:: kinsman redeemer

{via pinterest}

i wish i could reach down and smear my fingertips with paint and streak them across your eyes so you can see what i see.

i want to look up and count the stars, the ones tucked away in a sacred place that even my own human eyes cannot find them. the ones that were there the night among the piles of honey-toned barley where a whispered exchange passed between the lips of a man and a once-cursed foreign beauty.

spread your cloak over me, for you are my kinsman redeemer. 

and she slept that night on the threshing floor at the bared feet of a man who swore to save her, joining the ranks of the world-forgotten women that reached up and wept to be seen.

she was third of five, this Moabitess who begged for the covering from her saviour-turned-groom. they all bore the familiar shame, the whispers and pointed fingers. they were stamped with an ugly word, one too quickly spoken still two thousand years down the road. but from their blood, oft murmured "tainted," came the Life-Bringer.

:: the One who spoke to the slave in the wilderness, 

who rested hands on the unclean and whispered

dearest daughter

I knew you would not be long...

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there's a reason that Lewis wrote so often of the breath of the Lion on the face of those He treasured. the wind from the mouth of the Risen One against the cheek of His bride, the whisper in the night that He is coming to bathe me in Light. i am not forgotten.

the rocks on the seashore, grit and earth and dirt

until they are picked up by the fingers of one who knows

and then they are treasures. 

so i'm finding my own place on the threshing floor, under the stars with the moon as a witness, and speaking to the One who is not safe, but oh, so good

spread Your cloak over me, 

just let me touch the hem

// for You are my kinsman redeemer 

broken stems dancing

{photo by dramaticelegance}

today is the day i forgot my laptop. all i have is twenty-four coloured pencils in their brand-new packaging, and a black ink pen, and the new shinji moon book from rain. and i'm sitting here, tucked neatly away in the corner of the coffee shop, in the frustration, and i've decided to exhale instead.

because i'm eternally grateful for this life, to the One who breathed life in the whispering silence of nothing. and i have hands and fingers and the knowledge to write at all, and that's something alone.

and the homeless man from under the bridge came in with barely enough quarters for hot coffee, hold the cream, and i didn't look up from my phone. because the way he spoke made me uncomfortable. he spoke poverty and a world i didn't know, and it hurt my pride.

and then i looked up and saw the two flowers in the vase in the window, and one was whole and the other was broken. but i didn't judge the broken flower like i did the homeless man. and neither did the other flower in the same vase, in the same world. and their stems touched and draped one over the other.

and i judge me now. silly backwards upside down heart.

:: He promised, after all.

{via pinterest}

come to Me

all you who are laden-heavy

and I will give you rest. 

and He brought the long-haired one into His temple as perfume dripped down from the strands like material world whispers of love. and the men murmured under their breath with priestly robes clutched tight in holier-than-thou fingers,

"He must not know what kind of woman is touching Him."

and He reaches down and lifts her chin, and i catch her eye for the barest second. and i realize, she is me. and i am touching Him. and He loves, oh how He loves.

sometimes, i don't know who this woman is, either. the one who dares to remember His death until He comes. the one who wraps the scarlet chord -- yes, that simple sweet melody written in the blood of the spotless Lamb, the Lion of Judah -- around her soul and clutches there, tight. the one who wanders with the moon to the tune of clucking tongues and shaking head and scolding words.

and i wish i could write the way this music feels when He reaches out and takes my soul in His hand and softly whispers,

daughter
may I have this dance?

Tracks

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel's sake.  The great affair is to move.  ~Robert Louis Stevenson

So many things in this world captivate the poet in me.

So many little things that go unnoticed by most...somehow, they draw me in, whispering for me to tell their story and share the truths locked within their silent beating hearts.

I don't dare turn a deaf ear to their pleas.

Train tracks sing such a song to me...one that I simply cannot ignore.

They speak of so many things...

 -- of strength, for how many courageous brides clutched their carpet bags to their chests as the clicking of the wheels drew them closer and closer to their yet-unmet grooms...

When Jacob saw Rachel...he kissed her on the mouth and began to weep.

-- of bravery, for how much youths gaze upon the train doors, worn suitcases at their feet, preparing to carry their broken souls and sunken eyes home to aching-hearted parents with white ribbons tied to trees...

Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.

-- of love, for how many pairs of hands have brushed from window to platform, with now only letters to  keep them together...how many hands returned empty, and how many brushed palm-to-palm again with silver and gold bands to caress one against the other. 

Place me as a seal over your heart...for love is as strong as death. 

Yes, train tracks speak of so many wonders. The burdens they bear are full to the brim with so many stories of love and loss, of seats cracked with snuggling and windows stained with tears of longing and brokenness. 

Train tracks sing these powerful melodies...

...melodies best not ignored. 

And there is the headlight, shining far down the track, glinting off the steel rails that, like all parallel lines, will meet in infinity, which is after all where this train is going. ~Bruce Catton

(Don't forget to enter DramaticElegance's current whimsical giveaway, running until the end of August 2011.)

grace alone

Photo: the sacred life
Artist Unknown

Sometimes, it amazes me just close to the edge I can get.

Just how much I can wander right along the knife-blade without tipping downward.

forward.

Just how far from the seat of forgiveness I can step before I realize that the ground has since disappeared

i am walking on Grace alone.

Sometimes, I find myself at a loss for how much poetry I dream and then promptly forget upon my waking.

It is a powerful ache to realize just how much this world of chaos, of tears, of sleep-stolen moments and overbooked days has ripped my art from me.

It used to be a poem I breathed...a poem of mercy and love that never ceased but only continued to run and run until the stanzas were breathless with words of Him.

And then I awoke. And I forgot it all again.

And then I remember.

i walk on Grace alone 

that lingers in the day and in the night, in the waking and the sleeping.

i breathe His poem.

all hours. all days.

No more knife blade. No more ripped parchment.

i walk on Grace alone. 

Linking up with Emily: imperfect prose on Thursdays, even though this is a Wednesday.
This may become a weekly song. 

Forgiven

"For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little." ~Luke 7:47

I know that this blog is prone to lean to the more poetic side of my life. Elegant musings on springtime, reflections on holidays, or just the delicate moments of my own life which I chose to make important for whatever reason.

But not this time.

This time I need to be raw. Real.

Because, to be honest, I've never realized ANYTHING like this before.

It's scary...but here goes.

I have an issue with letting myself be forgiven.

In fact, I think that I believe that I am entire unworthy of forgiveness.

That my past mistakes -- and even those I have yet to make -- have set me in a place where I past the point of being forgiven by anyone.

Not by those I love.

Not by myself.

Not even by God.

And then, I spent a nearly sleepless night, curled up with tears pouring down my face. Every time I closed my eyes, it was like a horrific home movie playing back behind my eyelids...replaying every awful moment, every moment of shame, every whisper of guilt.

But suddenly, someone switched off the projector.

There was nothing left but darkness. And the voice of Jesus Christ.

"I forgive you. You are forgiven. Your shame is gone. You have to let go. You have to let yourself be forgiven."

And so I let one finger slide off the edge.

I'm slowly letting go.

I'm accepting forgiveness.

From the ones who love me more than anything.

From the ones who could have given up on me...but didn't.

From the ones who would die for me.

And from the One who already did.