A Litany of Next Things

I am forcibly willing myself to sit in this hard wooden library chair.

Right now, as I finger this keyboard, the sky above my roof has been cooled to a deep cerulean and is being occasionally scrubbed to gleaming by wave after wave of cloud stuff. Every tree is heavy with leaves and shadow but, hidden deep within each, is the glory of birdsong, trilling like so much music.

This day is one I will not soon forget. It is just too beautiful to let slip into the ether, as if it was nothing remarkable that the sun broke free of the horizon and unleashed this beauty on all whose eyes fluttered open this morning.

This day is the sort from which dreams are spun.

So to purposely sit here, in this chair, on this day means I am trying, with all of my might, to finger the threads of thought that have been fraying frantically in my head for months. These last weeks and days have often felt unmanageable, heavy with grief and bewilderment and seeming idleness. I have done my best to muddle through, pulling on joy when I couldn't handle the dark anymore and praying that sleep walking was better than standing still.

But the honest truth is that I have often felt as if I was screaming, mouth wide open, throat scraping raw, screaming. Silent and piercing, all at once. The core of me, the one that must write to figure out what she is thinking, has felt imprisoned by grief.

If, a year ago, you had tossed out the question of how I might one day deal with the pain of losing my mother I would have, most assuredly, said: writing.

So, when confronting the reality and heartbreak of my mother's actual death, I've hardly penned a word in response? Well, it has been disconcerting, at best.

And the longer the break, the more days that pass and words fail to appear?
The more I
have felt
as if I
am
disappearing.

I have felt like a glass jar full of silt shaken and left alone, shaken and left alone, shaken and left alone
again
and
again
and
again.

That is why today's clarion beauty has felt like such a gift. The morning's lighter air and gentle rippling set a precedent and the waters upon which chaos floated have started to settle. A separation has begun and I am beginning to distinguish sand and rock and crystal. What used to be only a muddied swirling now contains flecks of gold dust.

This might just be where the words have been hiding.

All of today has been like one slow remembering. I realize that grief has kept me from noticing like I used to notice. When you are trying to simply put one foot in front of the other, you don't often bother to spend time studying vapor trails or listen to the way grass stretches as each drop of dew slowly evaporates. You just seem to focus on the next thing.

But today gifted me with a litany of next things and I have discovered that the gnarl of frayed and woolly thoughts languishing in my head have begun to spin. Along their edges there seems to be a thread forming. The beautiful and terrible things of this world are working together to draw out the fibers in my mess and the twisting and whirling of the last few months don't feel quite so in vain.

I think that, tomorrow, I will follow the beauty.

Again.

The Folds of Grace

photo credit

Some days just ring hollow
as if all the hopes I’ve thrown long and wide just
swirl round and round
slower and slower
from the weight borne upon them

And then there are days
that the black bird returns
flash of red upon his wing
his call creaky like an old iron gate
causing me to squint upwards
into the still bare tree limb in silhouette
the strengthening sun finding new fire
behind it

Some days roll in atop the
pink foam of fitful nights
and the sandy grit bristles hard
against the murky glass
leaving an etched line that will take
hours to polish out

The rest of this poem can be found over at SheLoves Magazine where I am writing today. Follow this link and join me there? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments, either here or there.

Small Acts, Great Love

The house is quiet now.

All day there has been this swirling of vagrant leaves and fluttering of bare branches and it has been enough to make me wonder if all of heaven and earth might just be on the cusp of some arcing change. Perhaps winter’s icy fingers are beginning to crack and splinter in the hidden places. Perhaps there might just be a Spring after all.

It’s in the hushed evening that I remember what I read once about frost seeding. How a farmer can scatter a pasture with seeds while the ground is still frozen. Then, as the soil freezes and thaws, space is opened up and the seeds fall into the space that is created. All throughout the winter, with each new round of bitter cold, the process continues and the seeds become more and more a part of the soil. After each storm, each seed is better positioned to germinate once the temperatures rebound and stay consistent.

It is in this remembering that I think about my fall and winter. I think about how my life has been flipped on its head, how I am mothering an infant once again, how those dear to me are sick and in need of attention and how, right in the middle of it all, I am earnestly practicing the sacred art of balance.

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Click here to read the rest of my words over at SheLoves Magazine.

