In an attempt to practice a greater reverence for the word (and personal discipline), I will no longer be "blogging" my poetry.
Maybe, one day, one of my poems will be published and speak to someone.
For now, I think it's time for me to sit on the things I'm writing, let their expression first bring joy to my Father's heart as the process draws my heart closer to his (it's all for him anyway), and learn all that I can from my amazing professor and fellow poets.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Weekday Run
Dedicated to my good friend, Ben, for his kindness and Christ-likeness, used by God to reawaken me to the love of my Savior during a difficult time in my life. Friendship is a beautiful gift, wonderfully mysterious too; cherish it!
Weekday Run
December 2008
My feet and mind run
over the day’s debris,
beat (It’s Friday) the beaten path
of Bolin Creek trail and memory—
why I started running
in the first place: Gibson Park,
Ben. He was the kind of kind
that made me laugh
at my vanity after a 5K.
“Who cares if you’re sweaty?—
You’re pretty.
Besides, your eyes become bluer
and get flecked with bits of sun-
shine after a good run.”
Come on? No—
he ended with “Come on,
up for another mile?”, smiled.
He understood the nature of friendship,
running ahead of me,
watching his feet as a way
of protecting mine (a few steps behind)
from rocks or roots or other dangers
between footfall and falling;
because he knew that I’d be admiring
the turning leaves,
and I knew he’d be listening
when I told him of yellows and reds
and all the transformations from green
that the season was causing in me.
He must have sensed my fear
of the spur of life
that started in my feet,
cut through calf and knee, thigh and side,
to leap into my heart beating faster,
because—just then—he looked
over his shoulder
to tell me not to give up.
“I’ll carry you if I have to.”
And he would’ve.
He led me
beside water fountains
to a seat in the soft grass
to slow the heart, catch breath,
and accept the gold of generous June.
Quiet in my tiredness and contentment,
he’d break his runner’s silence
with “I’ve been thinking…”
and surprise me each time: wisdom-, life-
words that seemed to belong to a man;
weighty words, strong enough to build upon.
He called forth some spring song
from my winter chest
before moving on
as friends do.
Weekday Run
December 2008
My feet and mind run
over the day’s debris,
beat (It’s Friday) the beaten path
of Bolin Creek trail and memory—
why I started running
in the first place: Gibson Park,
Ben. He was the kind of kind
that made me laugh
at my vanity after a 5K.
“Who cares if you’re sweaty?—
You’re pretty.
Besides, your eyes become bluer
and get flecked with bits of sun-
shine after a good run.”
Come on? No—
he ended with “Come on,
up for another mile?”, smiled.
He understood the nature of friendship,
running ahead of me,
watching his feet as a way
of protecting mine (a few steps behind)
from rocks or roots or other dangers
between footfall and falling;
because he knew that I’d be admiring
the turning leaves,
and I knew he’d be listening
when I told him of yellows and reds
and all the transformations from green
that the season was causing in me.
He must have sensed my fear
of the spur of life
that started in my feet,
cut through calf and knee, thigh and side,
to leap into my heart beating faster,
because—just then—he looked
over his shoulder
to tell me not to give up.
“I’ll carry you if I have to.”
And he would’ve.
He led me
beside water fountains
to a seat in the soft grass
to slow the heart, catch breath,
and accept the gold of generous June.
Quiet in my tiredness and contentment,
he’d break his runner’s silence
with “I’ve been thinking…”
and surprise me each time: wisdom-, life-
words that seemed to belong to a man;
weighty words, strong enough to build upon.
He called forth some spring song
from my winter chest
before moving on
as friends do.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I've written two poems over the last couple of days. I'm just blogging them for fun, hoping to have time to revise later. They're a little different, but I hope you find them enjoyable (at least in an artistic sense :D), and, as always, I would love to hear any feedback!
A couple notes: I suggest reading "Vision" aloud, and "White" is a loose sonnet.
Vision
July 20, 2009
threshold
thrashing gold
fire yield
fivefold
wheat field
clay and stone
grown feet,
peace-shod,
walking home
tracking God
White
July 21, 2009
A party breaks from my memory's hold
and dwells with me, silent, backed against brick:
the perfume of spiced cider and blue gold
burning away a Christmas candle wick.
I stand under the roof's jutting gutter,
watching Sunday snow like a waterfall:
Feather laughter, muffled music--cold shudder.
Saturday's promise: "Once home safe, I'll call,"
forgotten.... He's released himself from cost.
His simple perspective: friendship, no spark.
Mine: my friend, dressed in black, talks; love-look lost.
That night, I'm drowning outside Noah's ark.
Hard thoughts on the white curb turn towards the Skull*.
Forgive. My sins are forgiven in full.
*a translation of "Golgotha," Calvary
A couple notes: I suggest reading "Vision" aloud, and "White" is a loose sonnet.
Vision
July 20, 2009
threshold
thrashing gold
fire yield
fivefold
wheat field
clay and stone
grown feet,
peace-shod,
walking home
tracking God
White
July 21, 2009
A party breaks from my memory's hold
and dwells with me, silent, backed against brick:
the perfume of spiced cider and blue gold
burning away a Christmas candle wick.
I stand under the roof's jutting gutter,
watching Sunday snow like a waterfall:
Feather laughter, muffled music--cold shudder.
Saturday's promise: "Once home safe, I'll call,"
forgotten.... He's released himself from cost.
His simple perspective: friendship, no spark.
Mine: my friend, dressed in black, talks; love-look lost.
That night, I'm drowning outside Noah's ark.
