I can’t get over it.

How it was sung,

repeated,

over and over

and I settled in

after the first intermission

and let the words

wash over me,

cleansing

all the filth

and the fluff

between the synapses,

clear

all the residue

from my faith eyes

and,

like a blood transfusion,

purify

my heart.

Meditation

has never been easy.

I could blame

being a millennial.

My focus

is divided

at best.

boredom

descends quick.

And that insatiable craving

for some new

to devour with my eyes,

my brain,

something to divert,

to inform,

to observe,

mostly,

that passive

observance

of life

going by fast

a happy reel

changing

just fast enough

that I don’t

put it down

soon enough.

 

But this…

“Ev’ry valley

shall be exalted,

and e’vry mountain and hill

made low….”

Over and over.

What does it mean?

A surface, quick answer.

What else could it mean?

What if meaning isn’t the point?

What if I just receive?

Passive, yes,

But here’s the difference.

My heart is open,

Alive.

“Speak, LORD,

your servant hears.”

“Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion,

shout, O daughter of Jerusalem,

behold thy King cometh unto thee.”

 

A forever history of promises

parading before me

in slow-motion,

then backing up

and coming past again.

and I begin to feel it

the yearning of from forever

to forever,

all those generations

waiting.

 

“All we like sheep have gone astray,

we have turned e’vry one to his own way;

and the Lord hath laid on Him

the iniquity of us all.”

 

They waited

and did not see.

How patient the life,

how indefatigable

the hope,

carrying them

until…

 

“And though worms destroy this body,

yet in my flesh

shall I see God,” Job

 

This life

now,

with my heart beating

and my mind whirring,

my plans,

my material possessions,

relationships,

dreams,

memories,

it’s all we live for.

Happy with this

happy reel.

Well,

some of us are.

But this all ends.

For some sooner.

You lose your memories.

You forget their names.

You lose all of your possessions.

You lose your connections.

Your achievements.

Your money.

Your dreams dim.

Your body

Fails.

Then death.

 

“Since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead…”

“Behold I tell you a mystery;

we shall not all sleep,

but we shall all be chang’d,

in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,

at the last trumpet.”

 

“Christianity offers a restoration of life.

We get our bodies back-

indeed, we get the bodies we never had

but wished we had,

and one beyond our greatest imaginings.

We get our lives back –

indeed, we get the life we longed for

but never had.

It’s all because the Christian hope

is not just an ethereal disembodied existence

but one in which

the soul and the body

are finally perfectly integrated,

one in which we dance, sing, hug, work, and play.

The Christian doctrine

of the resurrection is , then,

a reversal of death’s seeming irreversibility.

It is the end of “nevermore,” Tim Keller

 

“…when a willing victim

who had committed no treachery

was killed in a traitor’s stead,

the Table would crack,

and Death itself would start working backwards…” C.S. Lewis

 

“Death is swallowed up in victory.”

And I enter into

this waiting

this advent.

Put my hope in

this forever story of promises

that they all died waiting for

and all rejoice

in resurrection life,

seeing, in their flesh,

the face of God.

 

And they sing,

“Hallelujah,

for the Lord our God Omnipotent reigneth,

Hallelujah.

The Kingdom of this world

is become

the Kingdom of our Lord

and of His Christ,

and he shall reign

for ever and ever,

Hallelujah!”

 

And my heart,

Now fully awake,

Praises

And prays

You receive

all the glory,

all these laudations

of your waiting people,

standing in reverence,

bathed in the Word,

roused from our worldly stupors,

believing again

in a God who wanted me and us enough

to tear open Heaven,

not with wrath, but with Love,

to carry His lambs home, close to his heart.

forever.

And we take heart

and take up hope

that is and is to come.

“Blessing and honour,

glory and power be

unto Him that sitteth

upon the throne

and unto the Lamb

for ever and ever.”

 

~Scripture references from Handel’s Messiah

“Nobody knows what the soul is,” Mary Oliver

Head down,

eyes squeezed shut,

ears all open

 

drowning

in insecurities innumerable,

regrets, thick shame,

stuck.

Memories

Like bad odours

Clinging around,

Unpleasant.