In which there is Poetic Justice, for God is a Poet, but there is also Mercy

I am honored to open up space today for the words of Anita Mathias. Anita and I first connected in the comments section of a piece I wrote for SheLoves. A few months later she asked me to write a guest post over at her place. Clearly, we share an admiration for each other's words. Please join me in welcoming Anita to 

A Lifetime of Days.

+++++++++++++++

Even while Esau was out hunting his father’s favourite wild game, Jacob and Rebecca slaughtered and cooked two choice young goats-- which Jacob served to Isaac, pretending to be Esau, stealing his blessing.

A cruel deception.

And, uncannily, years later, in his own old age, Jacob’s sons sold his favourite son into slavery, dipping Joseph’s precious robe in the blood of a slaughtered goat, claiming he had been killed by a wild beast.

Tricked with a goat, just as he had tricked his own father with a goat.

* * *

The seeds we sow, we reap, measure for measure. They lie dormant in the earth, sometimes for years, then yield their harvest.

The good we have done yields blessing, and the evil we’ve done conjures shadowy forces against us.

And that’s scary if we have sown bad seeds, have said and done less than luminous things, things we are now ashamed of.

* * *

But we do not live in a mechanical universe. We live in a just universe, shot through by mercy like a golden cord.

The law of sowing and reaping is the deep magic from the dawn of time, in C. S. Lewis’s phrase.

However there is a more powerful force still: the force of mercy, unleashed by the willing victim who bore in his body the punishment for all the bad seeds we have ever sown.

And so mercy triumphs over justice. The deep magic from before the dawn of time.

Jacob recovers Joseph; Esau was, in fact, blessed.

* * *

For myself, I want to sow good seed for the rest of my life.

But the bad seed I have sown? The things I am ashamed of? The things I did because of my small, bewildered, wounded heart?

I confess them.

I ask God’s forgiveness. I ask Christ’s blood to cover them.

And I step into the waterfall of mercy, the mercy that triumphs over justice because the One who loves the world is good.

I ask him to let all the bad seeds I’ve sown, which are still dormant, die.

And I ask him for grace to overplant much good seed to crowd out the bad seed.

And I ask him, the ultimate genetic engineer, to somehow, even now, change the DNA of the bad seed I’ve planted, and bring good from them.

And I place my life and future in His hands.

(Photo credit: Jenny Downing)

_____________________________

Anita Mathias is the author of Wandering Between Two Worlds

(Benediction Classics, 2007). She has won a writing fellowship from The National Endowment for the Arts, and her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The London Magazine,  Commonweal,  America, The Christian Century, and The Best Spiritual Writing anthologies.

Anita lives in Oxford, England with her husband and daughters. She blogs at Dreaming Beneath the Spires. You can find her on Twitter @anitamathias1 or on Facebook at Dreaming Beneath the Spires.

Spinning Straw Into Gold

This last week before Christmas has taken on a life of its own this year.

Right when my sweet little family was gearing up for afternoons baking cookies and evenings driving around town gazing at twinkling lights we had to, instead, quickly shift gears, rearrange plans, throw clothes in suitcases, make haste. Suddenly, it was all about hustle—a verb that I fight with a vengeance during this holy season. But rather than it being about needing a little Christmas, right this very minute, it was a pressing need to get home.

My mom is, once again, fighting a battle with her body. Cancer thinks it deserves space in her bloodstream and it is acting like a big old bully. I hate cancer.

But, I figure, the best way to fight a bully is with love so my little family has slipped on our boxing gloves and we intend to go down punching. For we want to be known as people who love. We have shown up on my parent’s doorstep, even if there is but little room in the inn, and we are ready to do business.

It is Christmas time, though, and there are children here so I am trying to figure out how you patch together something that still sings of grace and glory while not ignoring the present reality. How do we take the straw we’ve been handed and spin it into something golden and magical?

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Would you like to read the rest of this post?

I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today. Follow this link to find the rest of my words.

Lessons in Light and Dark

It happened so fast, the light leaving.

It was a slow fade, at first, with the late afternoon sun casting weaker beams in the sky. And then, like a candle snuffed quietly, the sun disappeared and one day we found ourselves eating dinner in the inky blackness. That first darkened night we huddled around the table and felt a keen need to draw closer, to touch shoulders, to clasp hands.

The hushed darkness of winter will do that to you. Pull you in.

And although the earth spins faithfully and the calendar responds in turn, even though I know this cycle by heart, I am still surprised by its steadfastness. The resoluteness of time can grate painfully across this fickle heart of mine and my grandest intentions often fall like cinders from the flame that frames each season.