Hard thoughts on the white curb turn towards the Skull*.
Forgive. My sins are forgiven in full.
*a translation of "Golgotha," Calvary
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Rerouted
It's funny, but often after I've finished working out, God will fill my heart or mind with thoughts of Him and the gospel, and I'll get inspired to do or write something. Maybe with my mind freshly invigorated, I am more alert to His voice and nearness by His Spirit...anyways, it's wonderful!
Today, as I was stretching in the quiet of my room :D, I believe the Lord gave me this (what I'm calling) poetic exhortation; it is paradoxically my own experience, testimony, and continual prayer. I wrote it as it came to me so please forgive its weaknesses. I pray that it will bless and encourage you...and most importantly give you a glimpse of God's amazing love for His children, that you might desire to know more of it!
Rerouted
Sisters, do not awaken love until its time....
If someone pursues you and wins your heart,
wants some of that love;
then blocks its powerful rush,
turns and leaves, changes his mind;
do not dam it up, grieve,
then yield to the lover of your soul.
Ask him to come and break a new route
for that love to flow:
to the ones in need,
to the lost, those without hope,
towards His Son
through which love comes to you.
Where human love fails,
God's perfect love prevails.
God does bind up our hearts
if we give them to him,
and through his miraculous work,
we are not the same when He is done.
In healing, we know a deeper love,
we know the tenderness of His hands--
when renewed, that broken heart
beats stronger after his.
Today, as I was stretching in the quiet of my room :D, I believe the Lord gave me this (what I'm calling) poetic exhortation; it is paradoxically my own experience, testimony, and continual prayer. I wrote it as it came to me so please forgive its weaknesses. I pray that it will bless and encourage you...and most importantly give you a glimpse of God's amazing love for His children, that you might desire to know more of it!
Rerouted
Sisters, do not awaken love until its time....
If someone pursues you and wins your heart,
wants some of that love;
then blocks its powerful rush,
turns and leaves, changes his mind;
do not dam it up, grieve,
then yield to the lover of your soul.
Ask him to come and break a new route
for that love to flow:
to the ones in need,
to the lost, those without hope,
towards His Son
through which love comes to you.
Where human love fails,
God's perfect love prevails.
God does bind up our hearts
if we give them to him,
and through his miraculous work,
we are not the same when He is done.
In healing, we know a deeper love,
we know the tenderness of His hands--
when renewed, that broken heart
beats stronger after his.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Mourning Song
Mourning Song
the first from Figure Eight Island
June 17, 2009
Foam, white and wondrous,
frothed upon the sand,
becomes small clusters of fading bubbles
that disappear under the next surge--
Crush my sparkling moments on earth.
My glory will only gather
into a stagnant, yellowing fringe
above the waterline.
Your glory is the thundering sea.
Wash me back into the waves.
Renew me in the white caps,
the glistening patchwork
on the turbulent ocean-green,
the splash and splendor
of the foamy crash.
the first from Figure Eight Island
June 17, 2009
Foam, white and wondrous,
frothed upon the sand,
becomes small clusters of fading bubbles
that disappear under the next surge--
Crush my sparkling moments on earth.
My glory will only gather
into a stagnant, yellowing fringe
above the waterline.
Your glory is the thundering sea.
Wash me back into the waves.
Renew me in the white caps,
the glistening patchwork
on the turbulent ocean-green,
the splash and splendor
of the foamy crash.
Monday, June 15, 2009
A Journey
At the end of June, my extended (and immediate) family will be spending our last family reunion at our beloved beach house, built by my grandparents in 1967. I've spent at least a week (sometimes four or five weeks) of every summer there with some of the people I love most in the world. Selling the house is an "end," but I'm reminded that every end is a beginning too; such a beautiful truth of life. As a writer, it's these transitions that invite me to remember and record.
I wrote "A Journey" in February of 2009. I think many more stories will come from my memories related to Figure Eight.
It’s a summer month and the air-conditioner is on in the car. What does that bring to your mind? Just wait a minute. You might have something to say about summer or air-conditioning or cars.
I remember how the drive to Figure Eight Island used to take four hours until a new highway was built. Interstate 40 to US-17 makes the drive three hours and thirty minutes. Forget the discomfort of being in a hot car; I miss the extra thirty minutes that meant taking back roads where the sand made the pavement shimmer and where the colors of the local fruit stands—the bright yellow of bananas and the green of the watermelons we’d sometimes stop and buy—were the signs that the beach was close. A quietness would fill the car then until the old Exxon at the corner of Market and Porters Neck.
That moment of pulling up to the grey beach house to the sound of gravel under the tires, with the smell of salt air and the knowledge that the paved pathway with puddles when it rains, ending at the stairs that go up to the front door, will lead to the longed-for glimpse of the ocean; then, the pull on the screen door that gets stuck and the climb up the wooden stairs to the kitchen and you coming around the black counter and Granddad getting up from his chair at the long table with a bowl of shells in the middle to hug all nine Helds in succession.
I wrote "A Journey" in February of 2009. I think many more stories will come from my memories related to Figure Eight.
A Journey
It’s a summer month and the air-conditioner is on in the car. What does that bring to your mind? Just wait a minute. You might have something to say about summer or air-conditioning or cars.
Here’s what it brings to my mind:
That summer month could be June, July, or August—the date of the family reunion changes each year along with the topics that will lead to shouting at the “uncles’ end” of the dinner table and the number of tattoos on my cousin Tim’s body. Once school ended, my brothers and sisters and I began a countdown on a whiteboard in the kitchen until we left for the beach. Each day, Joseph would subtract one from the number in the top left corner, erase it, and rewrite the new number with a dry erase marker that usually was dried out or lost within a couple weeks.
