In speaking of our desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you – the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in or experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter….The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things – the beauty, the memory of our past – are good images of what we desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we hve not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am, but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. --- From “The Weight of Glory” by C.S. Lewis

Stepping Into Our Story

To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God. It is what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.” ― Timothy Keller, The Meaning of Marriage: Finding Happiness in Your Most Profound Relationship

Crossing theThreshhold

Under His Wings

My Rights

I have the right to listen to the ravens, to hear the story being told by all of creation. I have the right to repeat creation’s story, to speak my own language, to keep my eyes open, to judge my intentions, to cherish freedom, to stand against evil, to sit in solitude, to sing in community, to be amazed at children, to be in awe of the elderly, to walk around flowers, to crush cruelty, to cling to my destiny, to bestow charity upon the poor, to bring comfort to the dying, to seek reconciliation with my enemies and pardon for my thoughtlessness. I have the right to speak the truth, admit my confusion, strive for simplicity and demand protection for the weak and failing. I have the right to refuse the shame of my need and my pain and the freedom to live with an eye toward the dignity bestowed upon me by my Creator.

A Quote From C.S. Lewis

"People often think of Christian morality as a kind of bargain in which God says, "if you keep a lot of rules I'll reward you and if you don't I'll do the other thing." I do not think that is the best way of looking at it. I would much rather say that every time you make a choice your are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before. And taking your life as a whole, with all your innummerable choices, all your life long you are slowly turning this central thing either into a heavely creature or into a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war and hatred with God, and with its fellow creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, it is joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal lonliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other." (From Mere Christianity)

Overlooking the Rain Forest

There is much unwritten about the rain forest. The sky, for instance, where does it say that the stairs to the clouds begin here in the wound of the rainbow? Where does it warn that romantics will be over-indulged here, encouraged to covet robin eggs and wrap themselves only in sky? This blue converts the self-respecting honeybee From performer to dancer Because really, there is no need for applause. It is false to believe that unless the dance is done correctly, the others will not find food for the hive. Everywhere here is God’s feast, Its abundance unavoidable, Sweet to the point of purple prose; a stumbling block to the clinician wanting to live up to the law. All those William Stafford elephants, urging me to freedom, to truth, to smallness have arrived here. Before me sits an enormous bowl of rain-drenched sun. And out of reverence to the God of the sky, who is also the Sea God and the God of the Poor and the Rich and stars too many to count, I will be grateful on this God-stocked morning – for every betrayal, every misconception, every failure, loss, argument, death & violent awakening that brought me dumbstruck to His branching arms and His indigenous mind. Here I sink into my romantic propensities and do not founder. To all the if onlys and what ifs, God snaps back and says, “I told you so.” “You weren’t so wrong.” “Your desire is warranted.” “You aren’t a Polly Anna, a cry baby, a whimp.” This place both widens and answers my inexplicable longing, By its very filling creating yet a deeper thirst. Here it is useless to deflect the compliment, the lavished undeserved gift of gratuitous beauty. One does not crave untasted fruit. Somewhere before I have tasted this. Not the me of my body but the me passed down through Eve, Proving something even grander awaits. I will lift/levanter/inclinacion my eyes/ojos unto the hills/Colinas, from whence cometh my help/remediar. My help comes from the Lord, the Maker/fabricator He will not let your foot slip – he who watches over Israel will neither slumber or sleep. Even still, I am aware of death; can I actually stand by your bed, while you go from living to dying and trust beyond your sad transfiguration – your affirming face caved to a slack canvas completely abandoned, forced to consider how I might continue on without you, knowing what happened to you in your last hours would someday happen to me? Only I wouldn’t have you to hold me. Or what if it is me first? I don’t want you to see me slowly dissolving, unveiled, becoming a caricature. If only to stand in the arch of this rainbow long enough to be scored by its colors and carry its mark home to you, wishing you would always see me this way – awestruck with color, small-waisted, hair blowing, firmly planted in joy.

