Made of Clay

I become distracted, overfilling myself with the wrong foods, carrying the wrong burdens, instead of simply taking His yoke. Till I am broken once again.

I become impatient. Desecrating sacred moments with dissatisfaction. Writhing anxiously with tasks incomplete. Aching. Deep. Emptiness. And somehow I forget all about the beauty that swells around me pleading me to simply stop still and notice. The decor of four sweet girls feels like clutter and background noise to the foreground of "me" and "mine". Sudden territorial instincts bare their teeth. I thought these nets had fallen away since I'd caught that big fish. I wake up wishing it was time to go to bed, disinterested in the day. Grasping for "me" moments in the thin broth I've made for us all to swallow. Wallow in like an unmade bed. And I do swallow the stinging tears that fall down my cheeks as I crawl to my feet asking the same monotonous questions. Why is this pattern of feeling like I'm failing grace... His Love for me, ever repeating itself through the days like a faulty roll of film? There are the beginnings when I rise from a bed of hot tears and shame. And the middle parts, soft and full as a cool pillow. Where I lay my head silently filling myself with His forgiveness. Sitting there in the half light listening, waiting. My empty hands open, my tears cried out, my heart somehow healed in the baptism of saline. My body feeling like debris. Me the publican, unable to even lift my eyes heavenward.

Oh how the earth tugs. How it's gravity pulls me down. Yes, something deep within me remembers deep that I'm made of nothing but dust and water. Substance of the fields that grow both wheat and weeds. Yet the weeds take no careful hand to help them grow, the wheat, a little more so. I am clay. Fragmented from being hardened, moistened, shaped and broken over and over again. Has the Potter been trying to fashion me into a golden chalice for so long ?.... Still here I am a breaking, leaking, earthen pot. Since from the muddy ground I emerge once again. Dust myself down, allow the stains to evaporate into His light once more. How hard it is for a hurting heart to let go of the mess. To let Him just carry the burden, wash my feet, Heal my heart. And every time I am sure my vision is secure. Till once again I falter and fall. My King, you fell three times, yet I haven't stopped falling since we met. Both in love with you and over myself. I'm such an obstacle aren't I. It's not you. It's me. I quietly pray soft as a whisper, that somehow through it all, you are working in me still. Through these falterings, falls, tears, embraces, faltering falls again. Maybe that is what Hope is for.

 

Hope that the brokenness in me can be worked into good once I turn my face toward You again God. Doesn't good solid clay need a little tempering sand and grit to keep it strong? It's what I've heard. Maybe my "temper" will be the humility I've needed for the alchemy to happen. And one day this grit, dust, ashes, water of a soul will become gold in Your Hands.

  "To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified."

  Part of Imperfect Prose Thursday over at In the Hush of the Moon

when only the eternal...

What of this life will count the day only eternity remains what of the time Ive had the things Ive built, created, made, the fabric of each day displayed Undone and bare as a winter branch beneath transparent touch of truth, A blossom grows silently at the end of a branch, maybe, On that day, I may find the end of myself there too Doodle poem prompt ( in 60 secs or less) courtesy of LL) inspired by this

Begin at Once...

"Begin at once; before you venture away from this quiet moment, ask your King to take you wholly into His service, and place all the hours of this day quite simply at His disposal, and ask Him to make and keep you ready to do just exactly what He appoints. Never mind about tomorrow; one day at a time is enough. Try it today, and see if it is not a day of strange, almost curious peace, so sweet that you will be only too thankful when tomorrow comes to ask Him to take it also."

-- Francis Ridley Havergal * * *

"Let love be your highest goal..." 1 Corinthians 14:1 Beautiful words found here from here today....

"Song of the Silent Snow" {Reposted}

A gleaming, snow blanket wraps around the streets as far as the eye can see. Shivering through web like trees, torn, frayed thin. Spun to emptiness.
Weeping beneath the last leaves. Draping a loose knit shawl across the shoulder of the hill. Filling deep the valley.

It absorbs all sound and silence lingers far and wide.

We've been starting school late every day for a while now. Loose ends left untied. Seemingly unravelling.
I have fought tired to repair and patch the fabric of these "lost hours" into clean cut, utilitarian aprons till today.

This morning refused to stir the silence and shatter it's precious, fragility.
My eyes blinked at the stark lace work frosted upon the windowpane.

The unusual view prompted a new perspective.

I would preserve the space it needed to sing it's new, quiet song within the usually crowded chambers of my own heart.
The chambers that fill so easily with the clattering sound of a hundred voices calling me in all directions. A high ceiling room with perfect acoustics for the voice of the world to resound loud.
Drilling and dashing against my soul like hail. Raging daily soliloquy. Underlining points, numbers and strategies like a squeaky marker across an office white board...

Fit in, conform, be diligent in recognisable ways, create commercial products, work toward tangible results, make sure your children will be marketable, learn valued subjects, hoard, cram, revise, memorise, repeat.

Yet I am walking two tight ropes at the same time. One high, they other low. And I am losing my footing on both.

Maybe, sometimes it is good to fall.
I'm learning this as I dust the white flakes from my brow.

I fall hard on days like today.

Days when I fall from my expectations.
The criteria and check lists I've used as security blankets tighter than straight jackets. And I fall blue and icy, my own breath barely escaping from my mouth.

And I realise the ties must come undone.

I must come undone.

