Stay

I sit
very still
for
he is
beautiful
and I
fear he
will leave
if
I move.

This was written for Emily's Imperfect Prose today. Won't you join us?

Week Ten: The Bridge

I struggle against myself. Can’t shake this feeling that I should be something more, do something more…The things that I love are not enough.

I love…

Bagels with sundried tomato and caramelized onion.
The smell of lavender.
Reading the Psalms out loud.
Holding hands while taking a walk. No where particular. Just being together.
Sun-warmed skin. Freckled.
Watching the birds through the kitchen window while slowly sipping morning coffee.
Pesto. I love pesto.
The smell of roasting garlic and baking bread.
Trips to the bookstore.
Driving with the windows down.
Long, slow kisses from the one I love that go nowhere but deeper and deeper.
A story that makes me cry. And laugh. A good story. Fact or fiction.
A free day to write. Looking out the window and seeing the ocean. Or mountains. Trees and sky.
Collecting seashells.
A long run before dawn and watching the sun rise through it.

But do I love myself?

She asks it in the back—in the discussion or reflection questions. It’s number 2:

Do you think you love yourself? If not or if so, how might this affect your relationship to God and others? (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).

**********

He sits in a chair at the head of our circle—this small gathering of encouragement. It is he that I came to see. I met his wife a few weeks before…was moved by her words about their ministry.

Sometimes, he says—his thick Nigerian accent giving song to the words. Sometimes I think we need to tune up our spirits the way we tune up our cars.

His smile. It dazzles.

He nods to my friend. She knows.

That’s when the singing starts.

I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you, oh, my soul rejoice…

Other voices join hers and we sing it together, over and over until the words begin to take form…embodied.

When we waver, his voice booms louder, until we feel the words too…believe.

Take joy, my King, in what you hear…may it be a sweet sweet sound in your ears.

The Bible on his lap becomes a drum and he throws his head back and closes his eyes. I can see that his legs want to move. When our voices trail off again he urges us on…

Keep singing, keep singing, he says. And then he says, In Africa…in Africa when we sing…We rock!

We all laugh, and it is his joy that is contagious.

And then he speaks to us about what it means to be a child of God.

Have you ever seen the president walk? He asks, lilting voice.

He demonstrates a little…preens, walks cocky. 

He knows who he is.

He leans forward—closer into our eyes.

We should know who we are.

I sit up straighter. But really, I am stunned.

I’ve heard this line of talk before.

I am a daughter of the King.

Yes, this I know. But does my heart?

I hear this from a middle-aged Nigerian man who must fight for his faith in ways I will never never face and I am stunned.

He knows the joy.

The joy of being a child of God.

It is written all over him. He knows that he is loved. He knows that he is special.

And he is free to love himself.

Why am I not?

Middle child. Quiet one. Well-behaved and overlooked. Loving self was considered selfishness.

But she gives these words and my palms start to sweat:

Self-care is never a selfish act—it is simply good stewardship of the only gift I have, the gift I was put on the earth to offer others. (Parker Palmer quoted by L.L. Barkat in God in the Yard).

If I am the bridge that everyone walks over, how will I ever get to the other side?

This morning as I run I feel the footprints all over me. My fingers itch to let go…toes curl under the strain of the holding.

How does one stop this bit of craziness? This bridging between, making everything okay for everyone else?

I know all the answers. But I like hers better:

…I also recommend a year outdoors, dangerous poetry, and Psalm 139. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).

Dangerous?

love
is more than
sun-dried tomatoes,
shriveled skin soothed
by oil. it is a ripple
from that womb-
knitting, that unhidden
frame-maker who
knows. love is the
long kiss and the sun-
glow clasped gently
in the guiding hand;
the hand that pries
loose fingers and
toes—the bridge
dangles freely.the
hand that slides
gently around the
curves of body
and heart. searching
me. searching me.
search me.
please.

This was written in response to week ten of L.L. Barkat’s God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?



Photo of Bridge painting, water color and gauche, by Laura

In Praise of Fiction

photo by Elizabeth Weller, used with permission

While skirting the headlines of the local paper last week, I was delighted at a little gem tucked away at the bottom the front page. The article chronicled a London theater group’s attempts to determine if being exposed to Shakespeare would increase milk production in a herd of dairy cows. The Changeling Theatre Company performed scenes from The Merry Wives of Windsor for Friesian cows at a Kent dairy farm.