Mother's Day Prayer by Barbara Lyons

Heavenly Father, Jehovah God, from whom your whole family in heaven and on Earth derives its name, we thank you for motherhood. We thank you for what it reminds us about who you are. We thank you that you understood first the joy of anticipating your perfect family. We thank you that you understood first the pain of losing your perfect children to sin and death. We thank you that you understood first the pregnant advent of centuries as your redemption formed. We thank you that you understood first the pain of delivery in water and blood on the cross that those children might be born again to you. We thank you that you pursued first the blessings and difficulties promised of adoption. We thank you that you modeled first a mother’s love as you gathered Israel, then the nations under your wings. And we thank you for your grace that covers our failings as mothers, The grace that makes us all your children, The grace that covers your church, which is your body, the fullness of him who fills everything in every way.

A Great Place to Live

Thoughts

Male and female, created He them.
The male is given all the apparatus
to know a woman…and as he exhibits his
knowledge trust is
presumed upon her.
If she grows
cold is it for
lack of covering?
Or has she chosen
winter’s indifferent
arms rather than the
deep warming that
would undo and possibly
abandon?

God's Currency is Relationships

The Yellow Suitcase

.......The way is surprisingly rough. She doesn't mention the hills, ignores
the ruts, sees only small declivities, no ditches, no peaks, certainly no cliffs.
The road narrows, erupts with trees. An unexpected wind sweeps down.

The Image of A Pearl

I woke up this morning with the image

of a pearl in my mind:

a tiny sphere brought into being by an irritating

grain of sand within the house of a muscle...

a space where competition between a foreign

and a resident thought spar to arrive at something

both beautiful and kind.


This is an image of instruction for me.

When I find myself in the realm of competition,

I will lean kindly into that which irritates by its very

essence of otherness.

I will seek to embrace this other thought rather

than muscle it out by wit, criticism and/or ridicule

and wait for the pearl of new understanding

to roll sweetly into view.

Regrets

As a young woman you seemed
a red flame in a kind white field.
Your eyes orbed, magnetic,
Gathered me in your wind -
blowing
blowing
blowing
through the cracks of me.

I, a reed, a chime, a swinging bell.
Saved from among tiny begging mouths,
I licked the spoon of you
believing in the more
the more
the more.

Of course, we swallowed us.
Your kind arms, so light in youth,
Sank in the dark of me -
your fleece of teeming questions.

After the children,
I took to the desert,
hooked on veils,
my face crushed flint
sparked your traveling flame.

I've had an ongoing internal conversation
about Lent prompted by a World Vision Video about LENT...wondering what it means to sacrifice and it seems like the word sacrifice implies a painful relinquishment of some kind. In Biblical times it was the death & burning of a spotless animal, which seems barbaric at best. If the "thing" had lived it would havebeen a source of income and/or pride. "look at my beautiful ram, don't the curve of its horns catch the light in a pleasing way, and look how it follows me around and looks to me for its food & protection and just think I own it, aren't I clever or priviledged to have the good fortune to have come across such an amazing beast?" But now is now and animal sacrifice smacks of pagan ritual and rams aren't all that impressive compared to iphones & income & Weitsmans & Wazumas. So what would sacrificing entail if it were something I give up and in the process gain? I figured out it is DOUBT. I'm going to take any idea that gets me off the track of hope and refuse to give it credence... 40 days of believing that not knowing anything about anything is God's plan for keeping me out of the loop of anxiety and protecting me from all the pencil pushing political pissing contests and allowing me a stint in the Land of Milk and Honey... It will be hard in that worry at a time like this might give me at least a slight semblence of wisdom afterall isn't almost everybody spinning around the withering whinning wrat-trap (WWW) for the ideology that best lines up to their own wounded world-view in order to think of themselves sane and up to credible snot? Seems like it. So anyway, that's my new idea for Lent & what I intend to sacrifice. What about you?
Have you thought about it?

“She's the sort of woman who lives for others - you can tell the others by their hunted expression.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

Prayer of an Old Chimney

Oh ignored Carpenter, Over-looked Yahweh,

Thank you
for giving
me what my smoke-filled eyes
mistook for loss.





