Life, The Story

Life, The Story

A poem from age 14

Life is a story growing older,
Ever older, as I grow with it.
All my values, all my fears,
All my gladness through the years.
Life’s the story that has told it.
Love and Hope is how I lived it.
Faith and Grace from God above,
Yes, I made it through because of Love.

Joy and Peace for which I searched,
Security that I needed like a tired bird a perch.
Any branch would have done,
What I needed was som fun.
Life is a true story, no fairy tale here.
Unknown, only make-believe is known far and near.
Why do I darken this blank page?
To tell life the story that goes on age after age.

Why I Write

Why I Write

Why do I write? At first that seemed to be asking the one thing that is inexpressible. Yet, on further consideration, I must start at the beginning.

Growing up I loved to read. This is an understatement. I really was a voracious reader. Endless books were consumed. Some were so delicious that my taste for them could not be sated and I re-read favorites with a growing appetite.

It seemed natural to express my thoughts and feelings in words. So, I wrote. Plays, poems and short stories poured out of my youthful spirit with fervor. Writing seemed a natural way for me to share what I had learned with others. The binder that housed my collected works overflowed. It was my second most priceless possession as a child. My prized possession was my first Bible.

The reason I loved to read was not so much a fondness for a good story, although that was definitely a part of my desire. I found as I grew that I read for the thread of the human spirit that I was finding in literature, history and many other genres. I also loved loosing myself in other times and characters as I lived vicariously through other lives.

I adore Jane Austen’s books. I read and re-read her novels so as to become familiar not only with the characters, but also, to some extent with the author herself. When I read books written in her style I recognized immediately that they were not by the Jane Austen herself. I had become so familiar with her distinct voice that I could no more fail to recognize the change than I could fail to recognize the spoken voice of a close family member. I have never met Jane Austen, but I found myself regarding her to some extent as a friend. Finding myself becoming a friend of one who lived long before I was born was a delightful experience. Vast distances of time and space are reduced in the pages of books. Each author has put some of themselves into their writing. We share our lives with all those whose books we have cherished.

This connection to those of the past intrigued me. Eventually I came to the realization that it is not only the pantheon who left some of themselves in their written words. We each have been given our own unique voice. No one else can express the human story quite as we do. Yet, despite, or I believe, because of this very great variety, we begin to learn deeper truths from one another.

The transcendent truths of God become clearer as we share our experiences of them with each other. Our hearts leaps up with a recognition of the voice of a friend, just as with a familiar author, when we hear The Word spoken through another person’s life.

Because we each have a unique voice we can share the truth’s that bind us all together. A fabric woven with only one color thread doesn’t convey a complex design nearly as vividly as one woven with several colors. Our life experience grows richer as we share our journey with one another. We become woven together through faith and words into something beautiful in the Makers hand.

I write because I feel called to share this journey. It sounds presumptuous of me. I do not mean that there is anything special about my life or my ability to put it into words. I honestly believe that we all become richer in sharing the Good News. When we share our belief and the life we are living in Christ, we are bearing witness to the One who made and saved us. Whether we share our story in words or not we all are part of God’s divine plan, part of the greatest story ever.

Shadows

Shadows

John 1:5
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

Shadows are not dark. They are light demonstrating the position of some thing. You do not get “real” shadows on cloudy days. Only in the sun do you witness clear shadows.

The same is often true of life. We do not see the real position of things until it’s shadow is made clear by a shaft of light striking it. Life is illuminated by the shadows. We only see them when a ray of sun breaks through.

When I become aware of dark shadows invading my life I do well to remember that this defining of my existence is only made possible by a ray of sun breaking through. Shadows help to define our lives in brilliant ways.

Shadows in the Snow

Shadows in the Snow

Shadows in the snow
Only hope can know
Spring will come again.
There is an end to pain.

What seems invincible
Is one day overcome.
At first we feel undone
By that which proves most serviceable.

Despite the endless beating
Of ice upon the thorn
I know that there’s a purpose
In each snowy morn.
Whatever the wintry weather
Hurled at my door.

The sun will rise,
I know.
They will come again.
Shadows on the snow.

Why I Need a Savior

Why I Need a Savior

There are endless reasons why I need Jesus, but this morning I had a running tirade in my head that was stopped in it’s tracks by the thought, “Wow, this is why I need a Savior.”

It was potato salad.

There is tremendous variety in potato salad recipes. Each family seems to have their own variation. When I actually met someone who made “our” potato salad I was left wondering if somewhere in the midst of history we were related.

We make such a simple potato salad. Just potatoes, eggs, mayonnaise, celery, onion, celery salt and salt. Those are the only ingredients. It was one of the first recipes I learned as a child.

This year I decided to simplify. I recognized that early in Advent that I could not get it all done. So I cut back to the basics. My mother made potato salad every Christmas Eve so she would have it ready to serve with the Christmas ham. This could be the year I follow in her footsteps and not spend all day Christmas alone-in the kitchen.

Christmas dinner would be baked ham, potato salad, a steamed vegetable and raspberry cheesecake bars. I planned it weeks ahead. I make a menu each week and from that menu a grocery note to take shopping. I bought potatoes, onion, made sure I had plenty of mayonnaise, and celery salt. I thought I had celery left in the crisper drawer from last week’s roasted vegetables.