We selected scenes from the play we felt to be lyrical and relaxing, said Rob Forknall, artistic director for the group.

Milk production was found to increase by four percent.

It is believed that exposure to the Bard’s work relaxed the cows, therefore boosting milk production.

I’ve never read Shakespeare to bovines, but I can vouch for the relaxation effect of a good piece of literature. Stories soothe the wild beast. And, um, the more placid, cud-chewing, lactating one (apparently).


Please join me over at HighCallingBlogs for more...

[click to continue…]

Dream Girl

In the night I dream I am a child.

This body sheds free the years and I am unfettered once again. My torso becomes a breath, these legs long and lanky, my arms--two sticks reaching out from the trunk of me. I am a stranger in my body but I remember this. Oh, yes, I remember this. There is sun-warmed moss beneath my bare feet and I am loosed to run—limbs strong and tireless—forgetting sorrows lived into this skin.

In my dream, we are on the cusp of summer, ready to dive headlong into her depths. I feel her breath fan out on my sleeping cheeks—feel her days linger long before me. When the night comes, so does the dew…soft-gathered on blades of grass. Moisture in the air wets my lungs, clings to my skin. Summer beckons me to stay outdoors long into the night. And my child-self delights to be her guest of honor. 

We are catching fireflies. Each twinkling star in the sky above is matched below by a living one and I feel my heart startle with joy each time the air winks before me.

But when I wink back and open my eyes, the dream is gone. And so are the fireflies.

Today I am honored to be featured over at (In)Courage.  It's a post inspired by L.L. Barkat's God in the Yard. Won’t you join me there for the rest of the dream?

Joy in the Moment

On dark days

she would turn her

face toward

the sun.

There was honey

there, sweetness.

She breathed it

like air...

The sky spoke 

through whispering

 grasses and

lace intertwined

And she knew

what it is

to be well loved.

This stirring composition is brought to you by Emily's Imperfect Prose on Thursdays and Claire's Photoplay over at HighCallingBlogs.

Real

What is REAL? asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle? 

Real isn't how you are made, said the Skin Horse. It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. 

Does it hurt? asked the Rabbit.

Sometimes, said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.

Does it happen all at once, like being wound up, he asked, or bit by bit? 

It doesn't happen all at once, said the Skin Horse. You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. (The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams).

(I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it)


Just keep moving towards the things you love, in the tiniest ways you can.

She sent me an email after she read this post.

She was concerned. 

…I'm thinking about your dream... I wonder…if the dream might be a really important sign of things that are happening inside you...

Then my friend did a dream analysis that would make Dr. Freud proud.


You are quite good at this dream analysis thing, I responded. Do you have a couch?

She told me about her couch at the Louvre and sent me a picture.

I laughed out loud.

I’ve never met my friend face-to-face. We’ve gotten to know one another through the HighCallingBlogs community. We’ve spoken on the telephone a few times. Even skyped.

But I’ve never had breakfast, held her hand, or even gone canoeing with her.

Does that make our friendship not real?

She ended the above-mentioned note with this:

Hey, let me know what I can do to support you as you move through some of these growth and changes things. I'm happy to send you a smile and a hug whenever you need. :)

That’s real enough for me.

What do you think? Over at HighCallingBlogs we’re talking about the Real-ness of online friendships. Tell us what you think. Better yet, join in the story-swapping. Read more over here.

Week Nine: Silence

Last night in the middle of the poetry party the electricity went off. Sky-flares peeked in windows in bold bursts, silhouetting our usual and I stared at my laptop in the dark…no internet connection… the screen illuminating the room. Boys clamored--wound up by darkness and excitement pulsed as their daddy lit candles and checked the weather on his iPhone.

We sat in the hush and listened to the wind blow the deck furniture around. It was late--after ten--so I tucked protesting boys in with candle gently flickering—thinking of Little House on the Prairie and savoring the play of warm glow on their still young faces.

I returned to the couch in the dark.

We sat in silence, he and I; listened to driving rain turn to gentle patter, watched the play of lightning on hills in the distance. For once, no hum of air conditioner, no mindless buzz of refrigerator, dishwasher was silent. All of our daily companions closed their eyes in this dark.

