Humility, fortitude, faithfulness – are these yet prized virtues in this modern world? I think of what it is to sacrifice oneself for the good of another. While at times self-sacrifice may be lauded in a movie or on the written page, it is seen as something only necessary at the point of last resort. What does it mean to daily place others before oneself and daily kill the selfish desires that plague one so? This is slow, plodding work. One step after another, through the mud and with great effort and with the realization that quick results are most certainly not forthcoming. Instead it is the building of a foundation for a tower that one may never live to see. My metaphors begin to be mixed, I know. But I am weary. I wish that I could of a sudden see myself transformed into a beacon of blazing light, the journey complete, the road ended, my witness sure and complete. Do I point to someone beyond myself? I hope you see me and know for whom I stand – a disciple of Jesus Christ, a man in the gap, a watcher on the high tower. I fear that at times my jersey is a bit too muddy and that my actions are anything but honorable. Thankfully there are better clothes I have been given, a robe of righteousness not my own. Still yet I do strive for faithfulness. May those precious words someday be said of me, those words that I can at times scarce bear to imagine without tears filling my eyes. “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” For now, I walk forwards, even if at times at a bit of a zig-zag. The path goes ever on and on. I walk to the crest of the rise and see the grey of the sea spread out before my aching eyes. A gull wheels overhead. To either side, I see a multitude. I am not alone. The sky opens and a bright light and a trumpet sounds and I fall to my knees. One day all shall see. One day mine own eyes shall see. Behold the Lord of all the earth. Behold my Jesus.
Tag: musing
Path Meditations
Why do all my songs of late so often mention that pilgrim path? I like to think of the forest green and beautiful and then that path that winds ever on and on through the thick of the trees and brush to end up on that far shore that calls my name. The path imagery is an old one and indeed one that has been used often throughout the past ages. One thinks of life as a journey from birth to the far unknown and there is no more natural metaphor than that of a path. So I suppose I could say that I am not being particularly original with my creative prose and poetry when I so often go back to that ancient well. Yet sometimes the tried and true is best. There is no confusion when I talk of the pilgrim on the path and the trials and travails that may beset him as he walks on. There is a nodding of the head and an echoing in the heart. We all have walked on paths through the forest before – or at least most of us have, I daresay – and we are all of necessity making our way through life as a pilgrim who comes from dust and will end as dust. So of course. One could use other metaphors of course, and I often have. I like to imagine one sailing on a ship towards that far horizon and that eternal shore. Of course, this is only another angle of the same pilgrimage. We are still going from one place to another, from one time to another. Only the setting and scenery change.
So at the end of the day, as I reflect on the fact that I perhaps use this imagery of a path too often to express the longings of my heart, I come to the realization that I don’t really mind this. I do not believe I am exposing my creative vacuousness. Instead, I believe I am expressing a simple faith. I know I have been created from nothing and though on this earth I may also appear to be progressing towards eventual nothingness, I have a hope that this is not entirely so. Instead, I look forward to the resurrection of the body, a resurrection that is prefigured by the resurrection of Jesus Christ himself, who even now stands in heaven above and advocates for me his little brother. I have a hope and faith that someday I will in my own body stand before my God and with my own eyes gaze upon his glory. This is my song, my salvation!
And so? Perhaps my writing may start with a path, but it is not a path in isolation. There is a destination and a place where the walking stops and perhaps a fire on the beach to welcome me to my eternal rest as I prepare to feast with my Lord God at that wedding supper. I do not walk without purpose. And I do not walk alone.
Harp Song
Silver water slides underneath the bridge and I feel an urgent desire to shed my shirt and shoes and jump right in. Usually I can push off mad thoughts such as this but not this time. Off comes my shirt and off come my shoes and I climb over the railing and balance on the lip of the bridge. I stretch my back and legs and then push slowly up once as I hold on loosely to the rail behind. The sun beats hot upon my head and I feel the sweat begin to trickle down my neck. The swift water below looks absolutely delicious. I once more slowly press down upon the bridge with my toes and then I force myself past the point of no return and off I leap. The water rushes toward me as my stomach leaps in protest as I have a half second to wonder if I’ve perhaps made a mistake. Never mind! My feet hit the water and my flailing arms and head soon follow. Ah I am cool and I am washed and oh boy is it cold! I immediately splutter to the surface even as I feel the water rush me onwards. I let it. I’m floating backwards and can’t quite see where I’m going but I know the river runs straight for a good half mile at least and I’m not overly concerned of stray rowboats. So I lie back and let the waters carry me on as I feel the sun smile down upon me. Its warmth feels good now. I am a part of the river and the river is a part of me and together we in unison dance with the sky above and the breeze that leaps between. It is a good dance, a rollicking affair. I am not at all mad about my choice, no matter what Madeleine may say later on. Up on that bridge I was a remote observer, standing upon concrete and mind elsewhere. Now? I am living true as the river carries me on. My mind is in the moment and present and oh so focused on the fact that I am in this river and I am breathing fresh air and I feel cold and hot at the same time and it is glorious and I hear creation’s song.