The days when the straight roman road of what seems sensible, leaves me weak and I drift down some small lonesome path in the brush. And I fall under the cover of thorns and wildflowers.

Today the snow falls silent around me. And I am buried. My home has become an igloo.
The murmurs of the world half a hemisphere away.

Today I let myself drift into the white blank canvas of the snow's silent wisdom.
I close off the world and open my heart to Him alone.
And His list is so different, so radically different. A yoke that is easy, a burden that is light.
He whispers soft as snow fleece caught upon the breeze.


" Just sit here with me a while. Don't rush away.
Is there any task more important than this? This listening?
Have you been following my lead? Really?
Are you doing only the things needful, the things that will matter eternally?
Do you really trust me to take your children and you along the paths I dug out and laid in truth, just for their feet? Do you really trust me to take you down the paths that I carved for you long before you were born. Way back through the dendrites of time?
You are trying to follow two paths, and your soul is falling through the divide between them.
Simply come toward me. Lean into my words. Draw close."

But Lord, we have no back up plan, financial or otherwise. I never followed the conventional route and I suffered for it in ways I wish to preserve my children from. I am afraid sometimes.
I can't catch every ball.

The still, silent snow drifts deep. I am wading out bare foot.

"Don't you see. You don't have to.
Drop them, drop every one that isn't given by my hand."

How do I know which ones are given by your hand?

"Have enough faith to stop the merry - go - round.
Sit still, listen. Embrace your journey.
It won't look like most journeys.
Most journeys are a grasping outward. A reaching, a striving, a gaining of ground.
Your journey will be a letting go of all that hinders, all that is not necessary.
Your journey will not be about striving but resting, in me.
Your journey will not be about making but meaning.
It will seem invisible. Your footsteps light, white.
Unnoticeable, day after day.
Evaporating in the morning, like prints carved in snow.
But they will leave an indelible mark within.
And they will form a path.
And it will guide your children through.
From Winter to Spring.
From Death to Life.
From your cradle to my manger."
Wasn't the manger, an animal trough filled with hay?
Was Mary fearful too, that night in the cold, damp cave, the sounds of a strange land dashing against the curved silence of her heart?

Maybe she wasn't listening to the hundred different voices. Maybe she sought out only one to hear and follow.


"My soul magnifies the Lord,
And my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
For He has regarded the low estate of His handmaiden,
For behold, henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name. And His mercy is on those who fear Him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm:
He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree. He has filled the hungry with good things; "


Maybe the winter trees have wisdom in their emptiness.
Maybe I should strive only to stay hungry.
Silent as snow.
So only He can be heard.
Magnified
Birthed.

What lasts?

"Childhood Faith"
Charlotte Herczfeld

"You may build great cathedrals large or small, you can build skyscrapers grand and tall, but only what you do for Christ will last…. You may seek earthly power and fame, the world might be impressed by your great name, soon the glories of this life will all be past, but only what you do for Christ will last. Remember only what You do for Christ will last. Only what you do for Him will be counted at the end; only what you do for Christ will last."

Quoted from this article, linked from here.

To Seek His Face Alone. A Final Post.

I write this post because I have felt it well up from the depths of my heart for a long time now.

Mulling it over... Along with the words of dear wise souls.

I also want to say before I begin that this is the way I feel that God is leading me personally, through the scripture and counsel He has given me. I can't in any way speak for another.
I am also, not, in any way saying that personal blogs are wrong :)
All I'm saying is that, as with everything, there is potential for profound goodness and profound evil in equal measure. The possibilities within the Internet create a wide path of endless choice and voice.
It needs great strength of character and continual soaking in His Life to navigate the waters of the world wide web without getting ship wrecked on some distant shore. Far from the land your compass was originally set for.

The Internet is so vast, so expansive. It has great capacity for both good and evil. It is true that we need to bring the light of Christ's Love into a dark world. But as frail humans, the darkness can all too often extinguish the light within us we try to carry.
It suffocates the light with noise, images, controversy, ambition, pride, ideas, ideologies...Idols.
Until we can find ourselves so dowsed by darkness we are left groping around it for a guiding light ourselves.

Instead of looking to our own intuition we look to planners, methods, manuals, e-courses and blog posts.
Instead of turning to God in our confusion, poverty and need we type google into our browser.

And then we wonder why are hands are too full, our hearts numbed, and our minds often scattered and overwhelmed.

It is information overload for our souls.

And where is the whisper?

The whisper of God is lost in the endless words, the avalanche of ideas, the continuous inspirations of better homes, better families. We forget that God has a unique and beautiful plan for each of our lives. We are not called to imitate each other. We are only called to imitate Him.
Follow after Him.
And it is all too easy to flick through beautiful images. So elusive we can only wrap their outer shell around the curve a camera's lens. Leaving behind nothing but a thin vapour that can never be truly or deeply inhaled into our hearts.

Photo shopped photographs, intimidating and imitating a reality that can only ever come short of the gloss. And we all fall short. Ending up breathless and panting for the taste of real food. Not the quickly grabbed fast food gulped down without savour. But the slow, silent descent of Manna. "Just enough" for each day.

In the transaction we trade the whisper for the white noise.

"Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper."

But before the whisper of His voice can be heard. We must go through the wind, the earthquake and the fire that burns off all the dross.

Evil always tries to stand in front of God. Act as a barrier.
Sometimes it looks like glass, seemingly benign and transparent yet truly as opaque as granite.
Similar to the identities and images we recreate upon a screen perhaps?

