Friend

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A Monday morning says hello and soon oh too soon must I begin to work, this I know. But can I not spend a bare few minutes typing up a little soliloquy? Whether or not I’m granted permission, I proceed. It is a cold morning and though I wish I could enjoy it with a nice long walk, there is no time alas. Perhaps later! For the now, I simply sit and meditate on what I’ve read this morning. From beautiful words of comfort and joy found in the Bible to words of strong exhortation and sweet encouragement from JC Ryle, I’m grateful for the time I have to ponder heavenly things as I think on the inheritance that is mine through the glorious work of Jesus Christ. Soon enough the hustle and bustle of the daily stresses will commence and I shall deal with those in their proper order. But no matter what comes, I walk forward in calm confidence that all I do is through the grace and power granted me by God himself. I rejoice knowing that I am called a child of God and have no fear of what may come this day. Though I was once a sinner vile and blind of eye and perverse of heart, I now have been made anew, am regenerated true and born again that I might sing glory glory to my God! Jesus is my friend. What a thought! I sit here and let that wash over me and think on it again. Jesus is my friend.

And though now I act in faith and bemoan the fact that I cannot take his hand and feel the scars and touch the side that bore the spear for me, I do look upward now knowing that he is there at the right hand of God ever mediating for me his friend. Yet he is there yet also here in union with me in divine mystery that I don’t fully understand. But this union is something beautiful, a vine that I am part of. Yes, I abide in Christ. I close my eyes for a second and think again that I am a child of God. The Spirit prods me closer down the path and reminds me that this world is not my home. I have another and even now my friend Jesus makes it ready for me. Soon I come. Not yet. But soon. I long for that far country where I shall sit at the feet of Jesus and share a meal with him. Now I think on the meal I take in memory, that wine and bread which reminds me of that work which Jesus did for me. His body, broken for me. His blood, given for me. I am washed and clean and wear robes of white because the Lamb of God gave his life for me. And this is not a mere transactional note in the divine ledgers. No, Jesus looks to me in love and stretches out his hand and says come. Come to me and you shall find your rest. Yes, my Lord, I come. I rest in you. I delight to say – Jesus, my dear friend and brother, I rest in you! My Lord and my God, I rest in you.

Signed and Sealed

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in the fog he strides and sings
glory glory to my king!
he lifts his head and smells the smoke
whispering to himself of what he knows
promises that were long ago written
words of life that for him were given
and though too oft he tends to stutter
and wastes his thoughts on another
there are times like now when he stands tall
and remembers seeing the rainbow at the falls
so please forgive him for not always being plain of speech
for it brings him perhaps perverse delight to weave poetry
that subtly whispers truth that aches with love
and gently hints at the truths of him who sits above
but now he laughs and cries as he remembers his story
his heart burns within him as he ponders that farther glory
and he knows that though he was lost and broken true
and that he had no idea what if anything he could do
there was one who reached out his hand
and pleaded him to come into the farther land
all he had to do was fall and kneel and pray
and in desperate humble brokenness ask and say
Lord I bring nothing I am but ash and rust
save me save me oh save me or I am lost!
and so he looks to the cross and says i believe
help me God to come now to thee
for on my own i would surely be done
but now i rest my faith in you God’s own Son!
and that is all and that is enough he cries
for he knows that for his soul the Son did die!
so now he’s washed and now he’s clean
and now he stands forever among the redeemed
he rises up through the waters of the brook
and to the far shore he now dares to look
the pilgrim way continues on and ever on
but now he walks with the light of God
and though his writings still sometimes stumble
and though his poetry tends to kind of mumble
he leaves this here for a witness
to the God whom he confesses
Father, Son and Spirit Holy
eternity now whispers
and I follow

To Be Raised

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She writes of what she knows, of cliffside walks and fireside conversations and books that end with a sigh on the lips and a prick of the heart. It is challenging for her to write of battles and fiery declamations or of back and forth duels or action set pieces. She at times wishes she had a more exciting life on which to draw rich inspiration for she knows not what it is to crawl in the mud in the trenches of a war which long ago ceased to have any meaning or forward drive. Think of the scars on her soul and the weariness of heart that would have resulted from such a campaign and think of the poetry that would of necessity sprung forth.

But one look into the eyes of her bosom companion persuaded her that perhaps it was for the best that her life up until now had really been rather boring. When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain that seemed to leak through at the most odd moments, she, well – she knew she would have broken long before. And even if the best art comes from the most broken amongst us, who can say that she would not have been one of the broken ones who only brings forth crumbling potsherds and ashy rags, crumbling crying on the rug afore the fire? A few are marked for greatness and for gold shining forth from that ancient forge. But there are too many shattered skeletons nearby that belie the idea that beauty needs only a little fire to metamorphosize into the divine.