Anniversary
It’s wonderful to sit down for a moment and to in the moment consider all that has come before. The moments blur and speed up as if memory has undertaken a compression activity in order to improve processing speed for the present. Perhaps that is so, if a crude way of putting it. But still ought not we take time now and again to look backwards? I find it easy to say that for perhaps that is already my natural inclination and I need no reminder. Looking back at a story unfolded and on shiny paper with letters vivid in wet ink upon the page is pleasurable. The story writ there, even if interpreted through smudged lens, is finite and bounded. The book is readable, to come to the point. But the book is lying open, is it not? It will not always be so. Someday it will be closed and there shall be another volume on the shelf which must be pulled down for the continuation. But leave that for now. That volume is for consideration at a later date – when the sea air blows fresh and the gulls call. For now, consider the open book upon the table. The pages already spoken of are wonderful to think on, but they are static. There is no changing what has been printed. The ones still to come? Well, they are a bit blurry, you might say. Yes, perhaps with the right glasses one could read them. But I certainly can’t. You neither, I think. It takes eyes of a divine nature and alas our nature is a bit fractured and marred, nowhere close to the divine that has granted us its imprint. Still we squint. And perhaps certain words can be read here and there, but perhaps to not to be able to read the rest is a blessing in and of itself. I think if I could read the reminder of this volume, I’d need to sit down for a bit, dizzy and faint for that which is not my burden to bear in this moment. Instead, I lift the book up and look at the name of the author on the spine. Ah yes. I’m in good hands. I don’t exactly know how this volume will conclude. Yet I do know it will be an ending worthy of the name. And then as I spoke of before, there is always the volume yet to come. Oh how I do look forward to that one. It shall be a pleasure beyond description to read that one. Someday. Someday.
Hidden Places
It is good to sit and be still this quiet Friday morning. Soon enough I’ll breathe deep and begin the work day and plunge into all its many fires that must be fought and conquered. But for now, I’ll relish the quiet of a day that has not yet fully awakened. I have had a few minutes to luxuriate in the quiet of our little flat and think on things that my mind can’t quite comprehend in all their glory. My coffee is still warm and its bitter loveliness is a little pleasure that brings me much joy. I think you know the feeling? I sigh. I wish I had more time to read and rest today, but the clock ticks relentlessly on. So grateful for the time I did have, reading one of my all-time favourite Psalms – Psalm 118 in all its comforting grace and profound prophetic majesty! I shall write more about this at a future time, but let it be said that there are few Psalms that speak as clearly of Jesus Christ and the salvation that he holds out to us. Also got a few moments in John 15 reading about what it means to rest and remain in Christ. Oh how sweet it is to be on that vine and know that I am united to Christ. What this fully means this feeble mind cannot quite grasp. But I know that I am one with Jesus and I cling ever more closely to the love that is my Lord’s. As I look upward and delight in the everyday obedience and faithfulness that comes in my union with Jesus, I rejoice. I rejoice for love unbounded.
Dreams
I wish I could dream in color like I hear all the cool kids do. Unfortunately I can’t even claim to remember my dreams apart from the odd occasion when I have the luxury of drifting back to sleep after waking earlier than my alarm clock, a very rare happenstance indeed since usually I am up and showered all before five am. So my dreams? They vanish into the fog of last night’s sleep as dreams are prone to do. And though I’m sure it would be amusing to know what my subconscious is working through and ponder what I have to look forward to, instead I force my eyes forward and dream for the moments later on when I may have time to write in black and white. These are the moments of bliss whereupon the thoughts in my brain are distilled onto the page or laptop screen and somehow present a snapshot of a moment as I in amusement let my eyes rest upon the words that prance free, born in a moment simply to be frozen forever in that museum gallery for a solitary pilgrim to enjoy as he may. I do wish at times my vocabulary was a bit broader and could better express the thoughts that burn within. Instead it seems as if the same old standbys get used again and again and I feel so shamed that I can’t write as some of the ancients used to. Even now I read a page from time to time that stirs my heart and I wonder what it is to wield such skill. Perhaps someday I shall write a line that is true. For now I simply write what is and let the words fall upon the page perhaps in disarray but you know what – there is a truth even there. I shall in humility fall to my knees knowing that I am not enough. Yet I look to the mirror and though it is broken and cracked, I still see a face that betrays hints of majesty for the one that has eyes to see. There are moments when I breath a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I even now live in communion with the God that knows my name. I still wish I dreamt in color. Yet this world though spinning wearily is not so bad when one considers the long road it’s trod. I do long for the wedding day. I do long for the day when all will be made new. I do so long for the day when the world in technicolor will sing for joy unbridled and for that day when I shall in glory look upon the face of the groom.