And fear

Spreading

Tentacles of doom

Creeping up,

Wrapping round

Scarred wrists

And hoarse whispers,

Grating,

“If they only knew

the real you…

Despicable.

Unworthy.

Forgotten.

Don’t be known.

Being known equals pain.”

A soul

Contracting

In on itself

Ready to

just

stop

being.

Shadows hide

a pained face

Dripping wet.

 

“Jesus.”

A soul cries,

from deep below

it’s cracked,

wounded,

bleeding

surface.

“Jesus.”

 

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“It’s going to be ok.”

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“Lean into Me.”

Free.

Loved.

Chosen.

“Just trust Me.”

Free,

loved,

chosen

by God,

Soul-maker,

Soul-restorer,

soul-safe

Peace.

It’s a still, new morning

not a being

or breath of wind

stirs.

I step into it eager

to just be

to let the stillness become

part of me,

welcome stillness

into my soul

open,

smooth,

waiting happy

right here, now.

Work-worn hands grip

The chair back,

A liberated soul

grips a nail-scarred palm

to palm, scar to scar.

October is a riot,

Chaotic colour,

Distracting ambers,

Alluring skies.

October yearns to be

Delighted in,

A celebration,

Nature’s last hoorah!

“Come revel in me!” it beckons out the window.

“Play and frolic,

toss and pile,

laugh and ramble!”

 

Then comes the grey.

Warm and cool,

They have their differences

And usually it just ends

With a cold shoulder,

Some low-browed clouds,

And then the grey

Silence.

 

November is quiet.

Muting,

Fading,

Calming.

She’s gentle,

Unassuming,

Slipping in soft,

Carrying

The weight of all the year

Ready to let it go

Slow.

She’s graying round the temples,

A mist about her eyes.

You sense the need

To center,

On your knees,

And then rest

Upon your haunches

just to watch

her come.

She’s wise about a lot of things,

Like how and when to let go,

And do it well,

And how to accept

The unexpected.

 

 

So we do.

Our feet get wet,

Our fingers numb,

As we slip in alongside,

Gently,

With the grey.

 

I can think clearer in the cold.

 

It meets my skin,

Familiar,

Like an old friend.

 

Donning heavy gear,

Normal,

Like I’d been running round naked for months,

And now

Comfort,

Covering,

Layers I love.

 

Winter is my friend.

I’ve thought through a lot of it.

Prayed through layers of it

Over and over,

Footsteps crunching,

Songs rising,

Darkness centering,

Stars closing in

Reminding

Each night

Of heaven

Close.

 

 

I watched the world

Whiten

Slow,

Before my eyes

All day,

Layering,

Till my window view

Belonged on a Christmas card

And it stopped traffic,

All those innocent little flakes

Sticking together,

Stalwart,

Impartial,

Generous,

Layering.

Most said it came too soon.

The children disagreed.

I am apt to too.

 

Winter is my friend.

It makes it easy to stay home,

To say no,

To accept staying put,

Hibernating a bit,

Being

Instead of doing, going, rushing.

It justifies a delayed to-do list,

It justifies delving into a page-turner,

It justifies making surprise snowmen,

For your neighbours

And throwing snowballs

And being just a bit

Irresponsible

In general.

 

And the sky said to the clouds

“It is enough.”

And the earth lay muffled,

hushed,

slow,

underneath

all

the

layers.

“Filter me,”

said my life.

So I did.

 

When you filter

You take away.

You rid of the

Excess.

 

You prune.

You clear.

Boil down.

Reduce.

Refuse.

Decline.

Accept.

Ignore.

Reflect.

Open.

Close.

 

Choose.

Constant

Choosing.

What is needful?

What is best?

What to minus,

What do add?

Where do divide?

Multiply?

This season looks filtered

Without trying.

It’s just doing what it’s always done.

This rhythm

Of work and play,

Of life and death,

Hanging on and letting go.

The leaves swirl

Yellow showers,

Amber coins

Thin and scattered.

And trees are left

Less

And I can see

More.

More.

Reduction.

Choosing.

Filtering me.

Simplify.

Essentials.

Moderation.