The passing of years does not always equate an increased wisdom and some lessons wrap themselves in new skin and walk themselves into my days.

My latest lesson wears the skin of a baby...

To read the rest of "Lessons in Light and Dark" please join me here over at SheLoves Magazine.

The Calling

I whisper to you as the water runs down
in rivulets
over my belly
flowing from above
spreading out
like a river delta

and it is true
there is a rich deposit
just below the surface
left days and weeks before
by love's flow

But I long for you
sweet one
I want to know you in the flesh
not just as a rising and swelling
like the ocean's tide
But by your ruddy wrappings
and
your holler

I want to put my nose to your head
the one that still carries the scent of heaven
and hang
transfixed
by the cord that binds us all
to the other side

I want you
little one
full up with love
and need
and joy unbound

For your crossing over
will usher in new landscapes
and I've opened up the window
with the morning sun
hoping to catch a glimpse of you

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Picture credit: Aidan Grantham
Bracelets: the blue beaded one was made by Aidan and the brown beaded one is from ViBella Jewelry, gifted to me by Kelli at the Jumping Tandem Retreat last April.

Luster

Blue
Full Sturgeon
Green Corn
Grain
and
Full Red

I, too
drape myself in names

Time may cause the cloth
to hang and shift
but the form that
pushes out from beneath
is still true
even when it is dark
as
pitch

Luster
that is your secret
for you are
diligent and faithful
and
your reward
is radiance
the kind that illuminates
shadowed
shapes

Perhaps
I should take heed
and observe
that the changing of garments
without
a vision

Is not the same
thing
as the slow march
of time
across the sky
as the music
of the spheres
sparkles
glory

++++++++++++++++
Linking with Emily for Imperfect Prose

photo credit: Tim Fields on Flickr

Art

It's difficult to conjure up the memories
of how
exactly
I felt on that day
of which way my stomach
flipped
or how quickly my heart
pounded

But now
I do remember
that I woke calmly
and watched the early sun angle its way
through the glass
and
I realized that
I would no longer have to wake
alone

and
to that
I smiled

When I woke this morning
you were already up
quietly making coffee
or
walking the dog
or
reading in the big blue chair
Moving through the house
like whispered love
curling around corners
and
hanging full in the air

I know
now
that I had no idea
back then
what making love
over a lifetime
would mean

One always hopes
for promises kept
and
memories made
yes

But this
every
day
making
love

It is art

paint on canvas
wet clay on spinning wheels
fiber twisted and mounted
notes strung on staves
steps counted and flung
art

Before you
before us
I didn't know
I was an artist
not really

But this morning
when the day dawned
and
you were still there
something opened wide

Making love
over a lifetime
will do that to you

New mercies

I walked the dog this morning, something I haven't done much since becoming pregnant. My dear husband has developed a keen ability to sense when I need him to step in, grab the leash, and slip out the door, unheard. And I have been thankful.
But this morning, we were all moving a little slower and it was I that grabbed the leash and slipped out the door.

It is mid-July and every night the sky sinks heavy upon the earth, pressing out her moisture, coating every blade of grass, every secretly spun web, every petal of every bloom with dewy drops. I breathe in air that is thick and palpable and all but dripping.

I am instantly humbled that much of my walking these days feels just like that.

I am full with child now. My belly goes before me and I smile to think of how my body proclaims the truth that a child will, indeed, lead us. All I can do, anymore, is just follow him. This child lives and moves within me and sometimes I feel as if I will burst but, in all of this, together, we have our being.

It is heavy work, this being. The only way not to be completely undone in the process is by simply putting one foot in front of the other. And so we walk.

I turn the corner at the end of my driveway and see that the sun has peeked over the treetops, illuminating them from behind, gilding their edges. It is only because of Love that they are not wholly consumed and I receive it as one small glimpse of a new mercy. I sigh.

As we plod through the thick air there is a piercing, a trill that begins to unravel it all. A cardinal sings heartily unto its mate, beckoning her to follow, to come, to look and see that it is good. And He is right.

And then we see it.

The lake.

And it is as if gold dust, straight from the edge of heaven, has rained down in the night. Floating atop the water is the evidence of glory come down and the rising sun has now cracked open its very center. Diamond light flits and bounces and dances upon the surface and I am almost blinded by its burning.

My baby leaps.

I catch my breath.