Somehow. I cannot fathom the reason. Today. Christmas Day. Yesterday was too busy. Today, I find carrots in the crisper drawer. I have no celery!

My thoughts run wild. I have ruined the potato salad. Carrots cannot be substituted for celery in potato salad. Christmas dinner is ruined. I have failed my family. I could not even do one thing right.

The word right is an ugly word for me. I define it as completely correct. I never seem to get anything right.

I am fatally flawed. I am hopelessly bound by sin and mistakes. I try with all my being to do right. Yet I cannot produce perfection in anything. I ought to be able to do some small things right.

Who will save me from my brokenness? Only He whose birth we celebrate today. How can I ruin Jesus’ birthday? Does He care if there is celery in my potato salad?

God was born. He took on our flesh and brokenness. He became one of us to save us. He saved us from the accuser. The evil one tried to destroy my Christmas joy by convincing me that I had ruined Christmas by forgetting to buy celery.

I need a Savior because even on such a holy day I am so easily led astray.

Eve may have fallen over an apple, but today I fell over celery.

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The Cart

The Cart

imageI had a dream that I was going down a lonely road in an old, rattle-trap cart. It was a very bumpy ride, which was frequently brought to an abrupt halt when one of the wheels fell off. In addition to being small and uncomfortable to ride in the cart was old and shabby to look at. Though it was foggy I could see many ugly patches on the cart. I was filled with self-pity. How had I come to be riding in such a pathetic, old cart? Why was I slowly bumping along an empty, dirt road in the middle of nowhere? I envied those who were fortunate enough to be swiftly riding down well paved interstates in luxurious speed. Oh, how I wished I had the Mercedes and smooth road.

I was so cramped in my little cart that when the wheel fell off, as it frequently did, I could not get out of the cart to put it back on myself. The wretched cart held me fast. I had to sit still until someone came to help put the wheel back on my cart. My impatience to be off, along with my shame over having ridden in such a wretched cart caused me to be less than courteous to my assistants.

After the wheel was fixed off I went, rattling along again. I regret to say that on more that one occasion, being in such a hurry, I whipped at the front of the cart, For though the fog hid the beast, I was sure from the slow pace and the condition of the cart that it must be a pathetic, old mule, or some such dismal creature that was pulling my broken old cart.

After a time, I noticed that it was often the same people who came up from behind to fix the broken wheel. Being in a more appreciative mood on day I asked my helper why they didn’t just get into the cart and ride with me since we seemed to be going the same way. My offer was graciously declined. The poor souls preferred to walk. My progress was so often halted that the walkers were always catching up with the cart when the wheel fell off. Though I had a sometimes lonely ride I considered myself better off than the walkers, Unfortunately, I was frequently loosing a wheel or getting stuck in the mud. The walkers pushed with all their might to get me out of one bog, yet they never gave up or passed me by.

After spending a long, cold night with a broken wheel, one of my fellow pilgrims came up to help me again. “If you don’t want a ride, that’s fine. It’s cramped in here anyway, but why are you following along behind me?, I asked. My assistant looked surprised at the question and replied, “I’m not following you. I’m following Him.” I looked at the front of the cart as he pointed and for the first time the fog cleared enough that I could see it was not a mule harnessed to my cart but a man. Here was a tired looking, ragged man, with sweat and blood running down his face, holes in his hands, feet and side, and a crown of thorns upon his head. Jesus, the Christ, the Son of God was pulling my broken cart!I wept with tears of guilt and remorse at how bitterly I had complained about being in such a broken, old cart. I had taken out my frustration on the slow speed and inhospitable road on the one who had never left me despite my ill-usage and self pity.

Now freed from my folly I was able to climb out of the cart and worship at his feet. “My child,” he said, “Can you take up your own cross and follow me?” I fell into walking with the other pilgrims as we followed him down the narrow, ill-kept, dirt road.

He never walks unharnessed. He is always finding someone in a broken down cart to pull. It is much easier to walk than it was to ride in my old cart. We walkers help to pull carts out of the mud and repair their broken parts. All the while we keep our eyes on the Master, the humblest and most broken looking one on the road, Yet he alone has the strength to pull a cart. He can and does. And we follow the humble Master who leads us home.

Sometimes I am in the broken cart. Sometimes you are the one creaking along. We all ride in its’ miserable confines at one time or another. When we are strong enough we get out of the cart and follow on foot. When you’re stuck in the cart remember you’re never alone. Christ is pulling you.

Life (a poem)

Life (a poem)

Life,..
with all it’s angst and despair,
Lonely tears,
Obfuscating foes,
Fearful terrors,
Sweet words of kindness,
Searing pain,
Soft canine kisses,
Back bowing weights,
Serene feline songs,
Bitter thoughts,
Hopeless loves,
Fresh, dew-dropped dawns,
Black nights of despair.
Through it all we never rant alone.
Our self absorbed pity party is attended by only one guest.
Privy to our hopes and losses the one who made us never leaves us.
When we cannot bear our own company He is still there
The true lover of my soul is ever by my side.

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