Remember this, she says to herself softly. Remember this. And then she reaches across the table and takes his hand and squeezes it gently as she kisses him with her eyes. She thinks of her notebook on the coffee table and her half-written scribbling of a girl walking through the meadow grass as the last of the evening sun shines through the winter branches. That girl walks in beauty and knows it in the moment. That is a precious gift and shall not be squandered.

Remember and hold on to beauty, she whispers to him now. I do he responds soft. But it’s not quite as hard as you think, for I am also one who is held. And the arms around me are made of sterner stuff than even my nightmares dare to be. His smile broke through and he lifts his hands in mock surprise. Even I too though mortal am reminded by these words of my immortality. Does that seem quite odd to you? That’s the paradox of resurrection. That’s a slender sapling growing up through the ash. That’s a scorched seed falling slowly through the wind. That music you hear? That’s an echo of the song that even now my heart yearns to sing in full. Someday, she says. Springtime comes.

Flexing

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Hello friends! A quick post this lovely Saturday evening which may or may not lead to more writing down the line, who can say? Certainly not I. As is usual, I’ll start out by noting the absolute gorgeousness of this day. It’s about 50 degrees outside, a chill that delights my heart and warms my soul. The sky is of a cornflower blue, it’s face friendly and well-washed by the recent rain. And feathery clouds rest atop the horizon heralding the sunset that is soon to come. I could have stayed at home and written there of course and I almost did. But I walked down the street to the coffeeshop here mostly because I craved the walk and all its attendant delights. Now I sit here at a small wooden table at Antidote, resting my back against the block wall and subtly listening in on some of the conversations around. Right now to my left sit a couple from England talking to a couple from the Netherlands and I’m enjoying their random chat. But let’s see if I can shut that off and focus on writing, shall I? The electronic beat of the music – warehouse techno in styling – sounds firm in my ears and drives me ever forward. I must write. I shall write. My fingers have been inactive too long. But what? Shall I write of that which I love? Shall I write of those dreams that linger afore my waking eyes and softly draws me closer with the soft scent of rose perfume? Or shall I instead crack open my heart a bit and let it pour forth that molten gold that has been in the forging processing these many months? I know not, I know not. Too often I allow myself these stream-of-consciousness sessions and at times it is beautiful but at times I slightly worry about what may issue forth. But then I remember to whom I belong and who even now is at work pruning me and making me fit for the far country for which I long. And I smile and worry no more. I am a child of God, am I not? What love is mine. So let’s write and let’s love and let’s wonder. I’ll let others worry, I simply rest on the promises that are mine. Peace and love, dear friends.

Styrofoam

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so many of us feel hollow inside, a pinata gaudily painted
and fated soon to burst
and though there are those who hoot and holler and proclaim
all is merry all is fine
the hollow ones know that the fuss is all for show
for at the end of the day the glitter and feathers
are cheap camouflage for the cracks that gape open
when she sobs her emptiness into her fingers tapping
up again and up again and up again
the phone reveals nothing new but why not a little more
but if we are hollow all
and even the full ones uneasy bite their lips
perhaps there’s more to this?
then what does this mean if we’ve written off the story
and decided the author’s all for show
i make all my decisions
autonomy and free will and agency
those fine guiding lights
i’d rather be my own
even if it means i call myself a hollow one
who cares if i’m all alone
close your eyes and don’t look to the horizon
there is no shore that beckons that’s only imaginary rain
cry and feel alive once more and scream the chorus
and paint yourselves up again

Witness

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the moonlight shines down slantwise upon the eastern wall
neglecting to reveal the refuse strewn down its base
but a few words from a recent traveler remain
i love you my darling Em
and then a scribble from a scoffer
that may or may not be profane
but in the stillness of that 3am hour
there is one who looks down the alley
and reading the prophecies decides against
so she leans against the corner and lets the streetlight warm her
and pulls her scarf closer now

Torchlight

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A beautiful walk has been had and now back home am I, cosily ensconced in my armchair and about to get some reading time in. I really must dig in and make some progress on my current book (The classic “Count of Monte Cristo”) if I’m to finish prior to our book club meeting. I’m enjoying it but it is not exactly a small book and so even with prodigious reading sessions, feels as if I’m barely making a dent! That aside, why am I writing a few words now? I suppose simply because it is a Sunday afternoon and at times I feel a weekend day is wasted if I don’t write just a bit. I know I need to write more, I know I want to write more, but sometimes I just can’t bear to waste a lovely day. Hence today after a little Sunday nap, I chose to dash outside and go on a little walk in the brilliant January sunshine. Worth it, obviously. Partly for the people watching of course, but mostly for the breeze on my neck and the sunshine on my upturned face.

Now I’m back to the rambling. Do I have anything of substance to say? Honestly I know I want to write more creative tidbits yet life seems to take all of my best yearnings and so when I sit down to write on this laptop, only wrung out rags are left. Alas. Maybe someday I will turn the knob and step outside and find myself stepping into a new land. For now, I will content myself with the well-worn routes and sigh and sip my tea and offer gratitude to my God for all things.