If it’s before my two youngest brothers Robert and Joseph were born, the car is a seven-seater, burgundy Toyota Previa (a van my dad preserved with steadfast love through last year while we kids grew to hate it for its loud shaking at stoplights and out-dated jelly-bean shape). The air-conditioner is probably blasting air on my older sister Katie and me with such force that our bangs are blown back with a few strands pasted to our foreheads. And the three youngest, John, Jane, and Thomas, are most likely sweating and complaining that they aren’t getting any air in the back.
Or if all seven kids have been born, the car’s a white Chevy Suburban. Nine Helds fill the three rows, three of us to a row. We better keep our hands to ourselves and feet in front of us or else someone’s gonna lose it (that someone usually being Jane with her red hair and hatred of another’s skin rubbing against her own). The vents are broken so cool air is a front-seat luxury for Dad-Joe-Mom. And the six, sitting in the heat behind them, want to roll down the windows and let the air beat against their eardrums; well, at least that’s what I wish for.
The car exits the highway—just a few more miles until we reach the beach. Can you remember a time when you went to the beach? Exited a highway? Just wanted to be where you were going?
The car exits the highway—just a few more miles until we reach the beach. Can you remember a time when you went to the beach? Exited a highway? Just wanted to be where you were going?
I remember how the drive to Figure Eight Island used to take four hours until a new highway was built. Interstate 40 to US-17 makes the drive three hours and thirty minutes. Forget the discomfort of being in a hot car; I miss the extra thirty minutes that meant taking back roads where the sand made the pavement shimmer and where the colors of the local fruit stands—the bright yellow of bananas and the green of the watermelons we’d sometimes stop and buy—were the signs that the beach was close. A quietness would fill the car then until the old Exxon at the corner of Market and Porters Neck.
Once we turned off of Porters Neck onto Edgewater, one of us (I think my mom was the first to initiate the tradition) would begin to sing, “We’re going to the beach….” We’d all join in: “We’re going to the beach! Hi-ho, the dairy-o, we’re going to the beach!” until the sharp curve as Edgewater became Bridge. “Shhhhh.” We could now see the bridge to the island, arching over water we’d soon be tubing and boating in.
Now when we get off the highway, there’s the Exxon, but across from it is a shopping center that opened around the time the beach house behind ours was built. That beach house is where our view of the marshes used to be and is elevated by a mound of sand brought in with trucks so the owner’s view of the ocean would not be blocked by our house.
I love the grocery store runs I make to the shopping center’s Harris Teeter with Aunt Topsy or mom or Katie and Jane. Their watermelons are always on sale if you use a VIC card.
We’ve reached 240 Beach Road North before any of the other extended family. This memory is mine. I have at least a hundred versions of it. I’ll share one with you, the one I hope I have for forever. Stop me if you remember any of it:
We’ve reached 240 Beach Road North before any of the other extended family. This memory is mine. I have at least a hundred versions of it. I’ll share one with you, the one I hope I have for forever. Stop me if you remember any of it:
That moment of pulling up to the grey beach house to the sound of gravel under the tires, with the smell of salt air and the knowledge that the paved pathway with puddles when it rains, ending at the stairs that go up to the front door, will lead to the longed-for glimpse of the ocean; then, the pull on the screen door that gets stuck and the climb up the wooden stairs to the kitchen and you coming around the black counter and Granddad getting up from his chair at the long table with a bowl of shells in the middle to hug all nine Helds in succession.
Now you have lost your ability to stand in the kitchen and cook dinner; for a while, you lost your desire to come upstairs at all.
Now you love to be with us at dinner but your dementia means you’re not sure who you are eating with or if you’ve ever had the meal before.
I love that you love banana ice cream.
Mamie, the doctors say you will lose most of your memories. For you, I’ll try to keep as many as I can.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
A Personal Wake-Up Call
In the past, when I have read or heard the parable of the sower and his seed (Do you know the one, from Matthew 13, Mark 4, and Luke 8?), in pride, I've assumed I'm the "good soil." However, if I am honest with myself, I realize that more often than not the effect of God's word in my life is more like what Mark 4:18-19 describes, "And others are the ones sown among thorns. They are those who hear the word, but the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches and the desires for other things enter in and choke the word, and it proves unfruitful."
In Chapel Hill, when I awake and make my way into the kitchen to grind the coffee beans and rummage for a handful of cereal, my apartment is quiet; the temptation to twitter or check my email is there, but for the most part, I come, undistracted, to read God's word. In Greensboro, when I awake, the coffee has usually been made, breakfast options are numerous, and my brothers' play can be heard in every room of the house; the temptation to twitter or check my email is still present. I love being home; it's a blessing to be reminded each day of a part of my God-given identity that can be forgotten or pushed aside when I am "on my own": I'm a sister and a daughter, and the Lord does wonderful things in my heart and life as I embrace these roles in joy and with contentment to his glory. Nonetheless, that "undistracted" time with God can vanish.
I've been asking myself lately, so what's the problem, why does my hunger for God seem to be ebbing more than it is growing? Must I wake up earlier? Maybe (probably :D). But even in my life as a single woman in Chapel Hill, I still struggle with reading God's word but not "eating it" and finding my delight and joy in it (Jeremiah 15:16) and then "filling" myself with substitutes for God the rest of the day.
So, it appears to me, that being the "good soil" has little to do with whether or not I hear (or read) the word and much to do with what I do as and after I read the word, as and after it is sown into my heart....
