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

"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.

Let us Listen...

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


~ from morning prayers

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

Listening...

God I hear you say...

Love as you have been loved.
Forgive as you have been forgiven.

Suffering brings you closer to me.
Yield to your pain, I AM with you.

Do not put anything before me.
Come to me first to be your healer, counselor, guide, teacher, friend and lover.

Ask yourself does whatever I am doing increase my love?
Or does it distract, confuse and come between us and what is truly nessecary.
Be like Mary, sit at my feet. Learn what is the essential. It lies between us. It rests in the heart, like a pearl, shining love, just love.

Let your voice become small. There is too much talk.
Let yourself fall freely into my arms, rest a while.

Gaze upon me.
See how I love you as a child.

Take off the masks,
Let the masks fall away from others.

Perfection is not a set of rules,
Holiness can only be found in Love.

See how I love you just as you are.
Love other's this way too.

See how I forgive and embrace you just where you are.
Forgive and embrace others where they are too.

Let love be the only motive.

Conversations With God.... Journaling as a Spiritual Disipline....

Please Visit with Ann today. This is a beautiful series.
A way to seek Him, Hear His voice...
And my own journaling here... over at Scraps of Starlight