A Cloud at Sunset

Oh, how I skim along the sky
Near the dying, sinking sun
I feel its rays upon my back 
I wonder, sigh and run

I take on grey and purple hue
And mix within the palette 
I mingle with the twilight blue
I stop and muse about it. 

I sense the shadows of the night
And cling to day's waning power
The rosy pink gilding
Streams into my sunset bower

Like rivulets of the Nile
The golden threads of light
Break through my boundaries
Streaking me orange-bright

As the Empress melts into the ground
Flooding the horizon with glory
I darken emerald-azure
Like a treasure in a forgotten quarry

The sun's gaudy train fades
And I lose my brightness with her
I am but a cloud that is made lovely
When her last light is left uncensored

Lessons From a Dirty Closet

I tackled the daunting today. I cleaned my closet.

It was a "caliber of disaster." The nice little room, with shelves and rods, was spic and span last June. But much has happened since that sunny month, and entropy has made the closet its own personal playground. Odds and ends had accumlated. Disorganized piles spread like an infectious disease. Its disarray began to mar the tidy appearance of my bathroom and bedroom. Even with the closet door shut, I knew what clutter lurked inside.

And so today, I took a deep a breath. And conquered the mighty mess.

As I sorted and discarded, I considered the symbolism of my dirty closet. It's like my human <3.

Offensive dust balls cowered in the corners. I discovered trash, old papers, and broken items. I came across things that didn't even belong to me. A paper plate splattered with paint. My sister's contacts. A protracter. Letters. Chalk. A chocolate heart. I kept the dear, and the threw the trash.

What dust I have in my heart. What filth. The trash and junk accumulate. Brokenness pervades. I've allowed my heart to hold onto things that don't even belong to me - coveting what belongs to others, and hoarding it in my heart.

Clean clothes were strewn about. A few dirty clothes were folded neatly. The clean, yet discarded clothes represent the jumbled mess of priorities in my heart. Good priorities that have been dropped, and lost, and forgotten. I hung the clean, but wrinkled, clothes up - placing them in their specific place - (Shout out to all the color-coders out there!). The dirty clothes, I tossed in the washer. Some things that shouldn't, have taken tops in my heart. These selfish priorities need washing. The motives behind them need cleansing.

The Closet-Cleaning-Project took time. It required work. And desire. And caffiene. Had it been in the summer, it would have taken some perspiration. But slowly the closet became a lovely, organized room again. It was set right.

I am the closet. I am the disarray. I invite the dust. I collect the junk and trash. I cling to brokenness. I discard the most important priorities. I hold the clutter in behind closed doors. I am a dirty heart. Oh, who shall save me from myself? Who shall cleanse this heart? Who shall discard the junk, and wipe the grimy surfaces clean? Who shall make it lovely? Who shall set it right?

It is He who is knocking at my heart's door. He knows what clutter lurks behind, but even so, He has come to conquer the mighty mess.

He has come to set right what has been wrong for so long.

The Stalemate

Echoes plummeting from the peaks.

Dancing. Marching. Haunting streets 

With dark intentions, Night steals over Day

Cloaking light in His own way.

Transformed by the death of Dawn,

The Queen is dead, killed by the Pawn.

Voices murmuring amid the dark.

Raindropped statues in the park. 

And though the mystery doth prevail,

The path of morn' awaits to sail.

While moonlight lingers carefree,

Ringing chimes in the upper belfry.

Waves ebbing, breakers roll.

Crashing white. Overwhelming seamen's souls.

The wrath of Night cannot sleep,

Like coral castles in the deep.

The hush is loud, the tone is rough.

Crying sadly, "It is enough."

Leaves twisting, twirling past.

Singing. Sighing. Riding fast.

Midnight's come, and Midnight's gone,

The Phantom dances on the lawn.

The darkest point is coming soon,

And with it's passing, a lighter tune.

Piano music drifting out,

Down the alley, from the flat.

Human melody creates a hold,

Warming a Night turned burning cold.

The window lights shine faintly ill

Like some eyes unblinking still. 

Ancient creaks breaking silence.

Cavernous shadows. Geological science.            

Musty wind shudders with a wail

It knows the Queen will again prevail

She’ll come in time to reclaim

All that was Hers, which Night took away.

Wheat fields drifting 'neath the moon.

Watching. Waiting. Falling soon. 

Shadows crawl across the lands,

Misting acres with their hands.

Dew is setting into sleep;

The harvest readying to be reaped.

Ruins dying in desert lands. 

Crumbling obelisks in star-kissed sands. 

Amber skies are waking

Morning burns, light is breaking

Time yawns, Night’s day is ending

The Pawn retreats, with demise pending

Street lamps burning in the yards.

Flickering. Floating. Lighted shards.

The Queen awakens, holding Dawn.

The world waves goodbye to a broken Pawn.

Night is dead, and Day’s alive.

The board’s reset, and so life strives.