Do I
1) understand it (Matt 13:23)?
2) accept it (Mark 4:20)?
3) "hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience" (Luke 8:15)?
(here's my attempt to personalize it)
Do I
1) take the time to study God's word, discovering the context of what I am reading, look up words I don't know, delve into harder passages, write notes, etc.?
2) grapple with the passage, submit to it, come under its authority as God's very words to me, let it rebuke, convict, startle, humble, excite me; meditate, journal, re-read, obey?
3) seek to apply God's word to my life? In order to "hold fast" to it, are there thoughts and behaviors that I must renounce, let go and repent of, are there good gifts that I must fast from for a time? Am I committed to letting God work his word into my heart day by day through whatever means he chooses while I, in victory (because he's good) and failure (because we can do nothing apart from him and must be reminded of our utter dependence on him), stay near to the cross of Jesus in repentance and awe? Will I not grow weary in doing good, trusting that at "the proper time [I] will reap a harvest if [I] do not give up" (Galatians 6:9)?
Do I get creative: write verses on notecards, make time to share what God is speaking to me with others, seek out gospel-centered music and books to listen to and read? Do I pray a lot?
Or do I close my Bible, go into my day, and let the cares of the world (my to-do list, my future plans), the deceitfulness of riches (the way new stuff, great times with friends, sweet music, a good hair day or oufit can make me feel happy but has the danger of making me happy apart from God and vulnerable to idolatry), and desires for other things (the above "riches," marriage, tasty food, adventure, success in the world) choke out the living word of God from real, lived-out expression in my life?....
I woke up before anyone else this morning. And I realized that it's not the loudness or busyness of a household of eight that keeps me from God's word, and it's not the "summer air" that keeps me from discipline and combats the "fruit-bearing" in my life, it's the things Jesus lists in Mark 4:19, it's the sin in my heart.
I'm thankful I couldn't sleep so that God could expose the drift in my life. Most of all, I'm thankful that, because of Jesus' finished work on the cross, I am not under condemnation, but can come to God's throne of mercy and grace (again and again) and find all that I need for life and godliness, that I can come to the Bread of Life and be filled, the Living Water and never thirst again.
For my brothers and sisters in Christ, the same is true for you! I hope you are encouraged to keep fighting the good fight of faith!
1 Corinthians 6: 9-11, "Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God."
Romans 12: 1-2, "[...] in view of God's mercy, [...] offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will."
In Chapel Hill, when I awake and make my way into the kitchen to grind the coffee beans and rummage for a handful of cereal, my apartment is quiet; the temptation to twitter or check my email is there, but for the most part, I come, undistracted, to read God's word. In Greensboro, when I awake, the coffee has usually been made, breakfast options are numerous, and my brothers' play can be heard in every room of the house; the temptation to twitter or check my email is still present. I love being home; it's a blessing to be reminded each day of a part of my God-given identity that can be forgotten or pushed aside when I am "on my own": I'm a sister and a daughter, and the Lord does wonderful things in my heart and life as I embrace these roles in joy and with contentment to his glory. Nonetheless, that "undistracted" time with God can vanish.
I've been asking myself lately, so what's the problem, why does my hunger for God seem to be ebbing more than it is growing? Must I wake up earlier? Maybe (probably :D). But even in my life as a single woman in Chapel Hill, I still struggle with reading God's word but not "eating it" and finding my delight and joy in it (Jeremiah 15:16) and then "filling" myself with substitutes for God the rest of the day.
So, it appears to me, that being the "good soil" has little to do with whether or not I hear (or read) the word and much to do with what I do as and after I read the word, as and after it is sown into my heart....
Do I
1) understand it (Matt 13:23)?
2) accept it (Mark 4:20)?
3) "hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience" (Luke 8:15)?
(here's my attempt to personalize it)
Do I
1) take the time to study God's word, discovering the context of what I am reading, look up words I don't know, delve into harder passages, write notes, etc.?
2) grapple with the passage, submit to it, come under its authority as God's very words to me, let it rebuke, convict, startle, humble, excite me; meditate, journal, re-read, obey?
3) seek to apply God's word to my life? In order to "hold fast" to it, are there thoughts and behaviors that I must renounce, let go and repent of, are there good gifts that I must fast from for a time? Am I committed to letting God work his word into my heart day by day through whatever means he chooses while I, in victory (because he's good) and failure (because we can do nothing apart from him and must be reminded of our utter dependence on him), stay near to the cross of Jesus in repentance and awe? Will I not grow weary in doing good, trusting that at "the proper time [I] will reap a harvest if [I] do not give up" (Galatians 6:9)?
Do I get creative: write verses on notecards, make time to share what God is speaking to me with others, seek out gospel-centered music and books to listen to and read? Do I pray a lot?
Or do I close my Bible, go into my day, and let the cares of the world (my to-do list, my future plans), the deceitfulness of riches (the way new stuff, great times with friends, sweet music, a good hair day or oufit can make me feel happy but has the danger of making me happy apart from God and vulnerable to idolatry), and desires for other things (the above "riches," marriage, tasty food, adventure, success in the world) choke out the living word of God from real, lived-out expression in my life?....
I woke up before anyone else this morning. And I realized that it's not the loudness or busyness of a household of eight that keeps me from God's word, and it's not the "summer air" that keeps me from discipline and combats the "fruit-bearing" in my life, it's the things Jesus lists in Mark 4:19, it's the sin in my heart.
