Little Children

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How lovely it is to know and be known by God. This morning I rest in Him, knowing that I am safe and secure in His care, knowing that my future is bright beyond all imagining. And I do not count my future bright because I tabulate up the money or prestige that may one day be mine, nor because I consider all the love that comes my way from those whom I love deeply. Nay, I count my future bright because I look forward with sure hope that I shall one day be sitting in the presence of my God and for all eternity be living in perfect harmony with Him. This eternal life is my hope and my song all the day long. And I do not say it is my hope because of the length of life – if eternity can be defined in length – and the absence of death. That would not be enough. I could not count eternal life my supreme good if this life did not consist in communion with God. Of course, absence of fellowship with God could not in actuality be called life at all. It would be something far worse.

So I circle back and say that this eternal life to which I pin all my hopes and dreams – in realistic fashion since they are based on that real life which was pinned to that real tree oh so many years ago – is a life that fills my heart with song since I know this life will be me sitting at the feet of my Lord in bliss and endless joy. The Spirit within me sings this song and it knows this song since it was the song that it is has written. I know this song because I know the love that my Father has bestowed upon me calling me his very child! Oh such I am! And I know my Father because I know His Son who sweetly calls me every day into deeper fuller communion with Himself in the most perfect symphony of love and grace and sovereign compassion. I know this symphony that I now shakingly lift my voice to sing a minor part because I know Jesus Christ. He is my Shepherd that calls my name and bids me walk along this eternal path towards my home that has been prepared for me. Jesus is the bread that I take and eat in awestruck love knowing what it means that He died for me. Jesus Jesus is my song for now and for all eternity.

Lute Song

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A few random writings on this cold December night.

oh some days he wants to
dance
and others he simply desires
that others understand
that he cannot be the joy
today
only he wants maybe a hug
and to sit
and think
and write
and pray

can you feel the sparkles she asks
or is it only me
he smiles and replies
i can
but only when i look into
your eyes

a cup of tea and a big thick book!
give me an hour or two
and i shall be finished
oh no she says
i know better
you may very well be done
with this one
but then you’ll just
grab another

why do we think that fire is so miraculous
the way we stare entranced into
the dancing flames
is it that we both love and fear it
and that perhaps this feeling
echoes something deeper in us
than we now understand

Cinderella

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See how the lights dance now that the sun has set. Christmas lights would not be so marvelous was it not for the contrasting hues of darkness that surround and infuse this little set apart neighborhood ensconced in the metropolitan hustle and bustle. She walks down the sidewalk and gazes in wonder at the waterfall of light that adorns the high and haughty trees that guard this one corner house. The house itself is a bit humble, no gaudy pillars or high balconies to proclaim its worth. But the family that dwells therein – for surely it is a family, for why else would the little soccer goal sit on the front lawn? – has decided to throw itself into the dance of the advent season with joy and to spare. There are little lights everywhere on the house – white lights, coloured lights, sparkling lights, LED lights and little fat bulb lights. Somehow it skirts the right side of the tacky or classy divide and it all just feels right. Or so the girl decides as she stands between the feature that imparts the most joy to her heart. For all the trees have strings of light descending from them. These strings sway gently in the cold December wind and the effect is as if the stars of heaven are dancing down a stairway to mingle with the souls of earth. Who knows how high of a ladder was needed to cover the trees of this yard with such a festive bouquet of lights, but the mechanics of the light parade do not bother the girl at this moment. Instead she simply hugs herself in awe at the wonderous lights that play across her smiling face. Her scarf pulled snug around her neck and her gloves red in the glow, she presents a pretty sight herself. There is something wholesome and beautiful about a girl who is so sweetly thrilled. And this evening is one she shall always remember. She needs to go home and put on a pot of tea and heat up the leftovers, but for now? She can spare a moment just to rest and let her heart be filled this quiet little December night.