And the thing is it's easy to notice when something is obviously ugly. We can look at it and immediately identify it as unpleasant. But the enemy is known as the father of lies and he knows that it is easy to intoxicate with beauty and images. Mirages of truth.
"When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it." Genesis 3:6
And we try to eat of the images, fill ourselves with them. Gain knowledge, nourishment even. Make reproductions of them out of our own lives.
Yes, beauty can decieve.

Jesus's kingdom was an upside down kingdom. The prophet Isaiah says "He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him."
Jesus's kingdom was all about the inside of the cup, not the outside.

In the Kingdom of God the broken are saved but the proud and self satisfied are sent away.
"He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has put down the mighty from their thrones,
and exalted those of low degree.
He has filled the hungry with good things;
and the rich He has sent empty away."

"Sent the rich away empty."

And now I see why the more I gather unto myself... And save and upload and download, and link-click, the emptier the inner stores feel.

And I remember the man who did what many of us would. Thinking we were simply being sensible in securing our future.
The one who harvested more than enough wheat that he built himself barns for the surplus so that he could live on it in time to come.
Yet that very night God came to him saying.. " This night I demand from you your soul"
Not wheat sheaves, not proof of production, not barns full of the fruits of your labour.... God demands the soul.

And isn't information wealth? Aren't we rolling in information dollars? And isn't it all too easy to swallow a glut of it that leaves you overfull, nauseous and leaden?
The Internet has the power to provoke so many sins... Gluttony. Envy, Pride, Lust, Greed.
Yes, it also has the opportunity to promote great virture. But only in small measure compared to that of basking in His Word, par-taking of the sacraments and journeying with the stories of the saints.

Most of the world doesn't own a computer. Jesus certainly never did.
He didn't even write a single word down in dust. He was The Word. He lived His truth. And He invited us to selflessly, fearlessly, completely and undividedly live ours too.

The smallest seed was the seed Jesus used to describe the kingdom of heaven.
His kingdom is an upside down one you see. You have to be as small and as simple a little child to enter in to it.
I pray to learn childlikeness once again. To be smaller, quieter, simpler.

The saints and desert fathers lived obscure, unknown lives.
Yet their love for God alone is a testimony to the words of Jesus's own prayer. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." By decreasing in themselves He could increase in them. And in so doing His presence in the physical world was increased.
They became His hands, His feet. The hands that give up all else, to drive the plough through the furrows.
Remaining empty of themselves. To themselves being nothing so they can ever more easily carry the cross.
It is hard enough to carry a cross. Let alone if your hands are already overflowing with lists, supplies, products and endless vain works.
And we browse. An afternoon away.

And I can't even look at sites like this anymore because they remind me of how far I am from Him and His call as my hands sit curled around a mouse, my eyes fixed upon a screen instead of His face.

There are some who have specific call. Like Katie, and what they bring is truth and light. Their message is not noise. It is His Gospel.... Being lived. There are so many beautiful, inspiring souls along the way, who Live His Word. And their writing flows abundant thereof. Souls who bathe in His living, quiet streams and then irrigate our parched land with their stories.
And we breathe deep His fragrance in their words and art.
I think He is now simply asking me to also live a little more and talk a little less. Listen to Him a little more.

I saw a couple yesterday on TV. The man was English, the woman Thai. They were married and so obviously devoted and in love though they could barely communicate or speak each others languages. "I can see his heart" the woman said of her husband. "And he is a good, kind man."
Talking can sometimes be the worst of communicators. It replaces our intuiting anothers soul, their essence, their dignity. We simply hear the words and forget the spirit. Monks have been wise to this for years. Many of them keep a rule of silence and abstain from idle chatter.
"My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry"
James 1:19

But the internet is changing beyond recognition many ways in which we encounter the world and relate to it.
The vocation of artists (in the broad sense of that word) is in particulalr being redefined.

Poets, artists, writers, crafters are all being transformed beyond anything we have ever known through the World Wide Web.
Once an artist or poet grew from the soil in which they were planted, in silence and experience and soul and heart. Now the over saturation of product has devalued the art of true artists. And compromising your soul to self promote and become noticed is a constant temptation. I know because I've been there as poet, artist too.
Now the the endless tweeting, networking, blogging, face booking are claiming the sacred spaces where inspiration finds it's food. And they are planting tares.
Life. Commercialised. Branded. Patented. For Sale. Disposable.

Communities are fragmenting, the bonds between people breaking down. The old widow and lonely single mother is forgotten for face book. Our neighbours company exchanged for a virtual alternative.

God has been making this whole thing feel like a grey area on and off for some time.

Now the white is dividing from the black and my path has become more defined.
I sincerely believe He wants me to stop writing online. He also wants me to use the Internet very sparingly always ALWAYS coming to Him first for my soul food.

I have felt the prophet Habakkuk speaks alot about situations in our modern world and this passage in particular of Habakkuk speaks to me strongly right now...

"What profit is the graven image when its maker has formed it? It is only a molten image and a teacher of lies. For the maker trusts in his own creations [as his gods] when he makes dumb idols.

¹⁹Woe to him who says to the wooden image, Awake! and to the dumb stone, Arise, teach! [Yet, it cannot, for] behold, it is laid over with gold and silver and there is no breath at all inside it!

²⁰But the Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth hush and keep silence before Him."