I'm thankful I couldn't sleep so that God could expose the drift in my life. Most of all, I'm thankful that, because of Jesus' finished work on the cross, I am not under condemnation, but can come to God's throne of mercy and grace (again and again) and find all that I need for life and godliness, that I can come to the Bread of Life and be filled, the Living Water and never thirst again.
For my brothers and sisters in Christ, the same is true for you! I hope you are encouraged to keep fighting the good fight of faith!
1 Corinthians 6: 9-11, "Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God."
Romans 12: 1-2, "[...] in view of God's mercy, [...] offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will."
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Definitions of Masculinity and Femininity (from What's the Difference? by John Piper):
MASCULINITY
At the heart of mature masculinity is a sense of benevolent responsibility to lead, provide for and protect women in ways appropriate to a man's differing relationships.
FEMININITY
At the heart of mature femininity is a freeing disposition to affirm, receive and nurture strength and leadership from worthy men in ways appropriate to a woman's differing relationships.
In What's the Difference?, John Piper goes on to carefully and insightfully break down each part of these two definitions to give a fuller understanding of Biblical masculinity and femininity.
I am currently reading What's the Difference?, but the small booklet is actually a chapter taken from Recovering Biblical Manhood and Womanhood, coauthored by John Piper and Wayne Grudem.
MASCULINITY
At the heart of mature masculinity is a sense of benevolent responsibility to lead, provide for and protect women in ways appropriate to a man's differing relationships.
FEMININITY
At the heart of mature femininity is a freeing disposition to affirm, receive and nurture strength and leadership from worthy men in ways appropriate to a woman's differing relationships.
In What's the Difference?, John Piper goes on to carefully and insightfully break down each part of these two definitions to give a fuller understanding of Biblical masculinity and femininity.
I am currently reading What's the Difference?, but the small booklet is actually a chapter taken from Recovering Biblical Manhood and Womanhood, coauthored by John Piper and Wayne Grudem.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Dad
My dad turns 50 today. I could not ask for a more wonderful father! When I started writing more, I began to realize, in a new way, how much his life and love have shaped the person that I am (even though our personalities are quite opposite haha). I am most thankful for the way my dad has demonstrated to me the "father's heart" of God and the power of the gospel.
My youngest brother Joseph wrote in the birthday card that he gave him yesterday, "Even though I have only known you for twelve years, I have still seen you grow in God" (Joseph's 12 :D). I can say the same thing (though I've known him for 21 years)! What a deep respect I have for my dad who has walked through many hardships and many joys and has loved, served, and trusted God wholeheartedly through it all, allowing everything to be used by God to mold him into a man more like Jesus. I love him so much and am inspired by his life!
Here are just a couple writings to honor him and give a sense of how much my relationship with him has meant to me!
A poem:
Father
Through the glass, he sees his girl—
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch.
He closes his book for her words, unstudied.
He listens well while the world is fresh and golden.
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch,
promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love.
He listens well while her world is fresh and golden.
He learns how to father.
Promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love
from the mouth of a child.
He learns how to father
in his failure and her failure.
From the mouth of a child,
from daughter, his watcher:
“In her failure, don’t fail her.”
He instructs her with his heart and life.
From daughter, his watcher—
questions about everything.
He entrusts her with his heart and life
when he answers.
Questions about everything
over two decades of girl-become-woman.
When he answers,
his words are chosen, inspected, sound.
Over two decades of girl-become-woman,
sitting next to father—still. Here
his words are chosen, inspected, sound;
wisdom from wearing days on the human frame.
Sitting next to father—still “hero”—
she closes her book for his words, unstudied
wisdom for the wearing days on the human frame.
Through his glasses, he sees his girl.
A piece of prose (excerpt from "Close"):
His book never deterred me, or his closed eyes. I was sure that as soon as my dad felt the mattress rise under him as I climbed onto the green comforter with small blue flowers, nuzzling next to his warm body, that he would set the book face down on his chest and tilt his head until he was gazing at the top of mine. His chin would graze my red hair, but I’d wait a moment before leaning back to meet his gaze, my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat in the silence of the sleeping house (it was “quiet time,” Sunday afternoon). We’d laugh and for a moment the heartbeat would disappear. Then it was back, steady, reminding me that he was there and I was next to him and sleep would come after counting the light thump until it was hooves on a country road, a turning jump rope, a boat bumping against some dock….
All of my life, I’ve put my ear against the door in an attempt to hear the turn of a page like the sound of a piece of paper slipping out of my notebook, like a light wind, an invocation for me to come listen and dream beside my dad; I’ve knocked and jiggled the locked door handle, called out “Dad?”, and seen his face emerge as he cracks the door open; I’ve barged into the bedroom to find him asleep with his “good ear” towards the pillow, a closed book in his hand. He rests—head propped by a few pillows, a book held upright on his chest, legs extended and crossed, his socked feet rubbing against one another. That image has changed very little over the years though his hair has gone from dark brown to “salt and pepper” to grey and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has deepened and now reading glasses perch on his large, but handsome, nose. His cheeks still look like they hide 25-cent gumballs when he smiles; his skin is still ruddy and smooth as leather.
Sometimes he would read to me from the book he had chosen that day from the five or six that are always stacked on the night stand. His voice—the voice of an army medic, then a preacher, able to send “Yes, sir!” rumbling through an open field and “Praise God!” through a high-ceilinged sanctuary—was, to me, deep enough to engender respect but soft enough to soothe and still. I tried to retain in my maturing mind the theology or biographies or science fiction or scripture that reached me just a few inches below with slight puffs of breath that tickled my forehead. He must have known that words like omnipresent and Pelandria wouldn’t mean anything to me, but he also must have known how much sharing his world would mean to me. He would listen to my interrupting questions and answer with a precision that astounded me. Words gushed from me, but he wasted none. As I grew up, joining him less often while he read, I started to resent the frequent periods of silence between us if I didn’t monologue or ask him questions when we were together—I wanted him to start the conversation, ask me about my life. I thought only then could he ever understand me. He proved me wrong, in seventh grade, the first time I experienced heart-break [...]