Emmanuel

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How wonderful it is to sit nice and warm at home after an encouraging and enlivening Lord’s day! Dani and I just spent a delightful hour down at EQ (in the last week of its existence, oh alas alas!) and truly enjoyable was it to sit on the porch there in the fading light of evening on this December evening. Dani read a bit more of her book (she’s almost done with Wrinkle in Time!!) and I read a bit more of the Spurgeon I’m currently reading for Advent season (Good Tidings of Great Joy – a wonderful book dwelling on the miracle and loveliness of the incarnation!) and it was ever so refreshing to sip tea, read and enjoy each other’s company. Now…home again and I really do mean to try and write something creative and we shall see if I’m successful. I’ve actually been writing quite a bit of creative works lately, for which I am ever so thankful to God for blessing me with such thoughts and the will to pen them. Sometimes I ponder what is the point of writing so many words – is it not all futility at the end? Smoke in the breeze and all that? Perhaps. Yet I’m grateful for the gift that is writing. Tis a wondrous gift and I will never cease to be thankful for it.

Speaking of, I shall now attempt a bit. Farewell, dear friends. Rest in the joy of the Lord this beautiful day as we dwell on the miracle that is God become Man and all that necessarily proceeds from that fount.

Shoreline

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The room was full of paper, reams of it, heaps of it! And he waded through the paper as one trudges through the midwinter snow, grimly stepping through it as he knew he must. He feared he was damaging beyond the point of no return hours of scribbling. And he knew better than most the pains that these writings had inflicted upon her heart. But there was nothing for it now if he was going to reach where she now lived beyond world’s end. Fascinating, was it not, how quickly treasured mementos become waste paper. But this room that had harbored so many midnight hours of fevered creation now felt a bit hollow and empty. Almost it felt as if this room knew at its core that she was gone, gone forever. He reached the table next to the bed and saw the candle still flickering an inch above the little chipped porcelain saucer. She had not been gone long, as this world counts time. But why had she emptied her trunks of writing, why had she torn out the pages of years of journaling, why were her poems scattered far and wide throughout this room that had heard so many years of song and tears? Had she taken any poems with her? That was the question. He reached down a hand into the gently swirling depths of paper at his feet and pulled out a piece at random. It was a sheet he recognized, unsurprisingly. An ode to summertime. He smiled – it was one of her quirky silly ones, lilting in meter and light in tone. At the bottom she’d sketched a quick daisy. That had been a good day, one of hiking through lush green meadows and laughing at the play of waterfalls. There had even been a picnic, as is proper on a full summer day such as that had been. And she’d written that right on the bank of the stream after their stomachs had been filled with sandwiches and chips and carrots. He’d been half-asleep across the stream, gazing up at the way the light fluttered amongst the canopy of green above.

He smiled now, and wiped away the tear that threatened to fall. Oh Isabel, where are you? And why have you left me now amidst the detritus of your most treasured writings? Harry shook his head in fear, wondering what his next step was to be. He stood in the middle of an ocean of paper and felt as if he was a rock shivering underneath the midwinter rain off the coast of southern England. Oddly specific to be sure, but that was the last place he had seen Isabel and so the thought came natural. Here were the remnants of all Isabel’s dreamy musings. Harry fumbled through his pocket and pulled out his phone. No texts. There had not been any these many months but hope is oddly unrealistic at times. He looked around him at the paper swamping what had once been Isabel’s room and he sank to his knees. There was no time to waste. And so he gazed at the sheets of paper all around and looked up at the weathered ceiling and finally finally began to pray.