There was only the soft ticking of the mantle clock keeping time with faint strumming of droplets colliding with window, only to slide down and lose form in streaky stream.

We giggled a little at our loss, wondered how did they do it? with no electricity…only talk to spend. We marveled at work-filled days and talk-filled evenings and fell in to silence.

I closed my eyes in the dark and felt God sitting beside.

Silence feels good to me. I find it by sitting still. By looking deeper into what is already here.

Always a solitary child, that’s me. I can fall into His arms in the quiet and never desire to leave. All my life this is where I have rested. Safe from jabbing words of others; hidden from wound-talk.

I know it’s not that way for everyone. And lately, besieged by life and fraught with hope, I’ve been wondering, Is there another way?

…I’ve found unexpected silence-and-listening practice through poetry. You can tell when a poet has been a good listener, because the poem is more likely to capture the essence of a thing, more likely to reproduce its voice and the heart of its rhythms; it also tends to reveal dreams and burdens that may exist in the poet or the poet’s community. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

God is always the same, yes, this I know. But I have also come to learn that He loves to mix things up. He understands the human tendency to grow stale when patterns are established. He loves surprises. He likes to keep our love fresh and new. This year has been a crazy mixed up year for finding God for me. My years of early morning quiet time suddenly ceased to feel intimate. I found myself falling asleep with my cheek pressed to the dining room floor at 5 a.m. for the first time in years.

It was time for something new.

Sitting in a quiet prayer closet might be your silence sweet-spot. But maybe you’d fare better with and active approach to silence…if not writing poetry, then perhaps drawing. Walking alone is good. You might go fishing without your iPod. I can also recommend reclining on a sunny day and listening to a good game of dog dominoes. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

I find God when I run. I feel Him in my legs, in my breath, in the acceleration of my beating heart. He meets me in the sky and the trees and the way the light changes colors on the horizon.

This morning when I ran, the storm was still fresh on the sidewalk. Fallen branches and stray leaves littered the street. The creek was rushing its banks and the smell of muddy water rose dense into the air around me. A handful of black crows perched on the utility wires above me, caw, caw, caw…

As my feet pounded the pavement, I remembered a poem my dear friend Laure Krueger sent me. In it, she tells me that I am birdsong, and those words have lifted me on the darkest of days. My heart soars as I imagine music in my stride. And as I go on, I am lifted into its melody.


I fly away
singing—
flutter my
wings
through misty
windows
in the sky;
dip fingertips
in morning dew-
cups, silky
petals collect
evening honey,
and offer this
sweet frieze to
me in golden
shimmer of
dawn. I am
free. I am…
birdsong.

I grow when I look for Him in the not usual way. He loves for me to seek after Him in wild and beautiful ways. Writing poetry doesn’t seem so crazy a way to pray. Nor does running.

He’s there. He’s in it all.

This was written in response to week nine of L.L. Barkat’s God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?

Color the Days

My dad is the youngest of nine. His father, my grandfather, lived to be 100 years old. He was a farmer. I think that is the only reason his body finally gave in: the dirt from the earth called out to the dirt in his veins until the two were one again. I thought he would live forever.

As long as I can remember we have gathered together in the summertime—these nine siblings, their children, children’s children, and so on. I have memories of creek-wading expeditions with cousins who lived faraway, catching crayfish in a can, and wobbly wheelbarrow races.

Things changed after grandpa died. Fewer came. We moved the location to an air-conditioned community center. There is no creek wading.

But still, we gather. And so we did on Sunday.

Over the years the mood has changed. It is less intimate conversations and more polite small-talk. There are some who come that I do not know.

Now…who is the guy over there? The one with the ballcap?

I always ask my sister. Somehow she knows.

This year, the boys and I prayed about it. We prayed that we would have a special connection with at least one person from our extended family. We prayed that our lives would intersect and we would bless each other. We prayed for real relationship.

So…

I went looking.

I said hello to all my aunts and uncles. Lingered at the tables where my cousins’ families sat clustered together. Poked about the kitchen with the seasoned cooks.

But the echoing walls of the community center made it difficult to talk at length and there were too many things to command everyone’s attention and soon…soon I found myself standing still in the center of that place with commotion whirring on around me.

I needed a sanctuary.

I spied it in the corner of the room: a round table littered with coloring books and crayons. All the kids seemed to have disappeared, so, with a sigh, I sat down to observe the chaos.

