Madly (A waterfall)

Why did I choose this place to stand?

I could’ve laid among the hot sand,

Or played among the flowers,

But this is me,

The water crashing into my shoes,

Where I should be,

The place that I choose,

 

I. Will. Not. Be. Moved.

Even though the water pounds from directly above me,

An unending flow thudding intentionally,

The weight of the sea berating my body,

And the snatch of the current could clearly whip me off my feet,

 

Why did I choose this place?

With this current hitting my cold aching knees,

And washing away the ground where my toes dig in for stability,

It sweeps madly away the ground from beneath me,

Devouring it as the water above attempts to devour me,

 

I can’t remember why I’m here but I remember not to move,

Even with the sun seeping through the sheets which are plummeting,

And a step in any direction would take me out of this raining thing,

The thought of stepping out sends a wall up around me,

I don’t know why I’m here but I know I need to be,

 

I’ve closed my eyes against the raging waters,

Which try desperately to break into me,

I don’t know exactly why I’ve closed them,

Except the water was vast and scary,

I closed them fast and won’t watch it carry,

 

The only ground away that holds my feet.

So I’m pretty sure I closed them because it was big and loud,

And monstrous,

Because it was eager and awful and after me-

But was it awful?

 

Probably. I mean its pounding me,

But was it awful?

Or did it just evoke that awful feeling in me…

I saw it and its vastness,

And I felt so small,

 

I saw it and its fierceness and I felt passionless in compare,

I heard its booming voice and my shouts weren’t even there,

I saw it’s white and clean pure sheets,

And the dirt on my clothes sent heat into my cheeks,

 

No it wasn’t so awful,

I was,

It was beautiful and in my horridness I couldn’t look,

Its beauty I forsook.

 

The waterfall desperately and madly coming for me,

Contrasting my shame,

I open my eyes again,

It takes on a new name,

 

Yes it’s big,

And I am so small,

Else how would it cover me,

The thousand times that I fall?

 

It’s grace plummeting over my head,

Devotedly hunting my heart,

Recklessly endlessly pouring,

And tearing my shame apart,

 

I’m unworthy to stand in such a place,

In such unrelenting, such focused grace,

But look, it soaks deep into my dress,

And look, the dirt flees under its haste,

 

It drenches me, cleans me,

Purifies the place I am meant to be,

For the ground that it sweeps away from under me,

Is just soil brushed away, with rock underneath,

 

Solid, oh solid rock uneroded by time, and talk,

Of this place will ever escape my mouth,

And maybe teach others to under here walk,

Under the presence of our Lord, who loves his imperfect flock

Wouldn’t I serve her well?

Majesty,
Wonder,
Life, beauty glory, and power,
These words can’t begin to describe Him,
And God, love, thought up a woman,
Created her for a Kingdom purpose,
Values her, such as to die for her,
And know her, live in her,
How would I treat such a woman?
It would certainly be an honour to serve her,
For to do so would serve the God who loves her,
Would I not make her bed with the greatest care,
And feed her the very best,
Food and knowledge,
Keeping this one who to my God is precious,
Healthy and well,
Wouldn’t I encourage her to pray every morning and night and breath,
And fill herself with the Word,
And be whole?
Wouldn’t I serve well and be thankful to do so?
And there is a woman I can serve this way,
One I may see to daily,
And I often neglect my duty to care well for God’s beloved,
But when I take care of what He’s given me to care for,
When I make her bed at night and tend to her need,
The bed I prepare so thoughtfully is one I prepare for me,
And this isn’t a cry for vanity,
But I want to love what God does,
And he loves us,
And so let’s take care of us, not spoil us or indulge us,
But have self care, and servitude to God,
By stewarding His creation,
For I know I’m far more equipped to serve others,
When I appreciate my salvation

I say I want to be a slave at Your feet

I say I want to be a slave at your feet,

Kneel before you in shame,

Close my eyes,

 

I say I want to serve at your feet,

Tears released, drip wildly,

I catch the elastic from my hair,

Curls released, fall unruly,

My Lord, I say, Let me serve at your feet!

 

I grab my sweetest perfume,

And grasp it in my palm,

Lord when I got it, it seemed dear,

But now it is nothing.

For the dirt that touched your feet is more precious;

It knows the touch of Jesus!

 

And what am I, but dirt at your feet?

Lucky if even your shadow I meet,

With hair and tears and ugly perfume,

Allow me only to meet, and wash your feet!

 

I remove your sandals and set them aside,

Thus two perfect feet- but did I do this?

For you are hurt- did I do this?

Push a nail below your ankle, when I meant to love?

Ahavah!

What awful kiss have I planted on you?

Did I do this?

I WISH TO WASH YOUR FEET

Is my faith so wishy-washy, incomplete?

These are tears of sinner!

They are filled with dirty wealth!

I beg you, let me scrub your feet!

Contented to spend the rest of my life,

Reaching up to you,

I am unworthy to clean when I am unclean myself-

Please-

I say broken,

Let me wash your feet.

 

Sobbing I see, you come to my level,

You kneel with me, and take my hands,

Both of them,

My heart beats faster, as I look straight into His eyes,

‘You needn’t wash my feet’, says the gesture,

‘For now, just weep’,

 

God, I know all I have is cheap!

You know the levels to which I steep,

But you are not a King of distance,

You humble to my level,

Hear my repentance,

I Love You Lord!

You are close,

Call me your Child!

My tears, happy, released, fall wild!

For the joy you instill is mine,

I who call you Abba!

