This morning the dark lingers. The depth of winter grasps onto the light and keeps it away and while I would appreciate the first rays of sunlight to creep over the horizon, I know I must wait a few more minutes yet. Even so, I now appreciate the fact that I am beginning this week as the year winds to an end and I reflect over all that has been and muse over that which is and shall be. I wish to meditate upon truth in the lamplight that now spills over my shoulder. I have a book upon my lap which contains more of reality than my mind can ever grasp and I gasp to consider that the stars that blaze out overhead cannot outshine the enormity of the pillars of creation that have given me such a sure and steady confidence in the very God who holds my hand. Oh yes I am quite guilty of mixing a few metaphors as I attempt to muster my thoughts – consider that a testimony to the awe that fills my soul as I drink deep the love of God who fills all my dry and dusty places. For yes, this book that I mentioned earlier is the very Word of God – crafted by his hand and set afore us in the wisdom that is beyond our ken. But we may ask – is not this book merely written by common men? This is when our intellectual yearnings take over and we burn to find out more. I would wager – as indeed I have – that this book can hold up to any questions we can throw against it. Just taste and see. There is a divine reason that this book has held up throughout these many years and has placed such a burning in the hearts of those touched by the very Spirit of God. My heart longs for beauty. But beauty unmoored from reality is really no beauty at all, wouldn’t you say? And realizing that, I look up to the stars that sing the songs of heaven and I consider the truths that have enlivened my very soul. From where does my soul come? Or rather – from whom? Why do I long for that which my eyes cannot yet see? I yearn to meet the God greater than that which can be imagined by my little mind. But I do know him as he has for eternity known that he would be with me. What wonders, wonders fill my mind! See the light step over the horizon. I sip my mug of coffee and feel the pleasure that comes with that perfect first cup. Someday a more perfect pleasure will blaze in my soul as I sit at the feet of Jesus Christ and hear his words to me. For now though – I will echo the call of eternity for it does ring in even these everyday mundane realities. There is a song of joy that I would join and so I must away!
Tag: truth
The Pond at Camelot
Why does she keep writing? I wish to echo her song but I keep finding myself left behind. There’s a piece of magic in the pieces that proceed from her pen, a poetry that expresses itself in such a manner that would be envied by the Romantics of yesteryear. I find myself speechless. Hence why I retreat back to my own garret and proceed to scribble responses that I’d never dare send to her. Her writings stand alone, dominant and unshakeable in their conviction of the beauty that thrills the soul. My writings would be merely reflections, meaningless apart from the source. Perhaps I could dialogue with her and sharpen her analysis of the true nature of the world. Perhaps I could send her a fond note in which I drop a few hints that she’s persuaded me too. Perhaps the only worth I have is in holding a candle up to the parchment pages that she’s filled with life. I cannot use any other word for it. Her poetry is life itself, bursting and singing forth the bones of reality itself. Do you see that cherry tree out yonder past the stone wall? I’ve sat there many times, holding up its trunk with my stiff neck. Yet it was not until I read her lines that I truly grasped the beauty of a cherry blossom in spring, even though my eyes surely must have at many times seen that very sight. The tinder is carefully laid and the wood is prepared near to hand. I cannot argue against the testimony of my heart that cries out in the night. Sometimes it seems the night mutterings are more true than the daytime blatherings. I would walk up and shake her hand but I fear she’d turn away knowing I was not worthy. I am not worthy. I walk up to the bookshelves that line this room and run my finger across every spine. The way is prepared and the path is cleared. Where is the spark? I wait for it to fly for only then will I be prepared to die. Her poems speak of dustpans and green curtains and islands in the blue. And even when she talks of teatime at dusk in all its mundanity, I see it, that hope of that which is to come. I pull up a chair and lay down my book. It opens to a proper page for of course it does. She smiles and reaches out her hand. Trembling, I hold out mine.
Something Weird 