I've been confused in the past, wondering if it is the enemy trying to discourage me. I love to write and as a natural introvert I have found a medium of expressing feelings through the written word that would otherwise remain silently within. But God doesn't need me to write nonsense for His Glory to be made known. His light shines best through those who strive to be obedient to Him.
All other light is vanity and illusion. Remember lucifer is an angel of light. But his light is a false light.
I pray that I will live a life striving to fast, pray, listen and then obey. Tending to my garden of grace daily.

"Who may ascend the hill of the LORD ? Who may stand in his holy place?

He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
who does not lift up his soul to an idol
or swear by what is false.

He will receive blessing from the LORD
and vindication from God his Savior.

Such is the generation of those who seek him,
who seek your face, O God of Jacob.

Selah"

Psalm 24.

Love, Blessings, Light and Peace to all my friends that have given me such warmth and friendship here. you mean so very, very much to me.

If you would like to correspond with me simply e-mail me at the address on my sidebar. ->

God Bless.

xx

Before I go I'll leave you with two of my very favourite parts of the Bible...

The first is the Beatitudes. They tell me so much about the nature of our God.

He is there with you, covering you, loving you, embracing you. You who are poor, lonely, abandoned, forsaken, peace loving, merciful, persecuted, hungering for God's goodness in this fallen world... He is Emmanuelle. God with us.

Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, ²and he began to teach them saying:

³"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
⁴Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
⁵Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
⁶Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
⁷Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
⁸Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
⁹Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called sons of God.
¹⁰Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

¹¹"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. ¹²Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

And the second one is from my sidebar. I have tried to practice this and often failed. I pray that I may always remember that Love indeed comes before all else.

For all else is worthless without it.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. ²If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. ³If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

⁴Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ⁵It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. ⁶Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. ⁷It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

⁸Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. ⁹For we know in part and we prophesy in part, ¹⁰but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. ¹¹When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. ¹²Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

¹³And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13.

To be Happy

Me watching Television for the first time in months, captivated. Bodies swinging, music thudding, heartbeats rising like heat wave. She said they danced and got drunk to express their joy. To be happy. The Amish girl in the long blue drape of dress, bobby pinned, white scarf hiding long golden hair was silent a moment. Staring somewhere afar her words came slowly, quietly, assuredly... "When I want to be happy I pray to God." She said... When I want to express my joy I praise God.... And I wonder... In which flower do I find my nectar? My joy. Sometimes there seem so many to choose from. Brightly coloured, fragrant, sweet. "You have made known to me the paths of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.' Acts 2:28 In His presence my joy is awakened and I can praise too. 

The thankfulness, dew, upon parched lips... a prayer... Till I am quenched and thirsty no more. * * * A daughter who is a friend. Quiet pre-dawn mornings spent with candlelight, tea and His words. Children that never fail to help me take off the layers of my heart. The ache that draws me closer to His feet. Being able to help my parents when the need me. The joy of walking in Him regardless of what is going on around me. Apples stewing on the stove. Lavender biscuits baked by Emmy for breakfast. Some wonderful thrift finds over the weekend. Things prayed for and found when needed. Making crafts with my girls.... a great joy. The emerald green grass sparkling in sunlight after the rain.

Let us Listen...

"Let us listen for the Lord’s voice, so that we can reach his place of rest."


~ from morning prayers

Becoming Mulchy

"I've become more mulchy" I exclaimed to my husband this morning over my chai.
Seems an odd word to come to mind "mulchy. But, it kind of fits somehow.

The other day I took my girls to the Saturday market in town.
Matilda spied another little girl about her age and they spontaneously started playing hide and seek around the stalls.
Her mother smiled at me. "Look, how they can just be best friends without even knowing each others names"!
The mum ( about twenty five, trendy, bleached hair) and I chatted for a while laughing over the eccentricities of children... and how to get our girls to sit down for five minutes so we can pull a brush through their hair before they run off. She said she used to use roly poly olie as a bribe now she just puts it on first:)

And as I went on my way I noticed something reflecting in the glass window of the shop front ahead of me.
I saw that I was smiling as I walked.
It caught me off guard. My heart panged.

I've become "mulchy". Like the leaves. As I get older, I feel my inner eccentric old lady make herself at home more and more in my beingness. I smile as I walk, I talk freely, I am myself and I am at home. I think less and less of what I wear and I don't cross examine my thoughts before I speak. "Will I sound silly, does it come off as strange, what will this lead to."

I used to worry about the children's behaviour too. They are really good girls anyway but I think it was instilled in me, the judgements of others since being pregnant with my first daughter at 18.
I had pink hair at the time which didn't help with the responses toward me. People made up their minds before even knowing my name, and their ideas certainly didn't include wanting to be friends.

Strangers would tell me off in the street for small things like carrying my baby with only socks and no shoes on a summer day.
I felt worthless, something to be picked over. Little, by little, piece by piece, torn from my value. The truth of me was a shame. I listened. I believed it.

I became protective over my perceived abilities as a mother. I closed off more and more. Retreated behind a painted shell of conformity. And for quite a long while, it even felt more comfortable. A suitable arrangement. I wouldn't ever get hurt, cause I would never open up, give myself away to intimacy, let go and fall into the mulch of the world, beauty, mess, joy, hurt and all.

Now if the girls fuss a little I think mmmmm, maybe they're giving that young mum over their with three boisterous little ones and an armful of shopping a bit of relief, like she's not the only one that has a bad day. I'm very protective about young mothers that I see. And I never, ever judge by appearances, I know the harm that can do.
The coldness of people is brought out into relief when you dress or look differently. I have lived on both sides.