And in a moment, this world, this life, this everything... it is thick and palpable and all but dripping and there is no way that I can take it all in before it is running down my fingers, soaking my feet, oozing from my skin, laughing its way down the road.

Everything.
Every.
thing.
feels so full.

I look, again, at the water. At the dancing light and the shimmering beauty. I marvel at its hidden depths, all that is not yet revealed. I imagine what lives beneath the surface, what life has yet to emerge.

And I know it.

This is that grace ocean.

And we are all drowning...



Linking with Emily and Jennifer.

Stringing beads

photo credit: Matt on Flickr

There is this girl I know who strings words onto worn strings like so many colored glass beads and I walk around for days, fingering the rainbow forms until they are worn smooth and I know them by heart. For this girl, she mines beauty from her days. She sees how glory rains down like manna and, faithfully, she gathers and eats and it is good.

A couple of months ago, I linked arms with her for the first time in Nebraska. That time, we both crossed cornfields and there was a great unknowing that preceded our meeting. Would the person behind the words be real? Would that first embrace reveal the truth of who I was and rather than pixie dust, would I leave ash in my wake?

But her azure eyes found me across a crowded room that day and, in an instant, fear evaporated and remnants of those colored word beads split like prisms and danced between us. And there was only joy.

So when this girl offered to drive across more cornfields and rivers in order to see me, I was humbled and joyful and radiant. And I cleared the calendar.

This time, we would bring more than just ourselves. We packed our families (husbands and children) into cars and vans and food into bags and met at tables under trees, hoping, once again, that who we really were would not disenchant.

I am a silly, silly girl.

For when that long white van pulled up and those eyes found me, once again, and children began to spill out like pearls flung wild, I could only smile.

And know.

For we--she and I--we are among those lovers and dreamers who turn our insides right out and invite the world to wrap themselves in the threads that are undone as a result. There aren't many places left for us to hide.

And as the portrait I had studied for so long was drawn fuller and deeper through the paint splatters of children and spouse, I felt a fullness rising.

There were smiles and hugs and handshakes. There were quiet looks exchanged and boisterous laughs and giggles. There were bare feet and sweaty hands and games of tag and sips of cool water in sought after shade. And there were questions to draw each other out and in and deeper. It's not easy to forge trust in one afternoon.

But you can begin to carve out space.

And then the two of us were given three hours to do just that.

Carve. Whittle. Sculpt. Inscribe.

We found a coffee shop on the corner, where two streets converge, and began our settling in. And that, really, is what we have been doing all along. Taking up residence in each others' hearts, positioning ourselves to look long and hard and with love.

Words are powerful like that.

I believe that is what emerged so clearly that afternoon. The two of us and our written words? They have lit lamps into one another's heart spaces and the long shadows and bright flickers have wrought a path of love unfolding.

So as I drank my cardamon and honey laced coffee and she sipped her iced latte, our spoken words gave birth to harbors.

It's hard to walk away from moments such as these, when you are known and heard and loved anyway. When someone you study and admire speaks life into the deep places and throws a rope to your desperate places...you want to linger in those truth doused sanctuaries and bathe in the glory of how you see yourself in that new light. You want your life to sing like that. Always.

But suns must set on every day and children need cool sheets upon which to lay their sweaty heads and all of us need time to let the dust of our days settle down deep.

So, that girl and I? We hugged long and hard and I fought back tears of joy and surrender. But, despite the parting, there was this:

I will carry her colored glass beads that have been blessed by real live kisses with me always. For that girl?

She mines beauty from her days. She sees how glory rains down like manna and, faithfully, she gathers and eats and it is good.

To Reclaim Is To Create

"Reclaim: From the Middle English, to call back..."

Some days I feel like old barn wood.

Solid, yet slightly bowed in the middle …

Curved in places that were once straight and narrow …

Brown locks fading to gray.

It’s heavy enough to truly recognize that I’m growing older but the image of a barn slanting westward on the roadside feels weightier. It reminds me that I am mortal.

So when I found out at forty that I was pregnant for the third time, that weathered tilt that lurks in my lower back sighed ever so slightly. This body-house of mine felt every bit its age.

And just as I might question the wisdom of, once again, using a vintage barn that has stood empty for years, I leaned into the Holy Spirit, whispering questions and what-ifs by the handful.

“Is this a good idea?” I murmured, more than once.

The rest of this story continues over at SheLoves Magazine. Follow me there?