Words the World

Admires openly,

But forgets privately.

 

A life unfiltered

Isn’t difficult

Cause your going

With the flow.

A life

Holding a sieve,

Practicing less

Over more is difficult

Because creeks

Have stones

To go round.

But there is a flow.

A narrow, crooked

Kind of flow,

That sings,

Like a heavy set river

Just can’t.

“Filter me,”

said my life.

So I did.

And the excess

Drifted

Away

And now I can see.

Nature clears,

like writing,

like wind,

and the sky is bare

and blue again.

All the furrows

pushed beyond

the horizon till

they don’t peek

over the edges

anymore.

I need nature,

like solitude,

wild and unknown,

yet I feel very at home

following the imprints

of the moose

that came before me.

I am like her,

escaping,

hiding,

waiting.

When the water is still

you can see the pebble

drop down inside

and the ripples are free

unhindered and circle out

gentle

and then

still.

 

Time has a boundary.

It must.

Or,

Like the ocean,

It won’t stop.

It will cover us

It will overwhelm,

Take over.

We’d become

Overcome

By it.

 

It’s a lot of freedom

To trust mere mortals with.

To give us

The opportunity

Every day

To manage

Time.

To set the boundaries.

Keep the boundaries.

Honour the boundaries.

So it doesn’t switch

And start

To manage us.

 

It can be so rough on us.

Time.

Till we are quite slaves.

Usually unknowingly.

This week I honoured the boundaries of time.

Like reaching the shore

I accepted it done

Even if some was undone.

“Each day has enough trouble of it’s own.”

There is always tomorrow.

 

The result was

Peace.

More peace than is normal.

Quantitatively more.

I refused to hurry.

I refused to push

At those margins,

Those boundaries.

I drew back

And prioritized rest

Over productivity

When I reached

The shore.

The boundary.

My purpose in this one life

Is not perfection.

It’s not to prove

I CAN more than

Anyone else.

It’s not to seek accolades.

My purpose is to

Be present

Instead of perfect.

Simply led

Instead of chaotically charging ahead,

Terrified of falling behind.

To choose to value the accolades

Of a Heavenly Father

Who, though omnipotent,

Omnipresent,

Omniscient,

Chose to

Rest

Too.

 

 

I recall a tumultuous bedtime

And an exhausted little girl

And hearing her mommy say gently,

“This is your fence.”

Your boundary.

In your overtired,

Emotional upheaval,

This fence,

This boundary

Does not appeal.

Stopping.

Resting.

Silence.

Solitude.

No.

And you’d rather disregard

The wise voice above

And keep forever

Being tossed by

Unrelenting waves

Of time

That you were never meant

To endure.

 

But when she finally lay

Her tear streaked cheek

On her inviting pillow

She was out like a light.

The fight

Over.

The waves

Stilled

Washing up slow

Against the shore.

I want to honour time always.

Honour the shore.

Accept my limitations.

Rejoice in resting.

Value re-charging,

Over running on fumes.

 

So I close my day book

And leave my desk a clutter,

My classroom

Far from perfect.

I accept tomorrow’s mystery

And trust divine Providence,

that can see me through it,

And I go

Walk

On the shore.

I’m a writer

Reluctant.

Mostly cause I want to write

When I want to write,

Not when I don’t.

Not when I should write.

Not when I’m scheduled to write,

Requested to write,

HAVE to write.

I want it all to be inspiration-based.

When the whimsy hits me.

 

I think that’s the way it would be with everything

If I let it.

I’d be a teacher

Reluctant

If I only taught when I wanted to,

Not when I should,

When I’m scheduled,

Requested,

HAVE to.

I’d be a singer

Reluctant.

Guitar player

Reluctant.

Prayer partner

Reluctant.

Jesus-Lover

Reluctant.

Present Friend

Reluctant.

House-cleaner

Reluctant.

Meal preparer

Reluctant.

Work out routine

Reluctant.

Healthy food eater

Reluctant.

 

I’d be a lump on a log,

A slave of my whims,

Randomly directing energy

In short bursts,

Skitterishly,

Here, there, everywhere, nowhere.