But he saw me.

He brought his dessert over and sat beside, chattering away. I looked at the book that was open in front of me. Some female superhero with the beginnings of a blue skirt that someone had abandoned. I picked up a blue crayon and started coloring.

Oh! He came over to study my work. You can finish that if you want. I was just starting it. I was coloring it for Dominic because he liked it.

He likes her?


Yeah. He said it was his future wife. (snicker) And then he picked it up and kissed it!


What’s your name?

He told me.


How old are you?

Seven.

Who’s your mom? I looked around to see if anyone was taking interest in our conversation.


I’m not allowed to see my real mom. Just my dad and my stepmom.

I studied his freckled nose and blues eyes. Both of his ears were pierced and he had two big diamondy stones in them. He was wearing a black Harley Davidson shirt.

Oh. I see. Who’s your dad?

He told me and I recognized one of my cousin’s sons. That would make this little boy my cousin twice removed? Or third cousin? I never understood how that works.

Wow! You’re good!

He peered at my coloring page.

Thanks. What color do you think I should make her hair?

We worked on our coloring together until Dominic came up and they got in a wrestling match. He kept throwing me glances as he employed choke-hold moves on his cousin. Though it’s been a long time since I’ve had a cute boy show off for me, the looming hardness of the floor made me anxious.

Let’s go outside.

He sat with me on the bleachers a minute.

You know when I told you I’m not allowed to see my real mom?

Umhmm.

Well, I see her at Christmas and stuff. She buys me presents. She bought me this shirt. That’s why I wanted to wear it.

Then he was off. On the baseball field with the cousins. This boy doesn’t stay still long.

Take my picture, he called to me.

I did.

And I watched him play ball, cheering and clapping when appropriate.

When it was time to go, I told him goodbye.

I’ll see you next year, ok? Don’t forget me.

I won’t.

His grin will break hearts one day.

On the way home, my husband and I talked about the strangeness of it all.


When your dad’s generation is gone, you all probably won’t continue with this, will you? Doesn’t seem a point.

He was right, of course. If we keep doing it the same way. If we keep staying in our familiar clusters and never go beyond polite small talk. But then I thought of the boy and my heart wrenched a little. I wished for him memories of creek-wading and crawfish catching. All he will have is this fading image of a middle-aged cousin who colored superheroes with him.

This year at the reunion, I saw someone drinking who shouldn’t have been. I watched my dad smoke one cigarette after another even though his lungs are compromised. I learned that my nephew, whom I dearly love, has multiple tattoos and body piercings (not that there is anything wrong with that but it was his baby flesh that led me to realize I could love a child--that I wanted to be a mother one day after all… and it broke my heart a little to see it altered that way).

But I also met Zach. God answered my prayer in a seven year-old-boy. And I hope I see him again.

Week Eight: Sabbath Joy

I have only just started missing people.

This morning as I run this realization appears out of the misty air. I just passed the Twizzler. I have been stomping by it for two weeks now—have watched it slowly disappear under a wave of ants. It’s down to a stub now.

That’s how I feel when people leave. A stub. Eaten away. A smaller me.

I grieve by moving inside myself. I feel lonely, but I don’t allow myself to miss people.

Missing someone means hurting. It means wanting them to come back. Believing they will.

Missing someone means believing they miss me too.

For me, loss stole a sense of trust that the world moves in predictable cycles. One day, Dad went away and never came back. Somehow, inexplicably, Mom went too. Not literally, but emotionally and mentally. Simple family cycles that could have built trust were derailed—dinner with the whole family, holidays spent side by side, evenings and mornings of family hugs. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).

When I return from my honeymoon, I wake up one morning in the bed I share with my new husband. The sun streams through the window and through me and I am so happy. Suddenly, I know.

This will never last. This can’t be real. This man can’t really love me.

What he and I share resembles nothing of the love I have known thus far. The love I’m familiar with is unstable. Unfaithful. It does not honor or cherish. I don’t understand this clean, healthy love he gives me.

A season of pushing away ensues. I try to make our love what I understand. I try to make it messy. I try to make it hurt. I test his love at every turn and harden my heart—preparing for the inevitable abandon.

He never leaves. He cradles me close instead.

