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
Tag: writing
To Be Raised
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
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.
Torchlight
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
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!
Accommodations Must Be Made In the End She Says with Not a Bit of Condescension
There are little moments that make me quite happy. Some of them involve the way my skin warms when the sun hits me through the leafed branches as I lie on my back and look up at the sky on a summer afternoon or perhaps the goosebumps that erupt on my skin as I gaze across the ocean on a blustery grey evening. But other moments are slightly less tangible and involve my racing thoughts as I sit upright at the opera as the waves of music gallop on past my head in unceasing grandeur and more noble beauty. For some reason even in moments of beauty where the light stands still and I tilt my head to consider the momentary state of the union in my inner parts I still somehow find room for the various factions in my mind to toss taunts back and forth across the divide of consciousness. Sometimes I stretch my hand out and try and craft a perfect moment where all parties come together in delightful harmony to dance a reel and fill my heart with the kind of joy that comes but once a blue moon or so. But what am I really saying? Is it foolish of me to rank moments and consider that some are decidedly less memorable? What about a moment like now? There are moments like the present where my fingers flex and groan across the keys of this laptop and I toss back football commentary to my brother and listen to my sister sigh as she reads eternal words and sips her tea. Moments like this are not to be sold for any price.
A Moment of Music
She sits at the window looking out over the courtyard in all its wintry glory and wonders why the vista before her looks so grey in a way it never quite has before. The cobblestones shine in the remnants of the afternoon rain and though it looks like there could be a rainbow, as hard as she tries she cannot quite make one out. Rainbows are fickle creatures, really. So the view before her dazzles in shades of brown and grey and even some dirty white here and there where some of the whitewash applied last fall still sticks to the fence around the square. Why did they even make an attempt at that, she wonders. A solid black wrought iron fence looks much more dignified after all, a white coat atop simply an unnecessary fanciful gilding, really. But her thoughts wander. She usually liked the dreary days, the days when the fog shimmered in front of her face and her hand disappeared when she held it before her. Those foggy days all seemed hushed and still and her thoughts belonged to her alone. It was glorious. But this day her friend the fog had fled and she sees the wet and dirty square for what it is, a faded dream of a once proud city. Perhaps that was why she feels so sad. Her own dreams dance before her eyes and she is not too proud to deny the tears that swim up to meet them. And so the girl looks out over the square and tries to see the beauty that had once met her there every day. Those were beautiful days really, those when she sat underneath the springtime blossoms and written poetry in her little notebook. Those days would come again they would say. She knows that of course. But right now she doesn’t quite feel it. Feelings are fickle creatures, really. Perhaps someday her heart would ring again in a resounding symphony of colour. Perhaps someday she would write again of summer and waterfalls and green grassy cliffs looking out over a far ocean. But for now she sits at the window and can do naught but pray.
Sometimes Yes
Sometimes I wonder why it is that fiction should so easily slip in the cracks whereas a well-written and solidly supported work of nonfiction can not find even the smallest purchase in my mind. I know everyone’s mind is different – at least I’m assured of such – which comforts me because I know then that the plethora of nonfiction educative works out in the world are of use to many many souls. Even for me, I can say with confidence I have been helped and encouraged and perhaps even edified by some of the nonfiction works floating out and about in the world. Yet there is something about a good story that will do things to me that no other form of writing can do, no matter how skillfully penned. This is not an original topic of course. I’m aware that much has been written about the human craving for pattern and is not story just another word for pattern? We seek to make sense of the chaos about us and if we can just make it all fit in a story that has a beginning and a middle and possibly even an end, would not that make life meaningful in a way that our souls long for? We cry for meaning and desperately grab on to whatever may give us such, if only that we can avoid slipping back into the existential void that we are all too afraid is the source from which we sprang. So is this desire for story simply a reaction of a mind half blind with fear and anxiety? Or do we desire to hear a great tale because that mirrors something in us that may perhaps have been put there a purpose, a reflection of the reality which is greater than we can now fully grasp? Hence to dart back to my original point (which perhaps has fled from me at this juncture), a true story simply told is something that will disarm all my defenses and leave me quivering on the floorboards, aware that I am both less than and greater than all at the same time. And if the story is true, well…at what point does this truth leave the pages in which I find it and enter my soul to provide an answer for that which my soul longs? I love to ask questions for too often I feel I do not know the answers. Yet, are there answers? Is there an answer? I dare not think otherwise. It stares me in the face and I tremble.
Beginnings
The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.
Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.
But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?
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 