Incarnation

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the shadowed alley lies quiet and in wait
where the void sneers and chaos swirls all about
and darkness coats the face of the cobblestones
but then sounds a word spoken
and light paints new creation down crumbling path
upon which walk the feet of the promised one
peace and judgment held in both his outstretched hands
soon shall that day come I pray
when lion lies down with lamb

Dreams of Paris

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Some unconnected stanzas – enjoy or not, it’s all the same to me. I enjoyed the process of letting my thoughts spill forth on this day bursting forth in all its glorious reality.

shivering she pulls the blanket close
and cries out for that second cup of tea
and i cross the room and turn on the kettle
soon my darling soon
she smiles and says with bleary eyes
just make sure to put in the lemon
and lots and lots of honey

Drops of twilight on the canvas
unsatisfied he sighs
i meant to paint the sunset
instead look
it’s just another dreary urban sky

i remark unfavourably upon these stanzas
grumbling as i usually do
but look she comments it’s ok really it is
at least some of them
have the slightest ring of truth

let’s read deep into the evening
as the soup bubbles upon the stove
and perhaps our thoughts will be sparked
by the black and white on the pages
or if not
at least we’re cozy here at home

i seek that far country that i’ve sought so many times before
and yes i’m reassured to know there is written above the doorframe
a name that i will one day call my own
but that is not the name i cry now
for this country is only treasured for the name of its king
and so I sing it in all my songs and all my poetry
and ask that no one look to me
for one day i’ll walk across the river and up to the doorway
and smile to know i’ve found that land for which my God’s destined me

once more let’s climb the tree of abstract philosophy
she whispers in my ear or let’s not
and instead open the book
and taste and see

i tried to climb the sunset
i tried to reach the second night
yet all my tears and all my fears rang louder
in the absence of your light
so what my heart grumbled
so what my soul bemoaned
so what
my eyes trembled
so what she says
come home my love
come home

she balances upon the curb and laughs to see me walk comfortably upon the sidewalk
come over here and join me
there’s enough room for two!
but only if you stand in front of me like this
nose to nose
just as you love to do

the green light flickers a bit ill at ease
and i smile as i pull my jacket closer
content to walk beneath the neon sky
for though the night is cold
and rain drips down my neck
metaphorical dreaming swirls inside my soul
for i know my home is nigh

the Table is quite Well Laid she Remarks quietly

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What does one say on a Sunday afternoon when the light fades and it feels that all that can be said has been said? Surely that is untrue, yet sometimes imagination runs away and decides to play in a sandbox in a different place and I am left forlorn and abandoned, unsure of what is true. But perhaps the thought should simply make me dig in towards the center and look for this other place, that land for which my imagination yearns. If I am left alone, perhaps I am not in a position of authority to state that this land which I call my home is in fact the homely house for which my soul desires. But really, my thoughts spiral in on themselves and would collapse if it were not for the green and flowering arrow of reality that pulls my thoughts tight around it and points me towards that higher altar of light blessed truth. And so I turn once more my head and gaze upwards and slightly to the west.

Warm Rain and Fever Dreams

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A few short book ramblings this Saturday evening…

65. Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson. Book 3 of the Stormlight Archive, this is a fine Sanderson novel even if I do feel it is a step down from the first two books in the series. Yes, the focus on Dalinar is fantastic and long awaited and his flashbacks are positively riveting. And some of the moments in this book stand as some of the best in the series. We get Dalinar Kholin standing strong against Odium. We get prolonged moments in Shadesmar for the first time. We get to see Shallan really come into her own (or is it Veil? Or is it Radiant?). But some weaknesses creep into this book that seem to only propagate further the deeper we get into this series. Although at first Urithiru was profoundly fascinating and other (and there’s some great moments early on, especially with Shallan’s confrontation with one of the Unmade), this book spends so much time there that I honestly get a bit bored with Urithiru near the halfway point and find myself groaning whenever we return there. Thankfully Sanderson perhaps realises this and moves the action away from there in the latter parts of this book. Also some of Sanderson’s stylistic tics start bothering me a bit more here. So much telling instead of showing. So much hand-holding of the reader. I feel a bit condescended to at times. And the italics. Oh make the italics go away. Please? Ah well, I am being overly harsh. Sanderson’s plotting is still superb and I continue to read this series just to find out where the story is going. On to book 4.

