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15 August, 2017
24 July, 2017
"Who only stand and wait."
"They also serve..."
How to not read that as a permanent posting to second string?
It's not. I know.
But with the key turned in the engine, and the motor revving,
How to keep it "burning, burning, burning 'til the break of day" as the old song says, waiting for the checkered release of the flag?
It seems one must come at the cost of the other
to run full-tilt at the windmills before, or to have it all "lodg'd with me useless."
But it must not.
It cannot.
There is time to be used, not whiled, and waiting to be done.
How to not read that as a permanent posting to second string?
It's not. I know.
But with the key turned in the engine, and the motor revving,
How to keep it "burning, burning, burning 'til the break of day" as the old song says, waiting for the checkered release of the flag?
It seems one must come at the cost of the other
to run full-tilt at the windmills before, or to have it all "lodg'd with me useless."
But it must not.
It cannot.
There is time to be used, not whiled, and waiting to be done.
14 March, 2017
Stories
Almost intuitively, we understand the power of stories.
We know the ones that stay with us, that though they be “full of darkness and danger” like Samwise said, mean something bigger than the story itself, then the players themselves.
Stories change our ways of seeing and thinking. Of living and interpreting the world. And our own stories are by far the most precious. These are ones that are carefully kept alive, nurtured and visited in quiet mental gardens, stories of our own lives and those of friends who have inextricably intertwined their lives into our own narrative.
We offer the lives and stories of our overseas friends in weaving this narrative. These men and women are not caricatures, nor are they cartoons, but rather our best approximation of a dear friend, a composite of many friends, or a representation of our own self without the transformative impact of He Who Has Found Us.
This offering is an act of sacrifice. We are inviting others into the stories - of all kinds - that have had their part in shaping us.
We share these lives and these stories we have treasured up and protected, and instead of hiding these talents in the ground like the last servant in the story, we offer up what has been given to us on behalf of the Master, believing that faithfulness really is better than self-preservation.
This sacrifice and invitation is also an act of trust. We choose to tell these stories, to represent these men and women, for a reason. We are bringing the deep, dear parts of our own lives - or theirs - and offer them in a heartfelt belief that these are worthy stories to tell.
These are worthy people to know.
The thing about stories though is that they are not always immediately understood for what they are. It’s a disheartening thing to offer something dear only to find it rejected, mistreated, or overlooked. It’s even more devastating when the offering is that of a life.
But do not lose heart when this happens.
They don’t yet know what they’ve done in mistreating the story you’ve offered them. They don’t know the friend you are trying to share, the story of the life that has broken your own heart.
In the hurt, remember to our Father, the friend you represent. Thank Him for his work in the world and in the lives of those who are dear to us, ask that he would save the perishing. And for these students, ask the Father that he would light sparks in their hearts. Let the retelling of these stories rekindle your own heart for these men and women, our dear friends, and ourselves.
And then fan it into flame
that we - and these new friends - would remember that the time is short, and the time is now.
In lending our hands to this work, we have the privilege of helping love these young men and women “into being,” as Mr. Rogers put it.
They are not yet who they will be,
And neither are we.
And so we work, offering them the opportunity to grow together, to practice, to succeed and to fail.
Because we know the eternity-shaking power of a truly Good Story.
We know the ones that stay with us, that though they be “full of darkness and danger” like Samwise said, mean something bigger than the story itself, then the players themselves.
Stories change our ways of seeing and thinking. Of living and interpreting the world. And our own stories are by far the most precious. These are ones that are carefully kept alive, nurtured and visited in quiet mental gardens, stories of our own lives and those of friends who have inextricably intertwined their lives into our own narrative.
We offer the lives and stories of our overseas friends in weaving this narrative. These men and women are not caricatures, nor are they cartoons, but rather our best approximation of a dear friend, a composite of many friends, or a representation of our own self without the transformative impact of He Who Has Found Us.
This offering is an act of sacrifice. We are inviting others into the stories - of all kinds - that have had their part in shaping us.