(let me know if you would like to read more of the story!)
My youngest brother Joseph wrote in the birthday card that he gave him yesterday, "Even though I have only known you for twelve years, I have still seen you grow in God" (Joseph's 12 :D). I can say the same thing (though I've known him for 21 years)! What a deep respect I have for my dad who has walked through many hardships and many joys and has loved, served, and trusted God wholeheartedly through it all, allowing everything to be used by God to mold him into a man more like Jesus. I love him so much and am inspired by his life!
Here are just a couple writings to honor him and give a sense of how much my relationship with him has meant to me!
A poem:
Father
Through the glass, he sees his girl—
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch.
He closes his book for her words, unstudied.
He listens well while the world is fresh and golden.
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch,
promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love.
He listens well while her world is fresh and golden.
He learns how to father.
Promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love
from the mouth of a child.
He learns how to father
in his failure and her failure.
From the mouth of a child,
from daughter, his watcher:
“In her failure, don’t fail her.”
He instructs her with his heart and life.
From daughter, his watcher—
questions about everything.
He entrusts her with his heart and life
when he answers.
Questions about everything
over two decades of girl-become-woman.
When he answers,
his words are chosen, inspected, sound.
Over two decades of girl-become-woman,
sitting next to father—still. Here
his words are chosen, inspected, sound;
wisdom from wearing days on the human frame.
Sitting next to father—still “hero”—
she closes her book for his words, unstudied
wisdom for the wearing days on the human frame.
Through his glasses, he sees his girl.
A piece of prose (excerpt from "Close"):
His book never deterred me, or his closed eyes. I was sure that as soon as my dad felt the mattress rise under him as I climbed onto the green comforter with small blue flowers, nuzzling next to his warm body, that he would set the book face down on his chest and tilt his head until he was gazing at the top of mine. His chin would graze my red hair, but I’d wait a moment before leaning back to meet his gaze, my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat in the silence of the sleeping house (it was “quiet time,” Sunday afternoon). We’d laugh and for a moment the heartbeat would disappear. Then it was back, steady, reminding me that he was there and I was next to him and sleep would come after counting the light thump until it was hooves on a country road, a turning jump rope, a boat bumping against some dock….
All of my life, I’ve put my ear against the door in an attempt to hear the turn of a page like the sound of a piece of paper slipping out of my notebook, like a light wind, an invocation for me to come listen and dream beside my dad; I’ve knocked and jiggled the locked door handle, called out “Dad?”, and seen his face emerge as he cracks the door open; I’ve barged into the bedroom to find him asleep with his “good ear” towards the pillow, a closed book in his hand. He rests—head propped by a few pillows, a book held upright on his chest, legs extended and crossed, his socked feet rubbing against one another. That image has changed very little over the years though his hair has gone from dark brown to “salt and pepper” to grey and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has deepened and now reading glasses perch on his large, but handsome, nose. His cheeks still look like they hide 25-cent gumballs when he smiles; his skin is still ruddy and smooth as leather.
Sometimes he would read to me from the book he had chosen that day from the five or six that are always stacked on the night stand. His voice—the voice of an army medic, then a preacher, able to send “Yes, sir!” rumbling through an open field and “Praise God!” through a high-ceilinged sanctuary—was, to me, deep enough to engender respect but soft enough to soothe and still. I tried to retain in my maturing mind the theology or biographies or science fiction or scripture that reached me just a few inches below with slight puffs of breath that tickled my forehead. He must have known that words like omnipresent and Pelandria wouldn’t mean anything to me, but he also must have known how much sharing his world would mean to me. He would listen to my interrupting questions and answer with a precision that astounded me. Words gushed from me, but he wasted none. As I grew up, joining him less often while he read, I started to resent the frequent periods of silence between us if I didn’t monologue or ask him questions when we were together—I wanted him to start the conversation, ask me about my life. I thought only then could he ever understand me. He proved me wrong, in seventh grade, the first time I experienced heart-break [...]
(let me know if you would like to read more of the story!)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Newborn Baby
Newborn Baby
Psalm 139: 13-16
Baby’s skin: transparent;
tears if touched
Baby fat: none
Baby doll face: nose and mouth malformed;
eyelids unformed
Baby’s breath: under a rigid mask,
between compressions of the fragile chest
fearful, wonderful
twenty-four-week masterpiece
Baby’s skin: transparent;
tears if touched
Baby fat: none
Baby doll face: nose and mouth malformed;
eyelids unformed
Baby’s breath: under a rigid mask,
between compressions of the fragile chest
fearful, wonderful
twenty-four-week masterpiece
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Ask/See
Ask/See
A/C unit in a brick high rise:
a box backed into the window
blocks--like a beam in the eye--sight
of the wild, open sky
that, subdued, is allowed to enter the room
through a slit in its side;
the softened wind rustles that contraption's pleats
and sails across the sheets. Easy
to bring the cold air to the cheeks.
Who leads the breath into the sleeping,
cools the life-blood,
calms the body's seas?
A college student finally sleeps
as the thing hums and heaves,
forgets sweat, heat, fatigue.