So the mulch part?

I'm not trembling, lonely
upon the branch anymore, neither tender and green
nor brittle and faded.
I've fallen.
I'm on the ground, in the mulch, ready to be open and brave to what comes. Becoming mulch, the earth, hoping, just that I might, in time to come, give a little back to the tree that taught me how to let go and just be.

When your wound reveals your hidden life.

I'm trying to hide my wounds. Been trying.
Truth doesn't always look pretty. Beauty, real beauty comes at a cost.

The real kind of beautiful shatters all images.
It can't be seen on the outside of life, the pleasant, painted exteriors. This kind of beautiful can only be touched by the heart, the upper chamber, the secret place.

The path is narrow isn't it? That wasn't just a saying.

So narrow, at times, I think I might have to fold myself into nothing just to walk it. And steep.
The air is so thin, didn't really imagine that.

In my head were pictures of transfiguration's, lush greenness, hope budding wild flowers along the way.
...Scenes from the book of "Beautiful".

The real way is all darkness to the eyes, it's only beautiful to the soul.

Seems I was rescued from the cross, only to be given the choice to take it up again.

But this time for Love not the consequences of pain and fear.

And I want to, in His embrace I want to. But then the burden comes and I shrink away.

I forget that He will bring the breath, and the strength and the journey. All He asks is I bring myself, real, true, broken, wounded as I am.

He recognises my beauty through my wounds.

But when I feel so far away from refreshment, and the clarity of clean, clear, reviving air that I start to lose consciousness of what really matters, where my life really comes from. I become muddled and distracted.

I let too many thoughts crowd Him out. And a thousand voices mingle like debris around me like strangers at a party and I feel just as lonely. I wonder, am I alive still beneath it?
Has he held onto me even when I let my hand slip away?
Busy with my own "My chasing's after the wind".

I have motives I don't want others to see.
I want the honey and the sweetness, but without the sting of the bee.

I want God's breath to live inside of me but I don't want the brokenness that let's it in.
Making me touch the sharp shards, the edges of my nothingness, my emptiness, the truth of me, when I'm left to my own devices.

I gaze at the false pictures of me that flatter my walls. There are ones that look like a good imitation of everything I want to be. Holy, simple, true, pure in heart, peaceful, childlike, gentle...
Humble.
All the while knowing I'm gazing in the wrong direction. I should be looking for Him.
As the lover in Song of Songs, ran barefoot through the streets after her beloved...

I plaster, paint and build. Yet love causes me to tear down, peel back, expose the naked structure, the wound of my heart.

I know that those pieces, those images of goodness that decorate the walls of my house are like fragments of truth buried deep in my soul. And they are the shore I keep trying to sail toward in my small boat, on a tide that has been turned against it by the gravity of "me".
They are fragile images of my true life "hidden" with Him. And sometimes they haunt, ache, tremble, weep.
Like memories that reflect from the water's surface of what was once and could yet be.

But without His grace all I'm left with is the truth of me. Empty images of beauty that cover the cracks like cheap make up.
The harshness of my voice rasping from the parched land within.
The stone that is my heart, beating without love, just ambition and pride.
The dress I wear to give others an impression of who I am or (who I want to be).
Without really being.
The stuff I think I need to become closer, closer to completion? Like a never ending project that only demands deadlines (and a documented proof of existence).

So this becoming? What is that?

"The beginning of Me is the end of you. You can't make or build this image. Dig down deep, giving yourself away to love. piece
by piece. Till.
All that's left, is Me."

And I gaze at the face of Love, and the heart exposed. Wounded weeping. Salt tears, of baptism.

The desert hermits found God, carrying nothing in their hands but wounds.
Their longing was the loudest call. Louder even than their lives.
Their longing gave all away to purchase a field with a treasure. And the treasure.
Was it their own heart?
Alive, beating, real, deep, down,
down in the dark earth.
A heart resurrected by His Blood. His life. His breath.

Their wounds raised, not hidden and festering, but open wide to the healing Breath.

And they looked like fools didn't they?
Wearing their garlands of thorns.
Still how they must of gleamed like crowns in the sunlight.

Thankful for Grace

Slowly, quietly I come. Along this path again. my feet tread, my heart trembles. Like a bird inside my chest. The weeds can look like flowers too you know? Pretty, useful, important. Stuff. Entangles, distracts, turns the soil of my heart to parched clay. I stumble over briers I had not even noticed, I fall and feel, the barren ground of my soul. I need to stop. Turn. Gaze. And let the silence wash over me like a wave of clear, cool, water. These things, this stuff, worthless as dead idols. And I sacrifice to them time and time again, thinking that it's important to pay attention. Plan, organise, structure. Control. And the vine I planted is dying, the fruit is drying on the branch. And all the while I'm watering the weeds and leaving my garden to ruin. But the fragrance, the fragrance of the blossoms he left me all those years ago, Somehow still lingers on the breeze. Reminding me, waking me bleary eyed and sober. So I stand to walk again, along the waters beside the green, green pastures. A little gentler, a little smaller, a little softer, thankful. Always. Thankful for grace. "But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her." "Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain." Photo by Emmy

..."and you will find rest for your souls"...

"learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble of heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light”

Jesus says there is a rest that comes with carrying the burden He gives.
Maybe this peace will not be for the body, neither the heart or the mind perhaps, but for the soul Jesus says here the soul will find it's rest. Embracing His burden, His yoke.