We Mis/DisCommunicate

"Oh, us and our good intentions."
"Good intentions are the road to good deeds."
"Dot. Dot. Dot. So, we'll make soap!"

Love is Not a Passing Bravery

            Thousands of opportunities to demonstrate love knock on my heart daily. To encourage a struggling brother. To comfort a hurting friend.  To pick up where another left off. To forget for a second, my wants, and to instead meet another's. To clean up messes, prevent wounds, and shoulder burdens. To wash feet. To serve as Christ did.

             Instead of welcoming Opportunity to Love with open arms, I often hide behind the shades, cowardly waiting until it leaves. I shoo it away - away from my door, far from my eyes. I deadbolt my door against it. Many days, I spend all my time behind those curtains; and some days, I never even hear Opportunity knocking. I convince myself that I'm honorably ignoring a distraction - to open that door will only sidetrack me. But in truth, with every cringe behind those dark curtains, I lose the extraordinary opportunity to share in the gospel of Love. I say "no" to putting my flesh to death. I forfeit the opportunity to emulate Christ and grow in His Spirit. Every time Opportunity to Love walks away in resignation from my door,  I lose. Tremendously.

             And somehow, in all this curtain hiding, peep-hole peeking, door bolting, I still manage to believe that I DO love. I do care about others. Would someone please hand me a dictionary and show me the definition for "Delusional"? I do occasionally help someone out {okay, so usually there's an ulterior motive}. Those I care about, I'll go the extra mile for, but so long as it isn't painful, or too boring, or humbling, or disruptive to my day. . . and, boy, if it is, you can be sure I'm complaining about it in my heart. I "love" when it's easy; when it's popular, when it benefits me. I have clasped to this distorted view of love, or more accurately, the lack thereof. I  I have worn it. I have chased it. I have proudly attempted to love others without causing any discomfort to myself - and all this has been done in the name of love. For the cause of me. How utterly deceptive.

             "Love - I made it mine. I made it small; I made it blind. I followed hard only to find. It wasn't love."

             It wasn't love.

             But this is . . .

             Love bared His flesh to bloodying lashes. Love humbly accepted spit upon His face. Love bore in silence, a humiliating crown of thorns crushed upon His brow. Love took nails driven crudely through His skin, shattering bone and ligament. As life dwindled from His veins and breath from His lungs, Love forgave the depraved generation, hurling vulgarities at Him. In the greatest demonstration of love, time has ever known, Love became His Father's rejection. Love drank the cup - the draught frothing with the sin of man, the cup that would require the full vengeance of God's wrath.

             And the night before this ultimate love offering, Love knelt to tenderly wash the dust-caked feet of His followers. In His hands -  soon be rendered asunder by metal barbs - He gently took and cleaned the feet of His betrayer. Love served. Love protected. Love kept no record of wrongs. Love did not boast. Love was not self-seeking. Love did not hide behind curtains. Love took the washbasin, and became the Servant. Love accepted the nails, and became the slaughtered Lamb.

            And this was done under the Banner of Love. For the Cause of redeeming the depraved captives.

            This was Love. 

            It's time to take the curtains down.

           "Love not of you. Love not of me. Come hold us up; come set us free. Not as we know it, but as it can be."

Quotes taken from Sara Groves' song, "Love". 

There You'll Find Me by Jenny B. Jones

         In There You'll Find Me, Finley Sinclair, 18 year-old hotel heiress, {Paris Hilton, anyone?} enrolls in an Ireland student exchange program to find relief, inspiration, and reconciliation with God. Relief from the haunting of her older brother's recent death, murdered by Taliban terrorists. Inspiration for her upcoming violin audition - her ticket into the New York music conservatory. And reconciliation with a God whom she claims has kept her on hold, and waiting in silence for far too long. 

          But through many painfully unrealistic coincidences Finley is constantly thrown into the company of teen heartthrob, Beckett Rush. Beckett, the leading star in the filming of a rabidly famous vampire movie, {Edward Cullen, anyone?} helps Finley locate a egnimatic Celtic cross in exchange for her services as a script runner. Finley is certain that this specific relic, captured on film by her deceased brother, will bring closure to his death and the culminating inspiration for her composition. 

         ...And that's basically the story. Throw in some mean girl drama, a side story of a dying woman's regret, Beckett's very unhollywood-like gentleman behavior, Finley's mental and emotional struggles, and a very predictable everyone-is-happy-forevemore ending sums it up in a nutshell. 

        I found There You'll Find Me to be extremely unrealistic; the plot was remedial; the characters were more or less undeveloped, and the ending was cookie-cutter boring. The book wasn't bad; it just wasn't good. But, that's solely my opinion. There You'll Find Me has 4 1/2 stars on Amazon. The reviews there are very favorable. Towards the end, the book explores spiritual threads of forgiveness, self-deception, and peace. But even so, I was disappointed. It failed to hit me at the heart or play with my mind.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com <http://BookSneeze®.com> book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 

Postings To Resume Soon

             "There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate's loot on Treasure Island." -Walt Disney