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.
Tag: writings
Grafted
I walk down the lamplit path and wonder what lies at its end. For all I know, the promises that I have clung to will in fact crumble to dust in the light that a closer perspective sheds. We shall see shall we not. But I refuse to give in to fear. I know that my boots are faded and starting to fall apart now. I know that my hair is a bit more faded and sparser than when this path my feet began to walk. Yet there is still a wonder that burns in my heart and there is still a faint taste of cinnamon on my tongue that reminds me of when I sipped the wine back at the last waystation. I hold fast to these signs that point me back to what I have believed in and forward to what lies at journey’s end. I know that the hand that picked me out of the mire that I played in so many years ago is still yet upon me, though at times the pressure seems faint and the shadows play havoc with my sight. These are the times I hum to myself songs of promise and in the darkness those hallowed lines recite. For even now in the darkness I look to my feet and see a light. I am thankful that I do not need to trust in mine own wit or valor for the aid by which I hasten on. Instead I trust in another. And this other has proven to be a trusty companion time and time again. What more can I say now? I walk forward, step by slow step my feet fall heavily upon this cobbled path. My progress is measured more slowly now, yet when I read my old notebooks I’m reminded of how much my voice has become more true. It’s a wonder, divine miracle really. I lift my voice once more in song. And as I begin to sing my favourite, I hear the voices of others join in soon enough. Thank God I am not alone on this pilgrim way. Let’s hurry on now, my brothers and my sisters. Let’s continue to faithful be. See this path does not go on forever, though so often it seems as if that may be the case. There is an ending, a slow descent when the cobbles turn to sand and the path turns down to the river that runs so merrily. I cannot promise the crossing will be entirely pleasant. It is not always. Yet look and see! On the other side, see the mountain that rises in poignant counter-harmony. I do not see it yet with these eyes but I know it’s there from what I’ve read in these manuscripts that I hold so dear. I do so long to see it but not for the grandeur of its created frame. Rather I hope to see the one walking down its slopes to meet me, the one who found me when I was alone and crying, the one who grabbed my hand and pulled me up to walk this pilgrim way. This is what I long for, to hear his voice gently call me in the way shepherds call their sheep. I will answer as I answer every day now. My Lord my Jesus be near to me. And forever and always will I be.
Reclamation
Hello friends! It’s a Sunday afternoon and I am here sitting on the porch of EQ wondering what I shall write. Is it 2022? Well perhaps not. But I do sit here now and reflect how fascinating it is looking back through the years and realizing how many hours I’ve spent in various places (like this coffeeshop!) and how I’ve changed and grown as my God has continued to work mightily in me. Sometimes I forget such and can only see the parts of me that seem to sit stagnant and still in the light of the fall. Yet it is good to sit back and reflect and look at my life as a whole and glorify my God as I realize that I am not the same man I was even a year ago! Praise be to God for his glorious grace and the many mercies he’s poured out upon me, his undeserving child! Sometimes I look at my outward circumstances and meditate on how they may or may not have changed. Same job, check. Same (close enough) living situation. Same attire (Pascal’s t-shirt, yup!) But then I look to my right and see Dani and my heart smiles and my eyes fill. Some things are not quite the same after all.
It is all too easy to let our hearts linger over those things that bring us anxiety and pain. And we cannot deny that there is sadness and suffering in this world and even in my heart, a reality that I am all too familiar with. But does the existence of such mean there is not also beauty, that perfection is necessarily impossible in this existence in which we find our minds moving? I would say not, though there are philosophical frameworks which would assert such. Instead, I would point out that the presence of an ill thing does not imply the impossibility of a good. Instead, the very fact that we recognize something as wrong means that in our frame of knowledge we seem to believe in the possibility of something being right. But what is true? That is a good question, one which it would do one good to ponder. I believe truth is not entirely relative, that though we may be shaped and formed by the environment and the historical moment in which we now exist, still yet there are solid realities that are firmer beneath our feet than we sometimes dare to think. This world is not all shadow and dust, though there is plenty of both. Instead, I look for the glimmer of that true light that I catch at the corner of my eye. I long to rest my hand upon an oaken pillar that testifies to roots deeper than these eyes can see. What is truth? That is a good question. As for me, I believe in the existence of a God who has revealed himself to us in a written word that has been passed down these many centuries. Some would call me foolish, some would call me fraud. I simply rest in that settled conviction that within me rests the spirit of God who has in actuality changed my heart and called me to be known and loved. I do believe that not that many years ago (as we count time) God himself walked upon this earth and spoke true words and then died so that I might be no longer blind but see. My eyes do not see as far as I would like at times. But no longer do I grope forward through the clammy fog of sneering unbelief. I bow my knees and look to heaven and with tears on my face I sing praises to my God who knows my name.