Makes life bearable not to burn
with questions of the unseen
for eight hours
out of eternity.
A/C unit in a brick high rise:
a box backed into the window
blocks--like a beam in the eye--sight
of the wild, open sky
that, subdued, is allowed to enter the room
through a slit in its side;
the softened wind rustles that contraption's pleats
and sails across the sheets. Easy
to bring the cold air to the cheeks.
Who leads the breath into the sleeping,
cools the life-blood,
calms the body's seas?
A college student finally sleeps
as the thing hums and heaves,
forgets sweat, heat, fatigue.
Makes life bearable not to burn
with questions of the unseen
for eight hours
out of eternity.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Struggle to Speak
Being ready to give a reason for the hope that is within me is something that the Lord daily challenges me on--no more so then when I am in class and feel the Holy Spirit's prompting to ask a probing question or acknowledge God or defend Biblical truth. I have seen that the Lord is giving me a greater passion and boldness (and desire!) to share him one-on-one with others, but I still am often hesitant to speak to someone about Jesus.
As I read about the evil that men are capable of in memoirs from the Holocaust, about the guilt and shame that haunts hedonist Romantic poets, or about the broken families and relationships of my writer friends, God is deepening my conviction in the power of the gospel alone to transform hearts and save the world. Yet, the struggle to know when to speak and when not to continues in my heart.
Walking home today, the opening line of the poem below came to me and I wrote "Struggle to Speak." The work is definitely fresh, and so I know I will probably rework and sharpen it, but I thought I would post it and invite any thoughts. May God fill you with His love and give you more opportunities to share it with others wherever He has placed you!
Struggle to Speak
The moment before question or comment:
I hold onto the thought
like the hand of my younger brother
who wants to run across the road
and pet the dog on a leash with a sparkling collar
who tugs his owner towards us.
I wonder what impulse--
Spirit within--pushes or stirs
or restrains the words
that when let go
could brave the distance and touch
or, racing forward,
cause you to do the same
into speeding impact
before they reach
and save you.
As I read about the evil that men are capable of in memoirs from the Holocaust, about the guilt and shame that haunts hedonist Romantic poets, or about the broken families and relationships of my writer friends, God is deepening my conviction in the power of the gospel alone to transform hearts and save the world. Yet, the struggle to know when to speak and when not to continues in my heart.
Walking home today, the opening line of the poem below came to me and I wrote "Struggle to Speak." The work is definitely fresh, and so I know I will probably rework and sharpen it, but I thought I would post it and invite any thoughts. May God fill you with His love and give you more opportunities to share it with others wherever He has placed you!
Struggle to Speak
The moment before question or comment:
I hold onto the thought
like the hand of my younger brother
who wants to run across the road
and pet the dog on a leash with a sparkling collar
who tugs his owner towards us.
I wonder what impulse--
Spirit within--pushes or stirs
or restrains the words
that when let go
could brave the distance and touch
or, racing forward,
cause you to do the same
into speeding impact
before they reach
and save you.
Monday, March 16, 2009
When no one's looking
Spring break was nothing like I planned (thanks to a week-long sickness) but was still full of unexpected blessings. I am eager to write about these. However, because the thought "Will I ever catch up on school work?" runs through my head about every five minutes, along with a prayer for grace (more like cry for help! ha) not to be anxious, I think I should touch on the break's "blessings amidst bummers" next week.So in the meantime, in an attempt to keep my re-commitment to posting, I thought I would post some poetry that I wrote last year. Enjoy!
I'll start with something lighter on this dreary day :) It's a "ekphrastic poem." Ekphrastic poetry comments on another art form. The poem below was inspired by Cezanne's Girl at the Piano, the picture accompanying the post (take a close look at it).
When no one’s looking
Girl does not play something
studied, practiced, perfected.
Woman’s feet appear,
and she drops the shroud of a hand
to grasp real hands of Man,
who left his chair alone
to enter on her left.
Watch her chestnut eyes lift
and brighten to find his.
They dance against the stripes on the floor,
with the red and white shapes,
around the room, along the wall.
The sound of other steps join theirs—
Girl’s dress catches on the piano.
She stifles a laugh.
Woman resumes sewing
without a needle.
Man darts out of view,
forgets to rearrange the pillow
he moved.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
This Trial
I'd love to hear any thoughts or criticism on the poem below. It's the first one I wrote in the new year and is definitely still "in revision." I hope it encourages you as you seek to have a godly perspective amidst suffering, small or great.
Also (this is slightly off topic) the other day, I was searching for verses that talked about joy and was struck by Job 6:10. It says that Job's joy in unrelenting pain (now that's suffering) was that he did not deny the words of the Holy One. This is a different way of thinking about joy than I normally do--joy did not come after the removal of pain, or even from the hope of its removal, but in resisting the temptation to sin (here, deny God) in the midst of intense suffering.
No matter what I go through as a Christian, I want to have true joy from knowing that my life proclaims to others (and does not deny) that "God is who He reveals himself to be in His Word (both through the Bible and His son Jesus) and every word (every promise) will prove true even if my situation shows no evidence (that I can see) of it." I know that this is only possible through AMAZING grace.
Here's the poem:
This Trial
Isaiah 53:4 "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows..."
As wind comes to snow on branches
and brushes off a place for leaves,
come to this with faith--
this: the barrenness before green.
As silence comes to a woman
and the timid man she loves,
come to this with faith--
this: the quietness before speech.
As song comes to the invalid
after the fever's left his head,
come to this with faith--
this: the restlessness before peace.
