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

Like a Child...

"Faith strips the mask from the world and reveals God in everything. It makes nothing impossible and renders meaningless such words as anxiety, danger, and fear, so that the believer goes through life calmly and peacefully, with profound joy - like a child, hand in hand with his mother." -Charles de Foucauld

What comes between me and God? "Notes to self"

What comes between me and the kingdom of God? Is it fear, doubt, possessions, work, distracting pleasures, societies rules, shyness, my need to control outcomes, lukewarmness, weariness. my ideas of "perfection"? To understand I have to pause. I have to turn off all background noise. However important or worthy that noise seems, however relentlessly it pursues, I must put God first in my heart. Uncluttered, uncompromising. True, clear. I have to put aside all that hinders, all that rises between myself and the voice at the center of my soul which whispers soft and true above the storm, "Peace be Still". God is a loving Father, and however many times I fall, fail and flail, He is there to fold me beneath His wing as soon as I turn toward Him. "Let your unfailing love surround us, LORD, for our hope is in you alone." Psalm 33:22 There is no place deep, distant or dark enough to keep me from this Love unfailing. When all around seems in disarray I may turn toward His face. See Him, not the struggle. He will turn the struggle into a victory with my surrender a hundred times faster than with my striving. He works all things out for good and I can trust in Him like a child. The safe and steady hands of a carpenter shaping life and form and beauty from brittle wood. "Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the LORD watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain." Psalm 127:1 I can fill the open page of days I'm given with a story of His love, with eternal words that spin beauty and love into this fragile world. "Nothing is important except that which is eternal." "If thou walk inwardly, thou shalt not weigh flying words....Let not thy peace be in the mouths of men." End quotes taken from "If" and "Rose from Brier" by Amy Carmichael

"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