Emerge

My arms circled round your neck

this morning 

like a garland of hope

and although I thought it better

to refrain from

pomp and circumstance

I secretly imagined that I was

knighting you with

strength and fortitude

and

ringing you with

joy and hope 

Because I know

sweet one

that you are riding into 

both

battle

and

revelry

in the days ahead

Even on good days

there is a struggle within

That inner conflict

between

who you want to be

and

who you are

and all of it

swirling round like a storm

of 

angst

But you were made for glory

you

who are so meek in heart

Here and there

I get glimpses of

the ways that

fire has been forged

in your bones

deep and hidden

It emerges

when it must

and 

your face shines radiant

from the effort

That is the image

I will carry with me

these long days

when you are apart from me

I will cross my heart

and hope

with the saints

that you will hear the song

placed inside you

when you were but a whisper

to me

The song that was sung over you

by the One

that imagined you into being

and knows you by heart

Photo credit: Swirl Abstraction by Matt on Flickr

Night Work

photo courtesy of liz west on flickr

There is that cool breeze that blows atop the blankets
so unusual for this time of year
and we keep wide the windows at night
grateful for the way it pushes away
the heavy scent of labored sleep

But the truth is
you are not sleeping much
and although I can't help myself
the sleeping, that is
I am aware that your
dark hours have cast you as a sentinel
and it makes my dreams
all the more muddled and tangled

For the moon hours
they are for renewal
and the night fairies
they are known for their gifts
of sand and ebony glitter
all of which
remind us that work
is being done in our stead

how I long for you
to lay down your hammer and anvil
if just for a night
so that you could be carried
to the other side
and so
you could wake
groggy and gritty

and yesterday
it could be but a vague memory
having been carried off
by the fay folk
and now hidden
in the mist

Turning Pages

I haven't made much time for writing lately.

It's a new reality that I am simultaneously hating and embracing. Hating, because I am always thinking, musing, lining up words and ideas, wanting desperately to pen them down, keep them fast and that is just not happening. But I am also embracing this new way because I am really here, in this moment and that last one and that other one last week where I gazed upon orange colored skies wrapped in a wide open rainbow. Yeah, that one.

But I had to stop today and remember a few things. Because some things you just don't ever want to forget.

I am growing a life inside of me for the third time but the hugeness of that still catches me by surprise some days. Such as the tiredness that encroaches upon every square inch of skin and bone and muscle and demands that I stop.right.now and rest. And so I do. I stop and stretch out upon my bed and I let myself sink into cushion and blanket and holy rest. And that baby hidden deep? He tickles me from the inside, thanking me for that little bit of extra room that lying on my side provides him. It is then that I realize that I am so very human and what is happening inside of me is so very God and I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Then there are the moments when I realize that conversations with my two boys have started to include subjects and topics that stretch beyond Legos and Iron Man and Hank the Cowdog. They are asking bigger questions now, questions about relationships and current events and sex. And every time we close out those talks, its as if I'm turning pages of their childhood at a faster pace and I can see how the paper is curling and yellowing, as if we are coming dangerously close to the end of a chapter.

Surprisingly, I realize that I am okay with that. I'm excited for new chapters and story lines and plot twists.

But then the aforementioned tiredness will, again, wash over me and I am reminded of the return to babyhood that is imminent. And I sigh. Will I remember how to do all of this? When I slow to the pace that mothering an infant requires, will I end up sputtering to a tragic end, like my old Nissan? How will I manage to stay connected to the boys that are growing taller by the day and reaching further into the future than I can see when I am totally consumed with free flowing breastmilk and piles of laundry? What does bridging that huge gap even look like?

And then there will be a moment. The ones I have by the handful now.

Yesterday, as I sat in my chair, the baby deep within was alive and kicking and I called Aidan over to place his hand on my belly. I've tried this before but we always managed to miss the opportunity. But we tried again.

And there was a kick. I quickly looked at Aidan and he jumped in place and hollered that "HE HAD FELT IT!" and his smile--his smile that would soften the hardest heart--it shone glory and his eyes danced with pure joy. And in that moment, we were all connected and alive and in love.

It was then that I realized that there is no gap too wide that love can't bridge and that, sometimes, what brings the world to its softest place, the place where heart fires are kindled and hope is born, most often, is a baby.