Veil
Someday I would love to walk the path through the ancient forest and stop when I feel the shimmering of the air around me as the sunlight breaks through the canopy. Then I’d stop and hold my breath and wait with my head tilted upwards and eyes closed for that goosebump moment when the birds would begin to sing. And then I’d exhale and start to hum the song that I had always known, even from the first time my fingers traced the music in the chord book on the piano back in the spare room that time when I was young. I had of course tried my hand at playing the notes as I thought they fell but I was too inexperienced then to understand the weighty dance that was required to truly play the music as it was meant to sound. So I put away the book and backed away from the piano and though I thought of it now and again, it was as if it was a dream that was not for me. Yet I am haunted still and wonder when we shall meet again, that song and I. I know soon my time shall come and I shall walk past the curtain and into the forest solemn walk. And then in that forest vale I’ll walk but not alone. And I shall hear that music, that I know, but I’ll hear more than that – I’ll hear a voice. I wonder what it will be like, that day when I know as I am known. My heart breaks now for the vision that has been wrought by more than my imagination could dare to dream. When comes the summons? I sit up on my bed and look and see the branches waving past the window. The wind picks up and I see the branches tapping in friendly fashion. Come out and play.
Unseen
It was a grey day. Grey seas sang under grey skies as grey birds soared and swooped low over the quayside. The quayside and its surroundings were also rather grey, nary a pop of colour to be found in the piles of gear and containers that lay here and there. Even the people that scurried about in the casual confidence that comes with being where they belonged could be said to wear faces set in shades of grey. Now to describe a face as grey seems to call for a bit of radical interpretation, but I believe you know what I mean. We have all seen those faces set in the default mode whereupon we decide we won’t smile and ask how’s their day. So yes. To sum up, an air of general grey-ness seemed to dominate the landscape at the shore and it would not be a stretch to say that this grey-ness seemed to stretch further than the eye could see. Ever a soul has strayed near an area where in the process of quick transit through it is felt that the colour is being leached from it. Now one may quibble with such and feel that we are getting dangerously close to invalid metaphysical applications. I will not argue and simply move on and resume my narrative and let the words stated previously sink into your soul and perhaps when you are a little older you will understand.
So to resume? It was a grey day. And so as John approached the dock and lifted his eyes to the heavens, the sigh that issued forth was an echo of the sadness within as he sought in vain for a glimmer of hope. The grey-ness of the day did not entirely escape him but it also did not startle him, for he was similar enough in mood at the moment to feel as if it was only fitting for the day to shroud itself in mourning in sympathetic communion with his yearning soul. John did not entirely abandon hope. Rather, he abandoned the idea that the hope would be consummated at any near point. It was promised and he believed the promise. But how long until hope’s longing would be fulfilled? He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt again the letter that contained the words he had already memorized. The weight of the paper in his hand felt good, a reminder that his sanity had not entirely fled. But had it begun to fray? He thought not, but sometimes he wondered. And the doubt gnawed at him. John’s eyes narrowed. Begone, ye foul thoughts. I believe.
And so John’s firm steps took him up to the longest and greatest dock, the one at which the great ships moored. He walked up the steps and then begun the long trek down. At the end of the dock he expected to find the answer. Or if not the answer, at least a reminder of that for which his life was pointed towards. The chill wind picked up as he stepped further away from shore and his mind wandered towards the events of earlier that morning. He would not think further of what had happened to Alex. He would not. Her tears tore at him.
Without realizing, John had navigated down the length of the great dock and was even now nearing the end. He went past the inspection offices and broke again into the open air. The wind plucked at his jacket and he pulled his collar closer. His eyes were wet for more than the shrieking of the wind. The gulls hovered close by, wondering if he had a snack for them. Alas, not today my friends. I have in my pocket crumbs of something more valuable than bread. And then John’s eyes picked out the bench at the end of the dock. Upon it was a girl in a scarf of red. She was there.