As a pioneer comes to water,
stripped of his dirty clothes and shoes,
come to this with faith--
this: the nakedness before clean.
Why this? Jesus, why this?
Come to this with faith in me--
this: the brokenness before free!
Also (this is slightly off topic) the other day, I was searching for verses that talked about joy and was struck by Job 6:10. It says that Job's joy in unrelenting pain (now that's suffering) was that he did not deny the words of the Holy One. This is a different way of thinking about joy than I normally do--joy did not come after the removal of pain, or even from the hope of its removal, but in resisting the temptation to sin (here, deny God) in the midst of intense suffering.
No matter what I go through as a Christian, I want to have true joy from knowing that my life proclaims to others (and does not deny) that "God is who He reveals himself to be in His Word (both through the Bible and His son Jesus) and every word (every promise) will prove true even if my situation shows no evidence (that I can see) of it." I know that this is only possible through AMAZING grace.
Here's the poem:
This Trial
Isaiah 53:4 "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows..."
As wind comes to snow on branches
and brushes off a place for leaves,
come to this with faith--
this: the barrenness before green.
As silence comes to a woman
and the timid man she loves,
come to this with faith--
this: the quietness before speech.
As song comes to the invalid
after the fever's left his head,
come to this with faith--
this: the restlessness before peace.
As a pioneer comes to water,
stripped of his dirty clothes and shoes,
come to this with faith--
this: the nakedness before clean.
Why this? Jesus, why this?
Come to this with faith in me--
this: the brokenness before free!
Monday, March 2, 2009
After a while
Tonight was a gift from the Lord to me: I leave a "joke-about-it" dinner of mustard sauce and desserts in shot glasses at P.F. Changs, a local (though part of a chain) Chinese restaurant; neither of my friends Brad and Emily are hungry, nor am I, so David, our waiter, brings us coffee and tea. He's our friend too, evident when he doesn't charge us anything and then sits down at the table after he's clocked out (and when I forget to thank him later or leave a tip but only laugh and give a quick goodbye). We catch up for a while as the last few customers finish their meals.
I find as I push through the tall, glass doors of the restaurant to leave that I'm wishing I had talked less and listened more...but still I feel secure in their love and care--amazing, not to have to be perfect to be loved.
The truth is that as much as "talking too much" is something I often wish I could change about myself, I see the Lord's kindness in surrounding me with dear friends who listen well--sifting through my many thoughts, anecdotes, frustrations, and dreams--and latch on to what's most important in what I've shared. Then they speak to that with words that resonate in my heart as we leave peach tea, dim lighting, and laughter over the ridiculous wisdom in a fortune cookie, and I drive home in the cold and clear of a night after snow.
I realized again how thankfulness leads to peace and a beautiful trust in God's love and perfect control and activity in our lives. Insecurity and fear only rob from the store of blessings God pours into our lives to build in us a trust in His goodness!
God used David's thoughtfulness (literally, the thought: "I wonder if Lizzie has posted anything new on her blog?") to prompt me to start posting again. In the midst of a still incomplete understanding of who God has made me to be, I know that he has made and saved me for a reason, and that the experience of joy promised me when I'm in His will will be an indicator that that work I'm giving myself to, is, in fact, fulfilling part of the plan He has for me and bringing Him much glory. When I'm writing authentically, I feel that joy, so I know I must do it and His grace will be motivating it. Many things hinder me from sitting down at my desk (some things legitimate, some things sinful) but may I begin to respond more readily to the prompting to "post a little somthing"--maybe a thought, an anecdote, a frustration, a dream, maybe in poetry, maybe in prose...maybe in sentence fragments (haha).
My hope is that in the (wonderfully) unpredictable process of creating and writing, people will find something worth latching on to and taking with them: a moment of truth, a glimpse of God's heart, the knowledge that their struggle is shared, an encouragement....
I find as I push through the tall, glass doors of the restaurant to leave that I'm wishing I had talked less and listened more...but still I feel secure in their love and care--amazing, not to have to be perfect to be loved.
The truth is that as much as "talking too much" is something I often wish I could change about myself, I see the Lord's kindness in surrounding me with dear friends who listen well--sifting through my many thoughts, anecdotes, frustrations, and dreams--and latch on to what's most important in what I've shared. Then they speak to that with words that resonate in my heart as we leave peach tea, dim lighting, and laughter over the ridiculous wisdom in a fortune cookie, and I drive home in the cold and clear of a night after snow.
I realized again how thankfulness leads to peace and a beautiful trust in God's love and perfect control and activity in our lives. Insecurity and fear only rob from the store of blessings God pours into our lives to build in us a trust in His goodness!
God used David's thoughtfulness (literally, the thought: "I wonder if Lizzie has posted anything new on her blog?") to prompt me to start posting again. In the midst of a still incomplete understanding of who God has made me to be, I know that he has made and saved me for a reason, and that the experience of joy promised me when I'm in His will will be an indicator that that work I'm giving myself to, is, in fact, fulfilling part of the plan He has for me and bringing Him much glory. When I'm writing authentically, I feel that joy, so I know I must do it and His grace will be motivating it. Many things hinder me from sitting down at my desk (some things legitimate, some things sinful) but may I begin to respond more readily to the prompting to "post a little somthing"--maybe a thought, an anecdote, a frustration, a dream, maybe in poetry, maybe in prose...maybe in sentence fragments (haha).
My hope is that in the (wonderfully) unpredictable process of creating and writing, people will find something worth latching on to and taking with them: a moment of truth, a glimpse of God's heart, the knowledge that their struggle is shared, an encouragement....
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