A Day Arises She Sings Once Again
I really must write more. It is early Monday morning here in the flat and I have been perusing old entries and it has perhaps put me in a nostalgic mood. Also I have noted how my writing style has changed and morphed over the years in both content and form. For better or for worse? I shall leave others to say. But it is certain that in the past my entries used to be a bit more proper journal style and now, well…it seems that only my poetical or grasping creative fancies are what I decide to pour out on this screen. Oh, and book reviews of course. Never forget the book reviews! I wonder what it is, this slight drawing back, this pulling the curtain over my face ever so slightly. It perhaps reflects my growing, maturation dare I say? Maybe it is an acknowledgement that the internet is not quite as young and innocent as it was back in the day. Of course it never was, but I was more naive back then. Now, if I share on here, it feels riddles is the order of the day. Wade through enough metaphorical language and you may glimpse my heart. I know not all the reasons yet still it is fascinating to wonder.
And now my mind drifts as my fingers wander and I think perhaps it’s alright that I don’t write of my days in detail as I once used to do. Though I’m grateful for the chronicling of the past and the memories that now float through my mind for it spurs thoughts of gratitude and joy. Gratitude to the God who has blessed me far more than this young man could ever have hoped to dream. Joy for the life this same God has given me – a life poured out as offering devoted to the One who holds my hand yet a life blazing forth full of light from that same God who fills me in ways I most likely won’t ever truly comprehend. I am a broken vessel, a clay pot. Who am I to show forth this brilliant glory? Who am I to write down this achingly beautiful song? I bow my head in praises to the One who made me, to the One who called my name.
Perhaps I shall write more of my life in the future. Perhaps not. But I’m grateful for the thoughts that flood my being and the emotions that well up within.
Flexing
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.
A Far Country
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.
A Rose For Your Thoughts
It’s lovely to walk through the old graveyard this day. Sometimes at night, it’s hard for one to see the beauty of a place full of crumbled stones and dying flowers, even though I believe I could write another essay on why nighttime graveyard walks are no less full of magic. But today, let me focus. Let me set the scene and see if perhaps I can place you there so you can see for yourself.
You walk up to the wrought-iron gate and put your hand upon it. It is warm, though the sun is not shining directly on it now. You look to the right and then to the left and see there is not another soul to be seen as far as the eye can see. Of course that calls to your mind the thought of the departed souls for which this graveyard stands in silent testimony.
There are more modern facilities these days of course for the housing of the dead. More and more people, for various reasons that make sense to you, are deciding that cremation is an option to be chosen. And of course there are those who feel a tinge of distaste on thinking of laying one’s loved ones in the ground surrounded by the bones of strangers. A graveyard is no longer a communal resting place which contains the stories and histories of a community now long past. For there are no longer many who can tell these stories. And history is fickle, for so little remains of the personal tales once two or three generations have passed. So at the end of the day? A graveyard can look from the outside as if it just a place for dusty stones and crumbling flowers, a monument to the futility of life.
But now? You breathe deep in the winter afternoon and smell the fresh scent of pine. The air is cold of course, but not so cold that your flannel shirt cannot handle it. Instead, you welcome the light of the fading sun upon your uplifted face and close your eyes in quiet meditation. You have still not opened the gate for you are allowing yourself a moment. Perhaps it is time. You swing open the gate and enter in.
You walk slowly down the central path, allowing your feet to veer off to the right underneath some overhanging branches that seem to welcome you in to a warm embrace. The path is merely beaten down dirt, no cement or concrete here. Leaves are strewn across and you welcome the sound of the crunch your feet makes as you walk. And of course, pine needles everywhere. You welcome the lack of destination this walk demands. There is no one waiting for you. There is no appointment at the end which desires your focus or concentration. Instead, you simply allow your feet to wander where they will. The further back you walk, the smaller and more faded the stones appear. There are stories here, epics even. You see a grouping of stones together and wonder which family they represent, for the engravings are now all but gone. Leaves curl about the stones and there is a ray of light slanted across two of them, highlighting the light grey, whispering of pale stories told around the fireplace. You continue on and make your way to the rear of the graveyard, where the oldest and largest tree holds court. Its roots sprawl comfortably about the autumn grass. You decide to take a moment. Or perhaps two or three or ten. And you sit down in one of the most comfy looking crooks of the tree’s roots and snuggle in the leaves that have also made their home there. You allow your gaze to sweep across the breadth of the graveyard that lies before you. There is a faded majesty lit by the light of the December sun and you sigh in wonder that you have been granted a glimpse that makes your heart ache for longing. There is a quiet anticipation that hangs in the stillness, an unresolved air that makes you tilt your head slightly and wonder. A leaf drifts down and kisses you on the cheek.
Something Weird 