Maybe Jesus is saying that true peace can only be found when all is given for the soul, all is carried for the soul.
A deep peace for simply trying to do what God wills. Both simple and hard.

This peace comes along with the humble and gentle spirit which Jesus asks us to learn from Him.

These words humble and gentle rise and fall upon my heart. And I feel the sorrow of their absence well within. How I pray for them. How very far I am from them. I see patient, loving, generous, brave long suffering souls all around. While truly, I am like little fragments of mediocrity glued together by pride lol :)

A humble heart gives no resistance. A humble heart will not strive against humiliations but will embrace them.
And gentleness, is soft, crushed perhaps, broken? Probably. An empty state that cannot take or assert anymore, only give and accept.

A gentle heart must feel God's Love for hearts and their absolute need for His. Maybe only in carrying some of the burden of the broken is there relief, for the gentle soul.

And a humble spirit will stand aside while trusting simply in the stillness for itself. Knowing somehow, someway, He will come and lead her on with nothing of itself to give Him but it's willingness to be lead.

And there will not be that nagging fear of world's demands or standards or ideals. A humble and gentle spirit will be quenched by His will alone.

And there will be the rest.

There in the giving of all, to the carrying of Love's burden....

Ambition, ideals, idols, wants, desires, curiosities, failings, proofs, doubts...

There He will be with open arms giving,

The Peace Only He May Give.

Which is the One spiritual habit that has changed your journey ? (Holy Experience) Walk with Him Wednesday...

Ann asks this question today over at Holy Experience...
What is the One Spiritual Habit that Has Changed Your Journey?

And the one phrase that keeps coming back to my heart is this... eat regularly!

But this is food of the soul kind! And it is delivered by..
Regular Prayer stops throughout the day.

Even though I can't always find the words to pray the words find me. They have been written somewhere deep in my heart, by The One who made me. Like a seed, they simply need the watering to grow from the darkness.
And like this little sycamore, I need the courage to fall from what I know, what I hold to, my materiel success or failure. Be opened by Love's wounding.
And trust, despite outward signs... that God alone sees the heart.

So, even when I can't locate those words myself. I find them reflected somehow. They speak for me, when words fail me. Prayer... Yes, it is more a practise of love than an active work.

And when this becomes the one priority all other priorities fall into place.

All work is useless and vain without the infusion, prompt and grace of His love anyway. For a plant to grow strong, the roots need feeding regularly.
"I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing." ...
And I have had to make the time. Make it!
Because I am so in need of it. I fail far too easily without it.
"Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain."
And I wonder, how is it that so many things can seem important, uncompromising to the day, demands over spill before me and yet these times, just for Him and Him alone become, so very easily, secondary.

Yes I call out to Him like a child when I need Him knowingly. And I whisper praises in His ear when I am met with undeserved grace, beauty, love. But that is in the middle of my doing.
Sometimes I need to put all that aside and simply be with Him alone.
The desire to eat bread for the body comes before the desire to eat bread for the soul, so many times. I wait for restfulness, peace, quiet, my own pursuits, pleasures and leisure's, then Him. Then only. Him and I alone.

I know that my soul wastes away without sustenance. While it is emptiness and privation that motivates longing in the stomach! The longing grows in the soul only with sustained nourishment, or so it seems.

You see, a soul doesn't live to eat, it eats to live! How wonderful is that!
It doesn't take so that it can take again which is so often human nature isn't it.
No, it shares the broken bread of grace, so that it can give, and give out again.

I read again from the hours today... "Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous; love is never boastful or conceited; it is never rude or selfish; it does not take offence, and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people’s sins but delights in the truth; it is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes."

I stand upon this holy mountain of goodness and grace and look down upon my life.
How far below this beautiful ideal I am. How much I need these words to live in my own barren life. Give breath to my actions, my thoughts, my days. Turn my heart of stone to a heart of flesh.
And so someway, somehow. These hours are carved out of a day.

They bring my empty bowl to His alter each time. And each time He serves so that I may become a better servant. And learn to serve Him in those around me.

Pray the office today by clicking on the link below

For years the office of hours has sustained, nourished and
regularly fed souls throughout each day.
If read everyday for a month, 
The book of Psalms will have been completely
recited.
Complimentary readings from both OT and NT, feast days
along with spiritual writing and prayer have been the food
for many a hungry heart for centuries past.

Visit Ann today to read more reflections on the journey...

Beauty.... and the Liturgy of Life.