 

Let’s say I didn’t.

I didn’t do what I had to when I had to,

Who would I be?

 

I wouldn’t be as good at guitar as I am,

Actually, I would have left it behind long ago,

Cause it was hard

And I didn’t always want to.

 

I wouldn’t be an almost 7 year teacher,

I’d have bought a hippie van and headed for the coast

Long ago,

Cause it has been tough

And I didn’t always want to.

 

I wouldn’t be brave enough to sing,

To lead the congregation as I do now,

Cause it has been very hard,

And I cried a lot,

Because I didn’t always want to.

 

I wouldn’t have the relationship I have with God these days,

Not at all, if I hadn’t pushed through the hard,

The “don’t feel like it” and the “don’t want to’s.”

Especially those dark nights of winter,

and those dark nights of the soul.

 

That goes for all relationships I enjoy currently.

I could have given up on a lot of people a long time ago

Because the “want to” wasn’t there.

 

That’s ridiculous.

This waiting for the “want to.”

 

Someone put it this way,

“It doesn’t matter what you want.

It matters what you will.” 1

 

I can’t wait for the “want to.”

If I do, it could take forever,

Be short lived and scanty,

And I’d have absolutely no backbone

To stand up

And push through

When the next hard thing comes along.

 

Doing what I will when I don’t want to

Produces character.

Hard won, character is (as Yoda would say).

No one gets it

Naturally.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

So this reluctance,

If I give it a push,

It actually gets going,

And I get rolling,

If I keep pushing,

Like riding your bike against the wind,

Resistance.

 

Resistance creates strength.

Strength of character.

Unless reluctance takes a hike

Resistance is nonexistent.

And character is caputz.

And who likes to hang around a lump on a log anyway?

How does a reluctant lump make any kind of lasting difference in this world?

Or find life abundant and fulfilling.

You know the kind of fulfilling.

When you’ve stuck to your work out routine for over a month,

And now it’s a routine you can’t imagine living without.

And said no to sugar until you loose the love of it.

When you see the light bulb turn on above a child’s head,

And three-digit by three-digit multiplication doesn’t produce tears anymore.

The kind of fulfilling when

They comment on how they appreciate how tidy your home is,

And request a recipe for that dessert you thought you’d never master.

The kind of fulfilling when

You see prayers being answered, prayers you forgot you prayed, it was all so long ago.

And you’re able to sing praise and practice thanksgiving

Whether you feel like it or not,

And by the end know

It was worth it

Deep inside.

That kind of fulfilling when

You can pick up that song on guitar quick

Cause you practiced enough to make it seem

Natural.

What?

These hard things,

That reluctance resists,

These resisters that strengthen you

Can become

Natural?

Eventually.

So maybe if

I keep resisting reluctance,

And willing to do

What I don’t want to do,

Maybe all this hard will

Eventually

Become

Natural.

 

 

Dear Reluctant Writer (Me, today anyway),

Remember that your will is stronger than your want.

Boss yourself around a bit.

It’ll make you more the you you wish you were,

Naturally.

Peace

 

 

 

1. http://www.bethel.tv/watch/4082/transforming-your-life-sunday-am/2016/07/03

Loon laughter

echoes

Out over water

mirroring

Mother sky,

Bending her generous self

Down to earth,

Betraying

All her secrets.

 

Fullness

Everywhere

Evident

In all

This green,

This blue,

This abundance.

 

Mature summer,

Full

Of space

Around and

Inside

Full of time

To waste

Well.

Bare schedule,

Bare responsibilities,

Meet

Bare skin,

Bare feet,

Meet

Sun freckles,

Sun burns,

Here.

 

Smoke,

Lingering,

Linking

All of us

Together.

Flames,

Licking,

Lurking,

Rallying

When stirred.

 

Unquenchable

Smirks,

Unapologetic

Splashes,

Unruly

Behaviour

Justified

Here.

Communal

Table,

Laden,

Thick

with

Tales

Exaggerated

Slightly

Savouring

Each

Soul

Here.

 

 

Living full,

Well,

Where rest

Eases us.

Where play

Grows us.

Where love

Enfolds us.

Right

Here.