Visions
It was a long time ago it seems that we walked this forest path. I breathed deep of pine and beech and of an impulse I take your hand. The air is quiet in the way you only get when you’re far off from any sounds of engines or whirring gears though now and again I hear a bird pipe up and say hello hello my friend I’m here! And the air is quiet but it’s also heavy with the air of anticipation that a long awaited moment brings. This of course is something I bring into the forest and so is not native to this land. I turn and look at you and note how still your face is as you simply soak in the moment of a quiet stroll through this fairy realm. It does indeed seem like one of the small woods-folk could be around the next bend and we could have a chat, if only we had the eyes to see of course. But do we? I don’t bring this thread to the surface and chase it down for fear of diverting us from this melody of life. Do you hear the music, my friend? Do you? With that breaking of the silence, you turn to me and smile. This wood is delightful you say, truly I can’t believe we’re here walking where once legends dwelt. And for this moment I’ve waited ever so long, to be here with you, while overhead towers the trees we love. Is it enough, this wood?
Not long ago was it that we sat on the edge of a cliffside and gently tended that fire of roses. We talk of this and that upon this cliff looking out over the seas that leap and shout. But in the stark grey beauty of the ocean there is a moment that I quiver. And I sing now oh be still my heart! From where comes the song that was promised for I wait to hear the long lost melody. You say softly that the song was written on that piece of parchment. And I reply that somehow I knew it was meant for me. I shiver as I think that soon my lips shall sing these words. We both lean closer to the cliffside and let our bodies rejoice in this sea spray. My eyes sparkle with anticipation as I turn to you and say – shall we sit upon the edge here and let our feet dangle and talk of all the tales that we’ve not yet told? You giggle and stir the fire casually and mutter low – I have so many things to tell you. I never want to let you go. As we breathe deep of fire and roses and the song leaps unbidden to our lips we look to each other as blue meets brown and wonder – how did it come to this? This fire, is it enough?
Soon will come the moment when we’re standing upon the beach and gazing off into the west. Do you see the pinks and purples and oranges of the sky and wonder what they all mean? Is there a deeper significance to this beauty or is it just some grand coincidence? I laugh and squeeze your hand a little tighter and you turn to me and radiantly smile. There is more to this than the world that was promised. For truly this world is not enough. I know I tell you, I know. But surely we can bring a little meaning into the world if we in our hearts summon deep the joy and pains we have written thus far. But are we the originators of this meaning or are we merely echoing a long told tale? Echoes and symmetry I sigh. I know, I know. Just as this sunset plucks a chord in our hearts and we tremble knowing that we are made for more. Do you hear the music now you ask me. I do I reply. Oh surely I do. But still something is missing. Or someone.
These rhymes that fill my mind have not stopped. My love do you remember that day we walked in that wood? I do of course. That was the day my heart began to quicken as I began to believe there was more to this world than our eyes could see. But do you remember that grey twilight upon which we sat at that fire and burned bouquets of roses as we told each other our hopes and dreams? I can only reply you know I do. That was the day I knew we were on a road that we could not leave. Then you know that we only wait one thing. Our lives have spiraled around the core of truth that can be no other than what is now before us as we see the sun set before our eyes. Where is the one that was promised? We have been given much but still where is the well-laden table, where is the bread and wine? We are missing the one that was promised, the one that takes away the sin of the world. But remember you say your eyes now beginning to glow with inner fire, that one is provided by the one for whom our soul longs. In fact, you say now in a hushed and reverent manner, that one is come into the world and provided himself for himself for us that might dwell with him in the most full and rich communion that could ever be imagined in this world. Imagine that. Behold the lamb.
I take up the vision and fiercely pen all these things my mind have seen. In the darkening of the night, I feel your hand tighten upon my shoulder as we gaze up at the falling stars. And as light flashes from east to west, I whisper to you do you remember what joy is ours as we look forward to taking cups and toasting at that table? Oh my heart quivers. These words now ring in my head as I prepare myself for the consummation of all that’s been written. We now stand in purple twilight and gaze up at the fires of angels as we prepare to dine in heaven. The echoes of that long ago forest walk come back to me and I whisper what I heard him say and my heart rejoices that he is now near at hand
I will drape my cloak over you
I will ever draw you with my hand
I will call you by the music of my voice
I will surely bring you to my promised land
You and I stand together under the banner of redeeming love. We have no qualms about what is written for now united in sweet union are the songs of faith and hope as they look upon what descends from above. I should not say what, but who. And you know of whom I speak. His name is upon my lips as we hold hands tight and prepare for eternity where the songs will never stop and there will be no more echo for the source shall be before us in perfection of beauty and glory – that one robed in infinity and yet marked still by the suffering that he bore for those he descended to save, that in the fullness of his divinity and might still he stoops down that we might know his name. And now we tremble as we stand before him in a way and place I cannot describe for my thoughts flee far above and far beyond and before him we stand and I see his face.