You have not called me merely to wash your feet-

But to hold your hands and walk through the steep,

Together we do every step,

Breath to breath my hope is here,

And every breath as you become more clear,

You my hope, become more dear.

Love, an imperfect one. (Happy Mother’s Day)

I don’t know if I was raised “right”,
I’ve a lot of things I’m working on-
But at least I’m working on them.
I don’t have it all together, but hey, I’m human.

And I think of the future and all the ways,
I want to help my ‘kids-to-be’,
And a lot is different from the way,
My momma brought up me,

And I fear the ways I could mess up,
Cave, and do it wrong,
It scares me to be an imperfect mom,
There are so many little things,
That seep into little shaped people,

And I’m only human.
But there are a thousand lessons I learned from my mom,
And some of them were wrong,
But she always trusted me to make that discernment,

And that is a lesson from my mother which I love,
One that gives me courage,
To work on the things I’m working on,
And to one day be an imperfect mom.

I have a lot to thank you for mom.
I’m only human and that makes me worry,
But so are you, and I still learned from how you loved me.
It’s scary to be imperfect, but you imperfectly showed me,
Growing comes from mistake and redirection,
There is beauty in imperfection.

Not at Once

They look at it, sift through it, and discard it,
As soon as they see they can’t find the logic in it,
And it’s exhausting to keep it coming,
When there’s nothing coming through,

I take a deep breath and gather it up,
Like a gathering of flowers I hold them close, like a hug,
And breath again to make sure the aroma’s just right,
And I feel the magic of it rise up in me,
I feel light,

And I blow with a gust and send the flowers flying into them,
And watch to see their eyes light up as the magic sneaks up the stem,
And magic flies full force into a calculating filter,
Which hurls scepticism out and allows nothing to bewilder
Because it’s not logical,

And no, perhaps it’s not logical, not all at once,
No, love and empathy and passion aren’t ration,
Not all at once,
Dreams and bigger dreams,
Have gaps too big to bridge them,
All at once.

But give me one plank,
Tomorrow give me one more,
And in a year I’ll show you the river,
From the other side of the shore,
It’s not all at once,

And it’s exhausting to keep believing,
That one day you’ll see it,
That you’ll receive the magic I’m breathing,
It’s tiring to keep gathering,

But I’ve got dreams for you,
Dreams for you to dream,
So give me a plank to place at the shore,
It won’t be at once,
But tomorrow give me one more.

Still, Still, Still

Can you imagine a lake without ripples?

Water and no waves?

If the wind stayed silent,

And the moon didn’t whisper to the tides,

 

Nothing shifts it disturbs it or lifts it,

It isn’t rocked or ripped or skipped on with rocks,

If Peter’s step never made a dent,

Oh child of little faith,

 

It’s peaceful, isn’t it?

Nothingness.

No flood, or rivers turning to blood,

No waters parting and no staff commanding,

 

It’s peaceful, isn’t it?

Be still after all, and know that He is God.

Still. Still. Still, I don’t feel reassured,

I don’t feel full of faith.

 

The image of waveless water,

Like a walking person who’s chest,

Doesn’t rise and fall with breath,

No disturbance, and no assurance,

 

Of the living going on inside.

It’s a paintless brush along a white canvas,

A dove spread its wings with no wind to push off,

No way to soar,

 

Like someone without awareness of the Spirit,

A Church who forgets to worship,

They are not moved by God,

Its whispers of Yahweh, silenced,

 

Still no disturbance, Still no rage,

Still no turmoil, struggle, Still nothing to engage,

We are still, still, still un-content,

With waves made of glass, I’m still made of fret,

 

See life isn’t lifeless, loveless or sighless,

We need not stillness around us,

We need the trees to have breath,

And leaves to swirl in a mess,

 

We need not still lakes and ground bound birds,

Or ground bound hearts, or ground bound words,

We need movement we need guidance,

To guide us into stillness, not of Earth, but us,

 

Be still, don’t still the circumstance,

Be still, don’t wish away the waves,

That wash away our wanting,

The Lord is my shepherd, lie down dear one,

 

For child of little faith,

We learned from Peter’s fall,

We celebrated the parting waves,

And we were cleansed with the flood,

 

We sit in stillness in silence in soaring,

Not to silence and still the waves,

Sit still and silent, sit steadfast,

To pull the waves around you, and listen to their crash,

 

Sit and gather the ripples of wind,

Pouring through you, toward you like a blanket,

Gather them round you and hide in them awhile,

Lose yourself in the memory of what God has done,

 

And is doing,

He isn’t still, He isn’t silent,

He’s dancing and singing and working,

And waves are to dance and sing in response,

 

It’s okay. Stop dancing, singing and working,

For a moment,

And watch the waves dance in response.

You reach toward us,

You don’t shy away,

In our rags you see strands of silk,

Your breath rushes toward my back,

Pushes me to the fingertips of the waves, whose Spirit laps over my feet,

Your heart captures my hands,

Winds swirl around our dance,

A step, a step, a cautious hop,

I’m swept, I’m swept into an exhale that never stops,

A hop a hop a hop to a leap,

Fallen into the deep,

Fulfilled in the sweep,

Under the monster waves are an angel’s caves,

Worship’s home,

Prayer’s natural groan,

Singing echo of deep sea winds,

High notes of falling sins,

The dance of the current ,

Flowing through a heart of a servant,

The dance of the current,

Surging in song,

The dance only stopping,

Where the gates of the water open,

Where it is forced up for the Israelites to make their way,

through the plains of His Plans,

His intricately woven strands,

Of silk in the rags.