We share these lives and these stories we have treasured up and protected, and instead of hiding these talents in the ground like the last servant in the story, we offer up what has been given to us on behalf of the Master, believing that faithfulness really is better than self-preservation.
This sacrifice and invitation is also an act of trust. We choose to tell these stories, to represent these men and women, for a reason. We are bringing the deep, dear parts of our own lives - or theirs - and offer them in a heartfelt belief that these are worthy stories to tell.
These are worthy people to know.
The thing about stories though is that they are not always immediately understood for what they are. It’s a disheartening thing to offer something dear only to find it rejected, mistreated, or overlooked. It’s even more devastating when the offering is that of a life.
But do not lose heart when this happens.
They don’t yet know what they’ve done in mistreating the story you’ve offered them. They don’t know the friend you are trying to share, the story of the life that has broken your own heart.
In the hurt, remember to our Father, the friend you represent. Thank Him for his work in the world and in the lives of those who are dear to us, ask that he would save the perishing. And for these students, ask the Father that he would light sparks in their hearts. Let the retelling of these stories rekindle your own heart for these men and women, our dear friends, and ourselves.
And then fan it into flame
that we - and these new friends - would remember that the time is short, and the time is now.
In lending our hands to this work, we have the privilege of helping love these young men and women “into being,” as Mr. Rogers put it.
They are not yet who they will be,
And neither are we.
And so we work, offering them the opportunity to grow together, to practice, to succeed and to fail.
Because we know the eternity-shaking power of a truly Good Story.
10 December, 2016
centripetal force
Ain't nobody got time today for form and process.
The wind cuts through two layers and the sherpa lining of certified work gear.
Or maybe it's just everywhere else that's cold.
A walking, heated thoracic cavity within icy knees and fingers.
Breach of protocol aside, it's a straight march to the dead center and the cracked stone table.
Is it secret, is it safe - that burden left like so much litter, tucked up underneath this Fount of Over-Looked Blessing?
Somehow, it is. Right where I painfully dropped it - or was it wrenched from my Stockholm grasp?
And maybe that's why it all feels too easy -
Everything is already where it is supposed to be.
03 October, 2016
Albatross
He leans back, supported only really by the mast behind him.
His curly hair nearly grinding into the grain of the wood; an attempt to shore up knees, buckling and weak.
There's no respite in sleep. No escape from the deafening stillness of catastrophe -
the air in these doldrums is choking with holistic hypohidrosis.
A half-sigh and a guttural heave as he smashes his head against the beam in a half-formed prayer,
"Oh, Aslan..."
His curly hair nearly grinding into the grain of the wood; an attempt to shore up knees, buckling and weak.
There's no respite in sleep. No escape from the deafening stillness of catastrophe -
the air in these doldrums is choking with holistic hypohidrosis.
A half-sigh and a guttural heave as he smashes his head against the beam in a half-formed prayer,
"Oh, Aslan..."
09 September, 2016
Impetigo
Burn it away.
None of the newer pharmacology will do it. None of these miracle drugs will effect a true cure.
They'll contain. And they'll cover.
But never cure.
So burn it away. Soften, hold up to the light,
and
ignite
the
fire.
None of the newer pharmacology will do it. None of these miracle drugs will effect a true cure.
They'll contain. And they'll cover.
But never cure.
So burn it away. Soften, hold up to the light,
and
ignite
the
fire.
30 August, 2016
Jump cuts
It's never enough.
Enough to quiet the words.
Enough to quiet, well... really anything.
There are always questions. Always doubts.
Always.
Shakespeare is playing in there. So's the Eagles, a couple of bars of "Where in the World is Carmen San Diego."
Random cartoon-like bubbles of conversations from days, weeks, years ago.
A whiff of a Central Asian road nearly a decade ago.
There are jump cuts enough to muddy the lines.
And the prevailing thought echoes the Teacher,
"Meaningless, meaningless. Everything is meaningless."
Enough to quiet the words.