I love it when I am put into other people's shoes, feeling and experiencing other people's temptations, ideas, sorrows, desires. I have become (over time) grateful for when this happens because it has humbled me so much, it has also caused me to sympathise with people I would have very quickly judged.
The other day I was driving through town. I had many different tasks to do, appointments, time constraints, on top of sleep deprivation and just general anxiety which I'm prone too get when stuck in town anyway. I'm sure I have sensation issues, lights, noise, crowds.... just effect me in a bad way, anyhow....
Emmy noticed this beautiful V line of geese, make it's way across the sun mottled sky above us and pointed it out to me.
Beauty has always been so important to me. It stops me hard. I am compelled by it. I have, on occasion, been caught frozen solid in the middle of a crowded street by a glint of sunlight through the branches of a tree, or forgotten my bag on a bench to wander into a little grove of dappled light on the path ahead.
But for some reason that particular day, the juxtaposition of this sacred ritual of flight in the heavens and the stress of the streets reacted toxically within me.
I felt nauseous and irritated.
I simply didn't want the distraction!
Oh, how beauty has become devalued in our highly industrialised world. We simply don't want the distraction. Everything has become streamlined to manage the practicalities of life efficiently. The sacred journey of the geese, the lichen of every green hue imaginable upon the bark of a horse chestnut tree, and the little spider upon the quivering leaf are left unnoticed by most. The deep truths that speak to our very soul within the natural world are not penetrated for the sake of gleaning a breadth superficial knowledge with the questionable agenda of our mental trawling.
Art always reflects it's society. These days even the art we see hanging out upon the walls of modern galleries has become almost utilitarian in it's aesthetic approach. Soulless and aspiring to look factory made, image after image betrays the mark of a Warhol print from his own pre fab style "factory" line productions.
In many ways, art has become about image rather than intent.
With the constant noise of technology buzzing around us and the demands of a life that turns upon it's dizzying axis, children (adults too) have very much, lost the ability to notice, to observe, to recognise beauty.
For economies sake houses are losing their individuality and workmanship. Products, estates, high streets and interiors emphasis the contemporary twin attributes of being streamlined and functional. Our cities are built, not to reflect the art and civilisation of a nation anymore, they are set into the hardened mould of capital gain.
But we humans are not soulless robots.
A thing done for nothing more than the sake of beauty is surely valuable indeed, within it's own right. It's usefulness or economy should not be it's primary reason for existing.
Is it ours?
The Bible tells us that we have been made to know, love and praise the God of heaven and Earth.
Problem is that these days, these high ideals have become relegated to the sidelines of life. The edges and the hard shoulders, for making small pit stops only when we break down completely.
Life is liturgy. It is discovering of the essence of God within all things. It is the fibonacci sequence within nature, ratio's golden rule!
It is harmony, both inner and outer. Yet we are losing segments of the sequence, we are messing with the DNA of the liturgy. The liturgy of life itself, the Word made flesh.
Noticing, observing and recognising beauty in the natural world around us and in the reflection of this in art was what the great philosopher's of the past saw as the very purpose of life.
Education and life wasn't about the repetition of tasks for the sake of both the individual and national economy, it was for the nourishment and expansion of the soul.
How many people take wonderment. How many people have been taught, or shown how through example, to take wonderment from the simple beauty's within nature.
Children, I truly have come to believe, need to been in nature regularly. They need to be taught the liturgy of life.
I'm glad Emmy noticed. It is becoming a gift, noticing. May I always be able to slow down, stop and stare at the sun glinting through the shivering branches of a city tree lifting it's leaves in praise from the 2 by 2 sqaure patch of dirt along the road.

Photo credit: NaPix -- Now in Sapa VN

Let my soul be at rest again...

Let my soul be at rest again,
for the Lord has been good to me.
He has saved me from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling.
And so I walk in the Lord’s presence
as I live here on earth!

Psalm 116 7-9



Photo credit: KarenR-TB

Multitudes on Monday. How Hope Can Grow from the Debris of Dreams

I am walking home, weighed down with plastic bags that cut through my fingers like cheese slicers. Somehow they're filled to the brim with a weeks worth of shopping for £10.

On this heat worn and frayed, summer day, I'm sixteen years old and thinking, "however did country girl me ever come to be living in the middle of this strange city?"

Home is a two storey terrace shared with 5 unconnected, disconnected souls displaced in one place for a transitory period. Almost feels like a sentence we've been given, to share this one cell for and allotted time before one leaves and another inmate arrives to replace. I have discovered that one face becomes another too easily in a city.

Sometimes it seems I could be in Turkey, North Africa or even Jamaica depending upon which side of the street I'm on. Yardy boys at plantain stalls, women draped in black, serene, guarded, silent, men smoking roll ups in pool rooms and the ever lingering smell of kebabs and hot oil.

Disorrientation fills the air with a thousand unnamed voices giving different directions to the right bus I need to take home.

The heavy air of traffic clogged streets in summer time and the swirling synthetic rainbows of rain laced with petrol turns my thoughts to fog...

Two years later and I'm on the brink of leaving for another country all together.

During the intermission of this "time between", too many lines have been written, scenes been played out, lines spoken and hurts, rehashed, re-played and re-enacted on this stage.

Now all I want to desperatly do is hide in the wings for one night. Curl up into the nothingness of annonimity.

So I travel toward the heart of the city. Following the clogged ateries, mainlines and thread veins of skinny streets, pumping, faster and faster, harder and harder as I get closer to the center.
Convulsing like the strobe lights that seep from darkened doorways as stars begin to dissolve into the orange glow of street lamps.

I'm pregnant, but I don't know it yet.

Exsausted, I find myself sitting on the steps of west end musical stage show on the cusp of an evening's performance.

I hear the clink of shoes on cobble, I smell the static of excitement in foreign voices. French vowels bubble up from the dank and drenched tarmac like champagne.

It is raining heavily and I have no place to go.

I close my eyes and try to find a small corner of quiet.
My ears have throbbed with the noise of this city for so long I hear the conversations between taxi cabs and Double Decker buses in my dreams.

Slowly it comes into view....

The outline of a tree in the distance, branches tanned golden in the sun, bark gilded and shivering, leaves trembling.