Lynne M. Baab, author of Sabbath Keeping notes that the Hebrew root for the word “Sabbath” includes “pause.” To pause is to trust. It is to reframe presence-absence as presence-hiddenness—a fine line of distinction that speaks to the fear of permanent loss that our early loss experiences can create. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).

Growing up with an alcoholic means I develop a knack for unconditional positive regard. I learn to accept anything. Anyone can do anything, and I’m ok. The ground frequently shifts underneath me, but I must stay standing.

Everyone else can change. But I must never. I have to be vigilant. Anticipate the next earthquake. And shift my feet quickly.

I cannot allow myself to miss someone. What if they never return?

There is no rest from this constant watchfulness. There is no rest.

…childhood losses made it hard to embrace a rhythm of presence-hiddenness that exists naturally…(L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

My husband taught me about Sabbath rest. He taught me what it means to trust. He showed me the face of God before he even believed. He taught me how to trust that hiddenness is a partner to presence.

And I am learning that to miss someone means the joy of reunion is forthcoming. I trust in the ache of havdalah—the recognition of the departure of the visiting soul on the Sabbath. For she shall return from this hiddenness.

And the ache only increases the joy of the homecoming.


This is written in response to week 8 of L.L. Barkat’s God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?

Falling in Love with Mat Kearney

I found him here after hearing this song—the song he must be so tired of playing…the song he ended his set with Saturday night--and I knew I just had to find out more. I looked and Google took me to an old blog entry where he was in Istanbul, Turkey, in January of 2007--looking out over the Bosporus River and reading the book of Ephesians.

I bought his cd and the other book he was reading, Nicole Krauss’s History of Love.

It’s hard for this forty-one year old mother of two to admit, but I fell just a wee bit in love (despite his funny hat). Mat Kearney writes the kind of music that names my feelings, awakens the longing, gently stirs the sehnsucht.

So…when I found out he was coming to town, I think I was the first person to order tickets. Passion is contagious, and I caught a little at his show Saturday night. Two days later I still can’t believe our luck.

He played the Alban Theater. The Alban Theater! This is the place my husband went to watch movies when he was a boy. Even Mat wondered how he ended up there. 

What’s the story about this place? He questioned the audience at one point.

We were speechless. How to tell him that St. Albans was once a thriving suburb of Charleston? That all the engineers from Carbide moved their families here in the 50s and 60s when this was a hustling bustling chemical valley? That the nearby town of Nitro was named after the Nitrocellulose plant that the government used to manufacture explosives during WWI?

My husband grew up in this little town called St. Albans and he always fascinates me with stories of riding his bike to the pool in the summer and walking bridges over the river to get to school in the fall. It must have been like growing up in Mayberry.

But those glory days have faded and the St. Albans that Mat drove into on Saturday is just the fading memory of days gone by. Most everyone had driven in from nearby Charleston. Or Huntington. Even a few from Ohio, across the river.

We were glad he came. There wasn’t a bad seat in the little theater.  It was the first show of their acoustic tour. Stripped down, but no small sound. No light show. But I couldn’t help noticing that Mat’s guitar reflected some kaleidoscope light onto the walls of the theater and it seemed a fitting accompaniment to this intimate gathering.

My boys were mesmerized.

It was wonderful. He made us laugh and cry. We sang along and clapped our hands. I won’t be forgetting this one for a while. Here’s a few memories from the show…

Redeemed

The boys still sleep soft as I slip out the door this morning.

It starts to rain three miles into my run. I don’t mind, am already soaked through from the heaviness of the air--but I am at the furthest point from home on this well-worn path. My shoes will need airing out. And then there is the chafing.

But the shower doesn’t last and despite my negativity I’m sad to see it go. It’s hot out here, even at 6:30 a.m. It’s time to turn around and run the three miles back, when I see it bowing down to me. The rainbow arches out of nowhere and invites me forth.

I think of all the childhood tales in which the color bow is a door to a magical land. I think of somewhere over the rainbow. And the pot of gold. It is so lovely that I run another half mile or so.

I don’t want to turn around.

But I think of my boys sleeping and know their daddy will be off soon. I must turn my back on this splendid sight.

God is showing off this morning, ‘cause when I turn around, there is the sun—all a-blush and yawning with her slow awakening. She climbs lazily into a bed of clouds, hiding her morning face from shameless voyeurs like me.

I allow myself delight all the way back home.