Enough to quiet, well... really anything.
There are always questions. Always doubts.
Always.
Shakespeare is playing in there. So's the Eagles, a couple of bars of "Where in the World is Carmen San Diego."
Random cartoon-like bubbles of conversations from days, weeks, years ago.
A whiff of a Central Asian road nearly a decade ago.
There are jump cuts enough to muddy the lines.
And the prevailing thought echoes the Teacher,
"Meaningless, meaningless. Everything is meaningless."
19 August, 2016
Shackles and tables
You can't rush a miracle.
Now, you can rush a miracle man, the lowercase kind.
But you can't rush a miracle.
They arrive precisely when they are meant to, as "those people" say.
Falling, stumbling, and caving in through the unspeakable
Until you turn one last time, and it's spread out
A cracked stone table, an eternal stream.
Room enough to sink into it, to die here.
But is it littering to leave this shackle behind?
Does it take too much? Presume too much?
Hard to say, you really can't rush these things.
Now, you can rush a miracle man, the lowercase kind.
But you can't rush a miracle.
They arrive precisely when they are meant to, as "those people" say.
Falling, stumbling, and caving in through the unspeakable
Until you turn one last time, and it's spread out
A cracked stone table, an eternal stream.
Room enough to sink into it, to die here.
But is it littering to leave this shackle behind?
Does it take too much? Presume too much?
Hard to say, you really can't rush these things.
28 June, 2016
Act 5, Scene 1, 259-263
That first sound, the final sound, before the world came unmade.
What was it?
A rumble, all basso profundo and ribcage-shaking,
A jitter, nerves dancing on the edge of realization,
An infrasonic hiss?
All the sound and fury of the past six days building up to this - signifying, well - who really knew?
And then...
27 March, 2016
All over the world
Five minutes til and there is already a line.
Vehicles with their low beams.
And five after, they're all unloaded and in action.
So many, doing so much, for so few.
In the pre-dawn shadows, behind the shade of task, is this Kingdom that fuels it all
Breathing
And pulling forward, at a pace so quick one stumbles, never quite regaining a footing.
07 March, 2016
Thole
All of the old cliches grow tiresome.
There are no words that rightly describe this.
Or at least none that I can summon.
No words right or strong enough to serve as foundation for such a weight.
And never have I wished so clearly that were not a woman of words.
But I am.
10 February, 2016
Impatiens capensis
You never notice the first few.
They slide in - almost a practiced, practical ease - and hit their marks.
You don't feel those.
It's the next soft touch that drives the full complement home.
What was a flicker catches - a dry fire - spreading faster than you can breathe against it.
This is marrow-changing flame. A deep soul-itch that burns, burrows.
Scorched earth yielding no hope of regrowth, or rebirth.
(As if regeneration were possible from these charred nerves.)
This isn't a miry pit - although somewhere, deep you know that's there too.
This is an incessant, all-consuming integumentary wheeze.
In a pause,
On the shift of a wind, the memory of a scent.
Its half-whisper evoking what feels like a Green fantasy, so far from the here and now.
But it grows.
And sinks deep,
settling against these dry bones with the promise of distant thunder.
They slide in - almost a practiced, practical ease - and hit their marks.
You don't feel those.
It's the next soft touch that drives the full complement home.
What was a flicker catches - a dry fire - spreading faster than you can breathe against it.
This is marrow-changing flame. A deep soul-itch that burns, burrows.
Scorched earth yielding no hope of regrowth, or rebirth.
(As if regeneration were possible from these charred nerves.)
This isn't a miry pit - although somewhere, deep you know that's there too.
This is an incessant, all-consuming integumentary wheeze.
In a pause,
On the shift of a wind, the memory of a scent.
Its half-whisper evoking what feels like a Green fantasy, so far from the here and now.
But it grows.
And sinks deep,
settling against these dry bones with the promise of distant thunder.
30 December, 2015
Quo Vadis, Domine?
There are books I've not yet read, and projects I've not yet started.