For sustaining my conflagrating arrogance
until every defining board,
every weight-bearing rafter,
every imperiled shingle
I false-claimed as trophy for gain,
smoldered to foddering ash.

By the power of your soft-petaled
will you forbore
my ill-conceived fire
and suffered the flames
of all my self-victimizing stories.

At last I found myself redeemably alone.

Thank you for reclaiming what only belonged
for a season to me,
However grieved by the loss of your hard-won
but now gone structure,
You conceive newness in my widening cracks.

What once was a conduit for smoke and a cradle for flame
Is for now a cistern for light and a trough
of surrender for whatever is meant to become.

Surrounded now by what only You can build
And only You can nail, I wait for transformation.

From a Balcony Overlooking the Rain Forest

There is much unwritten about the rain forest.
The sky, for instance, where does it say that the stairs
to the clouds begin here in the wound of the rainbow?
Where does it warn that romantics will be egged on here,
encouraged to covet robin eggs and
wrap themselves only in sky?
This blue converts the self-respecting honeybee
from a dancer to a slouch.
Because really, there is no need for its guiding dance.
It is false to believe that unless the dance is done correctly,
the others will not find food for the hive.
Everywhere here is a feast,
Its sweetness unavoidable,
sticky to the point of purple prose;
a stumbling block to the clinician wanting
to stick to the law.
All those elephants William Stafford dogged, urging
us to be truthful, to dig in and spoon out what
blinds us, aren’t necessary here.
Before us sits an enormous bowl of rain-drenched sun.
And out of reverence to the God of the sky,
who is also the Sea God and
the God of the Poor and
the Rich and stars too many to count,
I will be grateful on this sky-stocked morning
for every betrayal, every misconception, every failure,
loss, argument, death & violent awakening
that brought me dumbstruck to these branching arms
and this indigenous sky.
Here I sink into my romantic propensities and indulge them.
To all the if onlys and what ifs, God snaps back and says, “I told you so.”
“You weren’t so wrong.”
“Your desire is warranted.”
“You aren’t a Polly Anna, a cry baby, a whimp.”

Now I know that something in me was being carved out, deepened, widened,
making space for this answer to my inexplicable longing.
Here it is useless to deflect the compliment, the lavished undeserved gift of gratuitous beauty.
One does not crave untasted fruit. Somewhere before I have tasted this.
Not the me of my body but the me passed down through Eve.
This longing is proof that something even grander than this awaits me.

I will lift/levanter/inclinacion my eyes/ojos unto the hills/Colinas,
from whence cometh my help/remediar.
My help comes from the Lord, the Maker/ fabricada of Heaven/ firmament and
Earth/tierra. He will not let your foot slip – he who watches over Israel will neither slumber or sleep.

Even still, I am aware of death; can I actually stand by your bed,
while you go from living to dying and see beyond your
sad transfiguration - your beautiful face caved to a slack
canvas completely abandoned,
frightened to consider how I might continue on without you,
knowing what happened to you in your last hours
would someday happen to me?
Only I wouldn’t have you to hold me.
Or what if it is me first? I don’t want you to
see me slowly dissolving, unveiled, becoming a caricature.

If only to stand in the arch of this rainbow long enough
to be scored by its colors and carry its mark
home
to
you,
wishing you would always see me this way – awestruck with color,
small-waisted, hair blowing, firmly planted in joy,
my brush silenced from making small narcissistic strokes.

They say I was violated.
But was I really?
The reasoning was based on what I said, on what I remembered.
But what had I forgotten?
What had I failed to remember?
Violated?
Then why have I loved?
And why do I continue to love?
How much more confused about love will I have to be to understand?
And how much credibility will I sacrifice to agree that violence resides in me?
How often am I tempted to hurt the hope before it hurts me?
To pretend I don’t want or need or desire?

Maybe the game with the knife was just a way of grooming
me for what I continue to learn: Blood is not the only evidence of a wound,
this rainbow, for example.