A cry, heard

A paradox exists in a writer's life, and especially, I think, in the life of a writer who belongs to Christ: she must share with friend and stranger what she receives in the secret place.

That place could be her bedroom, office, or car; a subway seat, a coffee-shop table, or a shaded spot under some tree; but that "secret place" is more a secret space, a space no one else can go: her heart, mind, soul.

For Chrisitan writers, the secret place is all that and more; in that "place" we experience God intimately; from this "place," we convey what we have "seen, heard, and tasted" of God with others, so that they may see, hear, and taste as well...though, most assuredly, their experiences will be different from ours.

Why do I feel compelled to let you look through the door into my secret space, even come in and sit for a while if you will? I'm not sure. Sometimes it is because I am lonely there. But then there are times when I am acutely aware that I am not alone but am intimately and perfectly loved. I rarely write from that place of deep satisfaction and joyful rapture, but I find that writing can help me get there when I am somewhere else (usually despairing or distracted). The result: I am growing in my love of writing about the process of coming to the lover of your soul, Jesus, from wherever you are in your journey: seeking, returning, rejoicing, repenting....

I long for you to taste and see for yourself that the Lord is good and any man or woman who takes refuge in Him will be blessed, soul-happy!

A look into my morning:

I woke up feeling distant from the Lord, knowing the right but desiring and doing the wrong. After being unable to accomplish any work, I began to write the below poem. As you can see, it is full of questions. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting God to answer me...I was the one writing the poem, the one in control of the meter and diction, the issue. I would come to my own conculsions; thank you. But how amazing, the Lord answered me...and I heard Him!...He wrote the last line...and led me to Psalm 34. How awesome! "This poor [woman] cried, and the Lord heard [her] and saved [her] out of all [her] troubles." (Ps 34:6)

A cry, heard

Three steps forward, two steps back. A dancer
or a drunk? Who moves before you, Lord? A drunk
or a dancer? A daughter or a dim-witted child?
Who do you see on her knees? A daughter, a dim-wit?
Who do you lift and lead? A dancer, a drunk?

No matter. I am here. Press in and on.

Casmerodius albus

Taking a break from the short story. Enjoy a sonnet for Resurrection Sunday.

Casmerodius albus, the Great Egret
in the Wilson Library at UNC-CH

The single bulb casts shadows more than light
around the egret on display in a box
of Plexiglas. Behind the bird is a slight
sketch of its habitat without the stocks
of a public beach: towels, chairs and beer.
Its spindle legs are bound to snap;
the feathers, gray like a rotting pear,
to disintegrate. A curator will wrap
its long-dead body up in cloth. I watched
an egret stand in water at low-tide
last summer, still as death, until the blotched-
red, evening sky darkened. His flight became a glide
above marsh grass and the bull rush; he cast
his shadow, black like thunder clouds that have passed.