It seems too far away to be real. I begin to squint, as I dare to look up a little.

Clouds part mutly. Beneath them the sky is powder blue, it seems to roll out forever.

Somewhere in the far away, I hear a child laughing and some long grass brushes against my legs as I walk.

Then, without warning, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn abruptly, defensive, instinctivly.

No, no one is moving me on this time, this hand simply rests, and waits...

I don't know who it is who gently rests their hand and speaks my name.

One day years from now I will understand. Recognise the voice who called me away that day.

In the white noise of dislocated memories and fears, manifested by what I thought would numb them. A cold sea of concrete, a pavement fractured and scarred, covered with a liquid neon ointment.
Somehow I heard.
Somehow I stumbled
to my feet that day
and followed.

And somehow, now, I find myself sitting beneath tree, that was once nothing but the small seed of His hope, the echo of His voice, in my heart.

Branches tanned golden in the slender sunlight of late summer.

The storm clouds dissolved a long time ago in the blue transparency of this sky of hope. Endless, limitless, boundless, eternal...

I hear a child laughing, now two, now, three, now four.

And the sound heals the wounds that tears once furrowed. Eroding saltwater, carved out a hollow for freshwater to pool.

And I drink long drafts of thankfulness.

All the while as the long grass brushes against my legs while I walk.

I still feel that hand on my shoulder.


Thank you Lord for Summer memories ,

Each cherished moment in which to linger with my children,

The words of friends who encourage with their courage. And give me the courage to share too.

Thank you Lord, for taking my hand towards future life that heals the wounds of the past.

And the wonder of now,

Thank you for the miracle within the small seed of your own hope which you plant in hearts.

It can even grow a "forever home" where trees and blue skies and sunlight emerge from the debris of dreams of a once lost and homeless girl.

The sum of Humilty...

" If you have five gifts and you think you have six, that’s not humility;
if you have five gifts and you say you have only four, that's not humility;
if you have five gifts and you say you have five and you thank only yourself for them, that’s not humility.
But if you have five gifts and you say you have five and you thank God for them, that's humility.

The point of it is that humility is just the truth."




Photo credit: Theresa Elvin

JOY (a post revisted from the archives)

Happiness.

There are definitely two kinds.

The first kind is conditional.

The second kind is unconditional.

What does this mean?

Well the first kind is dependant upon my external circumstances. It is integral to what I have and what I am able to do.

It's about my own expectations and how I live up to them. It's about making my own rules and sticking to them (however suffocating they may be). It's about setting my own standards and trying to live up to them however different they mey be from God's standards and priorities for my life.

It's all about satiating that which I am unsatisfied with instead of finding contentment with what I have been given.

In real terms, it comes down to having a long hot soak in a bubble bath as opposed to the typical mummy's military shower at the first light of dawn!

It comes down to being able to read through a novel uninterrupted on a Sunday afternoon as opposed to the same dog-eared half chewed ABC storybook, for the tenth time before lunchtime.

It comes down to doing as I want, when I want and having what I want how I want it.

Parenthood challenges this definition of happiness. It shakes the foundations of this building and knocks it clean to the ground.

Once the dust has cleared what is left in the debris is the second kind of happiness.

The unconditional kind of happiness.

This kind of happiness looks a little different from what we have come to suspect. It can take a while before we recognise it:0)

This kind of happiness lends itself more to the word joy.

God Blesses this kind of happiness :0)

Joy finds miracles in the ordinary.

Joy finds the sacred in the everyday.

Joy sees the beautiful painting before the mess on the kitchen table.

Joy sees the rainbow instead of the rain

A few little words on Joy

It is the consciousness of the threefold joy of the Lord, His joy in ransoming us, His joy in dwelling within us as our Saviour and Power for fruit bearing and His joy in possessing us, as His Bride and His delight; it is the consciousness of this joy which is our real strength. Our joy in Him may be a fluctuating thing: His joy in us knows no change. James Hudson Taylor

Any one can sing in the sunshine. You and I should sing on when the sun has gone down, or when clouds pour out their rain, for Christ is with us. Anonymous

Joy is not the absence of suffering. It is the presence of God. Robert Schuller

Joy is prayer - Joy is strength - Joy is love - Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls. God loves a cheerful giver. She gives most who gives with joy. The best way to show our gratitude to God and the people is to accept everything with joy. A joyful heart is the inevitable result of a heart burning with love. Never let anything so fill you with sorrow as to make you forget the joy of the Christ risen. Mother Teresa

Joy, not grit, is the hallmark of holy obedience. We need to be light-hearted in what we do to avoid taking ourselves too seriously. It is a cheerful revolt against self and pride. Our work is jubilant, carefree, merry. Utter abandonment to God is done freely and with celebration. And so I urge you to enjoy this ministry of self-surrender. Don't push too hard. Hold this work lightly, joyfully. The saints throughout the ages have witnessed to this reality.... You know, of course, that they are not speaking of a silly, superficial, bubbly kind of joy like that flaunted in modern society. No, this is a deep, resonant joy that has been shaped and tempered by the fires of suffering and sorrow; joy through the cross, joy because of the cross. Richard J. Foster

Happiness depends on happenings; joy depends on Christ. Anonymous

Where others see but the dawn coming over the hill, I see the soul of God shouting for joy. William Blake

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law (Galatians 5:22)”

These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full. (John 15:11)"

JOY

Jesus Others Yourself

(Jesus: first, others: second, yourself: last)