A Consideration

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Hello friends! While I hope at some point to do a proper 2025 retrospective and a 2026 looking forward…this is not that. Instead, why not start off the year with a few books? (That I most certainly finished in 2025 but have only gotten around to writing about now!)

1. You Are Not Your Own by Alan Noble. A difficult read at times, but not for any fault of the author’s. Rather, this is a book that shines an unsparing mirror upon society (and yes, ourselves) and asks us to consider if the way we live our lives really properly reflects the truths that sit at the core of our very existence. Of course this is coming from a Christian perspective but if one considers such a perspective is true (which I do), this book is properly bracing in how it lays out the way our modern society has failed us and how our only response can be a reorienting and a considered, intentional way of living that operates with the understanding that we are not our own, but we belong to the God who created us. The first few chapters of this book (really the first half of this book!) are grim indeed, as they lay out the way in which our society and our modern outlook have failed us. It can be a bit of a hard slog and a depressing one as one reads on and on about we are set up for a miserable go of it if we live as if we are our own. I appreciated Noble’s perspective, for as much as I love old books, sometimes it is quite important to have people writing and sharing wisdom on the time in which we now live. This book does that. All the modern Western ailments are dealt with and at times I flinched as I considered how much my own thoughts and actions are coloured by my unthinking adherence to the standards and practices of this age which I call my own. And so, please push through the first few chapters as they are important and necessary for us to understand the problem. Of course, Noble does eventually come to a solution (what I would call the solution) of understanding that only through living as if we belong to God can we properly thrive in our living and being. It is still hard though. We want a practical primer, takeaways and 5-step programs and knowing that if we do the “one thing”, then everything will be better. Well, everything won’t be better immediately, no matter what we do. We live in a broken world, and nothing we can do can entirely redeem it. Thankfully, miraculously, gloriously? We know there is one who came to this world precisely to redeem it, and so in the glorious reality that Christ came to this world to offer salvation and point to a future in which all will be made right, we can also live now in gratitude and joy, beacons of hope to the dark that surrounds.

I am beginning to ramble now, so I won’t say much more, but there are some lovely statements and practical wisdom at the end of this book that helped me to reflect on how I ought now live. Particularly one line I loved was about the importance of “small rearguard advances”, the small things we do that reflect the true and the beautiful.

Actually, I think I will quote that paragraph to end: “I suspect this part of the book would feel much more satisfying if I lied to you, but I’m not going to. You will not save the world; you can’t even save yourself. At best, you may see the corruption in society more clearly, you may be better prepared to deal with the indignities of the modern world, and you may make small, rear-guard advances for truth, goodness, and beauty in your sphere of influence. I hope you do! But if you can get over yourself and stop thinking in terms of efficiency, you can honor God and love your neighbor while having faith that He will set things to right. Don’t let yourself ask, “Is this good deed making any real difference?” If it really is the right thing to do, the efficiency does not matter. Your obligation is faithfulness, not productivity or measurable results.”

2. Voices From the Past, edited by Richard Rushing. A wonderful daily devotional. I read this (almost!) every day this past year and my soul was much delighted in the doing. As someone who appreciates the old Puritan writings, reading a little bit of one every morning was truly balm for the soul. Of course some of the selections are better than others and of course there were times I wondered how the selection reflected the verse chosen. Still yet. It is wonderful to meditate on God and His words and works, and these writings helped me do so. Heartily recommend this if any of you are looking for a new daily devotional!

A Far Country

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She sits at the table and looks down at the scrambled eggs that sit on her plate. What is she waiting for? She slowly moves her fork in the general direction of the eggs. The fork stops. Her head rises. She looks at me. I don’t look at her. My eyes dance sideways. What do you want me to say? This conversation is not something I think I can handle just now. Am I ok with that? Maybe not. Is she ok with that? I don’t know. I don’t ask. My head drops. What of these eggs? Are they too dry? Perhaps. I take a bite. She opens her mouth.

And then it all spirals. I wish I could describe it to you but really this is between me and her. And I am not sorry to say that it goes far better than I ever could have dreamed. We talk of constellations and stars and dreams of the far beyond. Though there is still a degree of separation, I see a path through the thicket. On the other side, a river flows. I hear the water laughing all the way down to the sea. Let’s go, let’s go. I extend my hand to her. She somehow shockingly surprisingly for no reason that I could have foreseen places her hand in mine. These promises are bound with thicker cords than gold and finer threads than silk. A unity of three parts you say? You’re not far off.

I Understand

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it’s wonderful sometimes in the land across the sea
do you see the storm blow up from the palm tree
in which you sit
of course you do for you spend your time gazing
and I do for I am in my canoe with her
and as she gazes upwards into the sky
eyes open mouth open
rain drops falling
and though the storm rages
we don’t care for we’re already soaked
and we know the island
is closer now