Witness
What does it mean to walk down the path when one knows not the middle but has faith in where it ends? Sometimes it simply means the slow and simple approach of taking that next step and planting your foot firmly upon the path and avoiding the temptation to look behind. That is good to remember and easy to exhort one to but considerably harder to remember in the moment when everything seems opposed to you. True? So as I trudge around the sputtering volcano and feel on my skin the warm brush of ash, I know that it is folly to attempt to turn back now and that path off to the side must be avoided at all costs. For truly where I come from is the halls of darkness and so instead now I lift my eyes to the skies and continue to bear this cross. It is not a fraction as heavy as the one the one before me bore. Remember that, my friend. So I whisper prayers I’ve said so many times before and softly aloud chant these promises that were written that I might delight in them. Heed the word written and look up to the promised word that stooped and wrote in the dust for you. And now though the fog settles and my feet are shrouded from my eyes I smile for I tell myself the stories of the coming glories that shall be written in the skies. Courage, dear heart.
Scraps
Sometimes I crave to write about the little things, the forgotten and the alone. Sometimes I feel as if the big and grand have been stretched to death and in the explorations of such it as if the details overtake the whole and thus the whole feels smaller somehow. Surely the universe contains more than my mind can comprehend yet still I seek to understand and perhaps I reach for that deeper knowledge that lurks beyond the veil. And so though I know – or least claim to know – the truths of what was and is and is to come, there are moments when I let go and simply rest in peace that the unknown by me is known by one and this knowing is the comprehensive kind that somehow finds room for me too. Yes, I speak of God. For who else is worthy of all my thoughts, the small and great alike? There is nothing greater that can be thought than the God whom my soul craves to know. And you know, do you know, of that which I speak? There is a whisper that speaks louder than all the screaming voices that flicker along the waves that crash upon the shore over and over again. This whisper comes from a voice that spoke before the world began, a voice that in the beginning spoke so that the world began. This word that existed in this time and space where there was neither is the word which now I lift my eyes to in awestruck love as I consider the love that is mine flowing down the side of him who died, in this word that was and is and is to come and this word that spoke my name and in this quiet moment as I consider the cosmos shaking truth that somehow in a sense i don’t fully understand this word died as lips spoke in simple unshaken faith that all was accomplished in a moment of time upon this earth as space held still in hushed humility to consider the work that was done on that patch of dirt upon that small forsaken hill and so I lift my eyes to the word that was lifted up for me. So long ago and yet not long ago as some would consider time to flow. And so because of what has been done for me, I rest my soul and so I can write about the little things, the quiet moments on the grass, the slowly flickering candle and the whir of the overhead fan and the traffic whirring down the road for even all these things point to a greater whole and a cosmos made and held together by a divine one who now sits upon the right hand of the majesty on high even if this world does not quite know – or rather refuse to know – that the lives of all are held within the hand of the one who created all things and then descended in shocking condescension so that some may behold his face. Now in faith I do behold him and I hope for that day when I shall look upon his face for true. I lift my voice to heaven and praise Father, Spirit, Son. What is it that the Godhead should consider me beloved? My eyes water at the thought and I tremble as I think on that day that blood and water ran out of a body that was given freely for me. And just so as that body died so too did it three days later rise to life upheld by the Father in triumphant resurrection glory and because I am through the work of the Spirit bound to Christ, I know that so too I have died and now in new life rise and in communion with God I live forever even if forever does not always feel that way. In faith I sing joyous praises. In hope I cry oh Lord Jesus come soon. In love I weep for divine favor. And I hear a whisper on the wind and upon the pages. My child, I died for you.
Correspondence
Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.
Treasure in a Field
Writing a few words this warm grey day even though in the moment I fear anything I write will be without weight. For my mind flutters here and there, just as that butterfly about to alight from that rain sodden bough in search of a sweeter blossom. In earnest I seek truth that is just now peeking from beyond the horizon yet I wonder if I will have the eyes to see. For too often are my eyes blinded by the lights of nearer storefronts and the phones held aloft by those who flowing walk in syncopated patterns down this cobbled street. Maybe I just need to get outside this city and abandon all that I once held dear. Perhaps I just need to cry aloud to the God my fathers knew. For all I know the truth that will bring me nigh to heaven is written down in this leather bound book that I cannot help but still cling to. Have you ever heard a line in a movie or read a stanza in a poem that when it hits your mind it does more and penetrates your very soul? Some say they feel the goosebumps on their arms or some say they feel their hands tremble. For me I feel the water start to rise in the corners of my eyes and if I speak my voice cracks under the weight of that allusion to ancient myth. Somehow true and yet I question.
Something Weird 