I slip back in the way I slipped out and they are still asleep. I carry the delight--but all the while, something nags, takes the edge off the joy and I feel old--like I’ve seen too much sorrow. I push it aside and get my Bible.

I read my scriptures like a good girl, even read a little ahead because I can never resist the red letters and I meditate on the two Psalms I’ve chosen, just as Lyla recommended. They are changing me.

The boys get up and I run a mile with them because we’ve started a new fitness program. Lucy Mae comes this time and she runs the whole way too. Her tongue looks like a slice of ham in her mouth and I feel like that too as I instruct my children about stretching and we lift a small bit of weights.

While they shower I cook the big breakfast I promised if they run the whole way. They are still conditioning and it is so hot. I worry about Teddy’s asthma. There is bacon and sausage, pancakes and eggs. Growing boys need food.

I eat a bowl of cereal.

When they disappear I head this way…check email, fiddle. Finally, I go here and, like a slap in the face I know what has been bothering at me.

I say a prayer for Amber’s father-in-law, but I can’t keep my eyes from that first line. The pain is in the first line. It’s in everything that followed the first line until I turned around and let delight in.

I never said I did everything right. I still feel the shame hot against my skin sometimes. If it wasn’t for His grace, sometimes I think I would die from shame.

But He uses everything for the good of those who love Him and He’s redeeming those lost days for me now.

If you’d like to see how, I tell a little about it over at the-run-a-muck today. A big thanks to Amber for her heart on this issue.

Week Seven: Hide

Every day I practice looking for Him.

I have read Brother Lawrence. He taught me to look,to feel God in everyday moments. I am grateful for his eyes. Yet, Ann tells me how not to practice, but how to abide.

There is much too discover. He is everywhere. But still, I miss Him some days. No matter how I look. Or how I don’t. It seems I must grow to see Him in everything. My heart must tender to find Him.

But some days my heart is a stone and the heaviness weighs down any presence of the Spirit. How can I abide in such cold? Some days, I run from Him, throw angry glares in His direction, stab at His heart with my knife words.

Still, I look. I can’t help it. I know He’s there.

Lord, let me learn the rhythms of presence, which include seasons of absence. Let me not be afraid, but remember that you and I are always together, even when it seems we are apart. (Week 7 prayer, L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

Sometimes all that I find is His absence.

The night is a season, not the whole, just a slice. Like shadows that sometimes fall across the lawn, a small and transient space…Night tends to slow us, ground us. In obscurity we can spread ourselves out, open our souls with a posture of renewed expectancy, focus and trust…There in darkness, the Spirit leans in, poised for our lying down and sleep—a seed on a smooth slim stem…(L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

I thought my feet were planted flat on the ground.

But when I check--roll around on the balls; spread toes to earth--I sink deeper.

I become seed.

I am surrounded by dark. Hidden.

And so I reach, with the center of me; open my heart and rock back and forth until I feel a tiny reaching. Reaching for the light.

And then I grow.

I am a tree planted by streams of Living Water. Roots hold firm, silently extending down--drinking up depths and nourishment, anchoring me here…with Him.

I stretch branches up and rough bark becomes supple, velvet with moss…I invite Him in and feel Him pass through leaves; rustle places long asleep--making music where there is none; creating beauty out of light.

In this quiet I hear His voice. What others intend to empty, He fills.

I am yours.

Soft, like breeze caress the words move over me.

El Roi…You see me. You know my heart.
Eyes close but His never do.

El Shaddai…All sufficient One. You fill.
He washes me--laps up against my soiled heart and carries away the dirt.

Jehovah Rapha...Healer. You tend to deeply wounded places.
I am whole.

It continues on, as I move limbs--bend and sway to His music. Leaves lift, wave in joyous surrender as we dance.

I am more than bark and leaves…heart beats loud within this forest. Blood rushes through me. His Spirit lives in me.

Sap oozes and the sweetness of His love drips from my pores.

He is here beside me; I see Him better with my heart--eyes closed to world, hands held loosely open.

He gives.

And gives.

I do not clutch these things tightly…but wrap my life around Him. Vines entwine, whisper into crevices, knotty limbs embrace…

This is the way I grow. I start as seed. Darkness all around.

It makes me search for Light.

**This was written in response to week 7 of L.L. Barkat’s God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?