Linking today with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Tilting towards joy

It came
while sitting at the table, writing
that shudder
cloaked in folds of warmth
and
pulsing light

a triumphant
twirl
that claimed
my body
for
life

And I felt you

Until then
I certainly knew
of
you

For I had been
carving out
space
in my deepest places
where your
heart
might find its rhythm
and
your limbs could make
silent ripples

But
it was in that moment
that the universe tilted
towards joy
and I smiled
knowingly

And now
there is this
swelling
rising
fantastic
growing
And you are always
before me
now

My walk is a bit slant
these days
proof that the angels
touched my hip
and I am
overcoming

And my face splits
with grace light
as I create
with God

Yes
I know you
little one
You are mine


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Photo credit: swirl by Ben Salter on flickr

Bolts of glory

It is May 3 but I have to study the calendar page, again and again, to believe it true.

There was so much hope swelling just a few days ago as the temperatures rose to meet the clear sky and the trees clapped their leaves right open. I left the kitchen door open, welcoming in that breeze laden with earth and spirea, believing that a corner had been turned.

And then, everything changed. Again.

And I realize that this dependence on happenings outside of my inner spaces to make me happy is a hollow endeavor.

I see it in my oldest, too. The way his sweet disposition darkens so quickly when even the slightest cloud passes over. And how, even after the wind turns direction, he keeps looking for the shadow, as if he knows himself best in dimmed light.

The thing is, I'm bumbling along right there beside him.

I want all the goodness and light, the warmth and the rising, the new and the fresh. I'm so tired of the gray and clouded, the cold and the sinking, the old and the stale.

But this is our life. The gray and the blue woven in tight with the yellow and the orange, in and out, over and under.

Each day is cut from holy cloth, bolts of glory by the yard. And although I've never fashioned myself a seamstress, I know that patterns and textures can change when the light is brought in closer.

So that is what I am choosing today. To bring the light in closer.

I'm lighting candles and watching the golden flicker dance upon dewy cheeks.

I'm switching on lamps and hunkering down on the couch to read the pages filled with story.

I'm looking deep into eyes, looking for that holy spark, that kindling that ignites when noticed and held close.

And I'm laughing at the calendar, for it doesn't know what I know.

That today is a gift beyond measure and I am but a servant of splendor.

Linking with Emily for Imperfect Prose

{Still Saturday}

There are times

when the strings

are

invisible

And what I feel

is

ensnared

But

the

Truth?

Is that

I am

swinging

in an

act of

suspended

trust

And

just now

the Sun is peeking

round the clouds

And I explode

into

slivers

of 

light

Brave Words: I Believe

The years, they begin to stretch a little thinner with each turn of the calendar. There is always a slight pause at the realization, an imperceptible shake of the head, a quick tightening along the jaw bone.

And then the resignation and the practiced patience. The deep breath and the tight smile. Perhaps it is habit or even a feigned fortitude. Whatever it is, it pushes forward.

It must.

But this year’s turning almost undid me. It swelled loud and frightening and red and there was a hemorrhaging of questions and unknowns. There was fear. The cinch of my belt was acute and there was an ache deep within my belly.

And I found myself asking, no, begging, the question:

On how thin a line can one continue to balance?

But hidden within the possible answer was where my biggest fear actually lurked.

What if the answer was hidden in the hard truth of

giving up

and

giving over

and

giving into?

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I'm sharing my story of unbelief over at Kelli Woodford's place today. Kelli has been hosting a series on Brave Words and here are her words on this series:

"Writers see more clearly when they can cover an experience with words. Not to hide from it, but so that what is truest and perhaps most important about the experience is made manifest to eyes blind in all other directions.  This is my reason for writing this series. 
In it I hope to allow the courage God places in our hearts access to our tongue. That in looking at the many syllables of Truth, and how they differ for each of us, we can also learn to speak them bold when surrounded by the cacophonic glare of lies.  That we can recognize how God is speaking His courage through us more often than we know.  Oh, so much more often than we know."

pieces of me

The ordinary glow of common dust in ancient sunlight

stops me short

this morning

The flecks that have fallen

from the daily

walking scratching cutting caressing

shaking still shouting silence 

Caught for a moment

in light that has been

falling for

ever

And in the seeing

I begin the embrace

the giving up

of all the days

the fears

the utter unknown

the that which is coming

and the what that has gone before

the Holy Ghost fire

and the blackened embers

all of it

shed across surface and air and time

pieces of me

settling

drifting

floating

awash in the morning air

hung and revolving through stillness and quiet knowing

the Ancient of Days

mixing with the leftovers of my own days

falling like manna

across and over and in

my

today

Glory