And yet, I've read some. And started some. And even finished a handful.
And at the end of this 30-second-century year, I know I am proud of three things:
And yet, I've read some. And started some. And even finished a handful.
And at the end of this 30-second-century year, I know I am proud of three things:
- I have stayed the course
- I know I belong to the five
- 586 words
And now, with 2015 crumbling at the chasm of a new year, I'm not sure whether to look with great optimism or fear to the year to come.
The tension in my jaw and the tightness in my chest don't seem to lend themselves well... and yet there is the weight of those three that whisper, maybe something is to come.
28 November, 2015
Emmanuel
Oh come
It escapes in a gasp,
slipping past the solitude, the sweet caffeine, the cold and the Word.
It comes, settling and whispering, "this truth underlies all."
Oh come
The heartache breathes it too. It's there, latticed behind it all, a picture behind a picture.
Oh come
The worn fella makes a quip about the weather.
It's the same one I'm sure is heard the world over; one of those eternal truths it seems. We commiserate a minute, two people in on the joke, and he leaves.
I'm sure he drives a truck.
And the cold seeps again through this window.
And the sweet caffeine is gone.
Make this right
Fix this
Oh come.
16 November, 2015
12:34
That night the wind blew.
It feels as though it should be a quote, or at least an off-quote, but it probably isn't.
It's not the beginning, or the end, or maybe even the climatic centerpiece.
It's somewhere in the middle, past the exposition and before the denouement - the unpleasant suspense of a story not yet told.
Last night there were stars. Not many. But enough to count.
Tonight, they are hidden; covered with an electric city-lit shroud of clouds and rain. and wind.
Everything doesn't happen for a reason.
But at 12:34am, it's hard to distinguish the things that do from the things that don't. Or even remember why it matters that there's a line to be drawn.
All that matters at 12:34 is that sometimes they do,
and sometimes they don't.
and the stars are hidden.
and
that night, the wind blew.
It feels as though it should be a quote, or at least an off-quote, but it probably isn't.
It's not the beginning, or the end, or maybe even the climatic centerpiece.
It's somewhere in the middle, past the exposition and before the denouement - the unpleasant suspense of a story not yet told.
Last night there were stars. Not many. But enough to count.
Tonight, they are hidden; covered with an electric city-lit shroud of clouds and rain. and wind.
Everything doesn't happen for a reason.
But at 12:34am, it's hard to distinguish the things that do from the things that don't. Or even remember why it matters that there's a line to be drawn.
All that matters at 12:34 is that sometimes they do,
and sometimes they don't.
and the stars are hidden.
and
that night, the wind blew.
25 August, 2015
Sludge
There's no point to me.
No point to this.
The world spins slowly, dizzy on the edge of consciousness, with a sluggish backwash should I move too fast.
There's just no point to me.
I want to have grit.
I want to have meaning.
To matter.
But I'm not sure I do.
I really doubt it.
No point to this.
The world spins slowly, dizzy on the edge of consciousness, with a sluggish backwash should I move too fast.
There's just no point to me.
I want to have grit.
I want to have meaning.
To matter.
But I'm not sure I do.
I really doubt it.
30 June, 2015
Steadfast
In the hush and the roar it's easier to imagine the Galilean night.
Now, I don't know if they had cicadas, but they did know locusts, and fields, and wind enough to make a parable.
I lean back, listening to the popping and hissing of the truck and the peculiar quiet of a dirt road.
I can see Him sitting back on his heels in the grass surveying the convergence with a deep sense of satisfaction. He knew just where to find the three. He was there when their heart-fires were lit with a single breath.
And still - tonight - I see them right where He left them.
Jupiter, Venus, and Polaris shine brightly, hanging low in the west, and the horizons unfold, bringing the hopes and fears of all the years.
He breathes deep, savoring this creation.
And there's a deep sense of solidarity.
Now, I don't know if they had cicadas, but they did know locusts, and fields, and wind enough to make a parable.
I lean back, listening to the popping and hissing of the truck and the peculiar quiet of a dirt road.