66. Dawnshard by Brandon Sanderson. A nice little novella sandwiched between Oathbringer and Rhythm of War, this book reveals some important plot points as well as further deepens the understandings of some of the characters we know and love (the Lopen!!). I enjoyed this book but was a bit puzzled over the fact that my enjoyment of it was very dependent on which character we were following. I loved the Lopen POVs. Lopen is ridiculous yes, but Sanderson is so self-aware of this fact and so much leaning into it that I can’t but laugh and go along for the ride. And Lopen actually gets a major moment of self-reflection that although maybe a bit too on the nose, still most welcome. Rysn though. I have always loved Rysn POVs before (her interludes were always some of my favourite), but her moments in this book felt a bit stodgy and overly introspective and honestly didn’t really feel like Rysn. Not sure if it was because of Sanderson’s special care to make sure he accurate portrays her disability and subsequent way of thinking, but something just felt a bit off with how he wrote her. Still though, this was a fun book and a good palate cleanser prior to the plunge into Rhythm of War!

67. The Swimmers by Julie Otsuka. A profound book. I will warn readers that if you have not heard of this book yet, I would almost urge to not read the back of the book or a plot summary. After reading, I looked at the description on the back of the book and it made the book sound so trite and I fear would have ruined the reading experience. Instead…if you wish to read a book that is real and deep and dives into the depths of a person and their whole story and being, even as cracks propagate through their very sense of self…please just pick it up and start at page 1, wading into a work that will be well worth your time. I didn’t know what this book would be about (except well, a pool and swimmers, assumedly – as per the title of the book and front cover image) and I’m glad I didn’t. As I read the first third or so of this book, parts of it irked me a bit and felt a tad ridiculous and I wasn’t sure what I was even reading. But once the perspective shifts and you start following one person’s story, you sigh and put your hand over your mouth and yes, you understand. Or you think you understand. Then you keep reading and keep taking in gulps of breath to avoid the claustrophobic feeling that comes with feeling you are in unknown waters and hemmed in on every side by the walls that are closing in more quickly than you would dare imagine. You may think you know what this book will be about if you read a summary or thoughts by strangers online, but you will not truly understand until you feel the weight of this book on your lap and trace your fingers across the words on page and let them soak into your brain which even now sparks and hums in ways that are far more miraculous than you can imagine and which you take for granted as it works so wonderfully (until it doesn’t). This book will hit you hard because though it is a work about a particular person and particular relationship and particular family, it is also universal in scope as you also have a family and you also know what it is to live and be frustrated and to love and to cry. This book is deeply textured and there is so much hyper-specific detail that you can’t help but feel it is a true story. And of course, it is a true story. You know this in your core. And though you may be annoyed at times (as I was) at the 2nd-person POV, it is delicately handled and puts you in this story with such solidity that eventually you come to accept it and feel that this story could not be written any other way. There is a moment near the end that you may cry as I did. Perhaps you have not yet experienced some of the realities that exist so unashamedly naked in this book, yet you can imagine perhaps you will someday? And yes, that terrifies you and makes you almost weep as you imagine someone you love experiencing such loss and pain. This is a sad book. But it is a book that chronicles the true pain and suffering so many people in this world experience. Maybe one day you will experience it. It is a book about universal things, but at the end of this book, you realize also that this is a book that dives into the intimacy of a human soul crying forth to be known and loved and not forgotten or abandoned. To be forgotten is one of the deepest horrors you can imagine. To forget that you are forgotten, perhaps worse still. Life is a breath, smoke in the wind. This book reminds you of that. And refreshingly, it reminds you of hope that beckons.

Mornings I Look Up

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the blank piece of paper calls out to be filled
and though the pen drops slowly from my hand
in trembling terror that it cannot be
good enough
it is ok
for look up to the one who is
who draws me ever more into
sweeter communion with himself
the God who knows my name
who in himself is sufficient
for all purposes my feeble mind can summon up
not to claim that i have any part in defining God
it would be with fear that i approach
and in reverent posture fall and kneel
for now at last my empty heart is filled
this morning i walk with God in prayer