
It’s just a moment now.
Next it will be another bit of time gone,
Never to be gotten back.
The oft’ quoted “all we have is now�
Is no less true for being repeated into cliché.
Savor this instant with its unique taste.
Good or bad or indifferent, it passes and
Memory has its own intoxicating overlying flavor.
Ah, the present—passive or purposeful?
Moments make up minutes, and then hours, flown by
Before we realize they have whizzed past into history,
But I shall not give up my time lightly or without thought.
There are those seconds, minutes, I must wrestle for—
Stolen by occupation or illness against my will.
The struggle takes its own toll on the ticking clock
Till I move past the instants gone, letting go,
Choosing to make the most of the available present.
It’s just a moment now,
But now is the best time there is
To enjoy the moment.