I can see Him sitting back on his heels in the grass surveying the convergence with a deep sense of satisfaction. He knew just where to find the three. He was there when their heart-fires were lit with a single breath.
And still - tonight - I see them right where He left them.
Jupiter, Venus, and Polaris shine brightly, hanging low in the west, and the horizons unfold, bringing the hopes and fears of all the years.
He breathes deep, savoring this creation.
And there's a deep sense of solidarity.
13 May, 2015
15
There is a rage that brews up in me.
Cold and crawling.
Desperate, frantic and cruel.
It claws its way
And everything is frozen, tamped down under a cold sheet of numbness.
"Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither," indeed.
And the rage flares again
Fueled by exhaustion, discouragement, and loss.
Cold and crawling.
Desperate, frantic and cruel.
It claws its way
And everything is frozen, tamped down under a cold sheet of numbness.
"Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither," indeed.
And the rage flares again
Fueled by exhaustion, discouragement, and loss.
29 April, 2015
Paul
He was always so quiet with me.
So still.
I know he was other things to other people.
But to me, he was still.
A deep breath, a calm pillar.
A picture of the God Who Listens.
He seemed to know when I needed to hear that my earrings were "cool." When I needed to know that I was noticed.
So quiet.
So still.
It is - no - it was strange to think that on another man, on a different man, his size would be intimidating. That there would or could be something about him to fear.
When everything about him made me take a deep breath. To relax.
He'd always stop, always say hello.
Once he sat and looked at every one of my nearly identical prairie pictures from an afternoon's hike. He appreciated each one of them too.
Made sure I knew he was paying attention.
There was never a question that he was paying attention.
His words on my birthday, "Happy birthday, Amy!!!" "How your servant heart shows through in all you do is such a beautiful thing to see. Serve on in the Great Kings love and know that He is pleased."
His GI Joe still sits on my office shelf. He was a welcome present, just for me.
Just for me.
So still.
I know he was other things to other people.
But to me, he was still.
A deep breath, a calm pillar.
A picture of the God Who Listens.
He seemed to know when I needed to hear that my earrings were "cool." When I needed to know that I was noticed.
So quiet.
So still.
It is - no - it was strange to think that on another man, on a different man, his size would be intimidating. That there would or could be something about him to fear.
When everything about him made me take a deep breath. To relax.
He'd always stop, always say hello.
Once he sat and looked at every one of my nearly identical prairie pictures from an afternoon's hike. He appreciated each one of them too.
Made sure I knew he was paying attention.
There was never a question that he was paying attention.
His words on my birthday, "Happy birthday, Amy!!!" "How your servant heart shows through in all you do is such a beautiful thing to see. Serve on in the Great Kings love and know that He is pleased."
His GI Joe still sits on my office shelf. He was a welcome present, just for me.
Just for me.
07 April, 2015
These Paschal Losses
I was dead in the grave.
It all suffocates. So deep, so choking.
Too much.
And the weight of not-yet-loss nearly breaks me in two.
I was covered in sin and shame.
I heard Mercy call my name.
He rolled the stone away.
Right now, that seems far too good. There's no way to process the words other than feel them out inarticulately to their ends.
It
is
Too
much.
It
is
Too
much.
Emotion howls its presence, and this death-quiet weight kicks up into a nascent storm. I look down, feeling almost as if I should be able to see it, shadowed in my skin along the faint cut I couldn't quite make.
I'm alive because He lives.
It's far too real
this aching Resurrection.
Far too real.
It's too much.
The sorrow of my own partings takes my breath.
This I know, this I have lived. This solidity of knowing. I know him who said it. He would not lie. If he is there... come hell or high water...
Because He lives, I can face tomorrow
It's too much.
It's fear
it's loss
It's sacrifice and reunion.
And friendship.
I am unable to sort one Resurrection from the other - His from mine.
Or rather ours.
I know He holds my life, my future in His hands
Because He Lives - Matt Maher
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