Robert Frost in China

Blurred in red and yellow

Smeared with dancing green streaks

It falls nearly into the sea

Right up against the harbor wall it stretches

Reaching out against the purple waters

Toward the Pearl tower and river barges

The street, it teems with humanity

Nations sweep together, body to body

Languages clash and mingle like friends and enemies

While old Europe stands in architectural silence

And with quiet courage, the Canadian flag salutes from the Peace Hotel

The crush of life roils like breakers through the wide avenue

Hopping, and pushing, and scraping by

With shopping bags

And Korean beef on sticks

With fake Coach purses

And counterfeit Ray Bans

The men spit

And smoke

Its acridity holds court in the street

Amidst the roar of world

On this busiest thoroughfare

There off of it, lies an alley

Dark and shadowed

Broken slats of stone, upended and uneven

It is quieter, colder, more wondering

And from its glooms she appears

Small, short, and in many ways like a child

With plastic slipper flops, worn down and filthy

She eagerly takes us by the hand and leads us

Like children, deeper into the humid recesses of the backstreet

The deep subtlety of rotten fruit and sewage saunters with us

Like pennants, laundry hangs bannered across the width of the alley

Around a corner,

In plastic chairs, families and neighbors sit

Talking and spitting and smoking

They are waiting for us

Watching for us

Their voices rise in excitement

They lead us into their shop

Small, but overflowing

With cheap gold buddhas

XL t-shirts that shrink three sizes

Scarves, swords, chopsticks, and jade bracelets

Broken Mandarin jags out of our mouths

As we haggle and barter

We are tough customers, they are tough sellers

But the silence and solitude of the empty store pulls us in to linger

To drink in the mystery of this lonely shop, passed by

By millions who tread the world’s busiest road a few yards away.

Finally we depart, with more cheap souvenirs and less Yuan.

Our Ziajian’s echo from the alleyway as we wave goodbye to the shop owners

They turn out the light in the shop

Lock the sliding door

And return to their plastic chairs

Awaiting the next straggle of wanderlusting tourists

The darkness slips away into red and yellow lanterns and neon lights, and Starbucks and Apple and Forever 21 and Nike, as we wend our way back to rejoin the throng of nations

Crushed against the flow, walking toward the East China Sea as it
Rises up in undulating waves to hug the end of the Road.

paris. 1922.

Apple-shriveled

Time worn

She sits

In heavy solitude

As August sun

Seeps through crumbling brocade

Into the maple-paneled room

Dust, eternally trapped

Rides the somber rays

In filmy, choking ranks

Her only observer

Her faithful attendant

A vintage brooch of peacock visage

Upholds her dwindling tangle

Of dalmation hair

     Tumbling

       Tumbling

             Down 

In stringy wisps

About her wizened shoulders

Her crinkly eyes

Still distinctly blue,

Yet less distinctly seeing

Gaze at the tarnished mirror

Her reflection

haphazarded

by cracks

and

rust

The faded wingback chair supports her fragile frame

Its damask pattern

worn

and

frayed

as much as she

Ancient punch stains and

Historical coffee spills

Stalwart mementoes of former days

In her lap

Lies a pink satin sheath

With tucks and pleats

And loosened stitchings

Her purple-veined hands

As agile as eagle talons

Caress the smocking

Rub

Rub

The smoothness of the mother-of-pearl buttons

With childlike tenderness

She fingers the yellowed lace hem

And in her

Trembling tracings

She recalls the years of the dress

The silent moments

It contains

And

The old grandfather clock

Ticking out of tune

Ticks

And

Ticks on

The only sound in this catacombic room

And over her head hangs the cobwebbed chandelier

Many years fallen asleep

Perhaps never to be awakened

From slumber

In green mottled frames

Dripped with

Water stains

From ceiling leaks

Photographs of bygone faces

Stare out from the

Paper prisons

Holding their breaths

In resignation

And

The clock ticks on

Out of tune

Out of rhythm

Keeping time as he’s bidden

The mirror trembles

Under the weight of a passing generation

And 

Outside in the street

A little girl

Jumps 

Rope

Marriage-Happy Christianity?

Altared: The True Story of a She, a He, and How They Both Got Too Worked Up About We

By Eli and Claire

Altared instantly piqued my interest. How could it not? It stuck out like a sore thumb {or like a garden gnome in a desert}. It is revolutionary. Possibly offensive, perhaps flippant? It is a Christian book actually advocating for a less all-consuming, obsessive view of marriage. Now that's a book to pick apart and digest.

With a grain of salt, I read devoured it, and found it to be one of the most thought-provoking books that I have ever read.

Altared is co-authored by a young couple who wrote under the pseudonyms, "Eli" and "Claire". Throughout the book, they weave the re-telling of their own "love story". But in between remembrances of their long-distance relationship, they tell a deeper story - one that reverabates throughout the Christian community, seemingly growing stronger with passing generations and the uptick of romance novels: the all-consuming view of marriage.

What? There is something wrong with the evangelical community's approach to marriage? It sounds strange. It may be offensive to some. But the arguments that Eli and Claire set forth are worth the contemplation. They cover a lot of ground in the book, and though I can not adequately express their extensive thoughts in a short blog post, I have included a few of their perceptions below.

1) Why do churches - all across America and throughout the denominations - nudge the singles in their congregations down the aisle? Why are singles the most marginalized group in the Church? Why is there an unsaid rule that singles aren't functioning members of the church (or community) until they are married?

Perhaps because the evangelical community is marriage-happy. Because it is assumed that every person should get married; that everyone should want to get married; that everyone, except for a finite few, will eventually get married; and, as such, everyone of marriageable age should get married ASAP, regardless of the bigger picture: The perfect will of God.

Eli and Claire back up their points with scripture, and reflect that perhaps we have gotten it all wrong - terribly wrong. Perhaps as a community, we have taken God's gift of marriage, and made the gift our god - singles and marrieds alike. Perhaps marriage and the pursuit of it has overwhelmed our thoughts, our desires, our questful thirst, our hearts unto a sinful amount.

Eli and Claire qualify that they do not disdain marriage or the God-given glory and beauty of the institution; they simply query if our motives for marriage are based in selfish desires or instead based in a heart duly surrendered unto God.

2) Is this marriage-happy state in the Christian community preventing believers from whole-heartedly and purposefully fulfilling God's command to love one's neighbor?

It's a big command {second only to loving the Lord}, and Eli and Claire note that the command should not become any less important when one becomes of marriageable age or becomes married. Perhaps our marriage-happy community has blurred the lines, and in the midst of loving one's family {a wonderful act in and of itself}, we have forgotten the enormous value of loving as a family unit. Perhaps in the pursuit for a spouse, Christian singles are neglecting numerous and constant opportunities to love their neighbor. Perhaps married Christians have come to see loving their spouse as their highest and most important duty before God, and thus they have casually thrown by the wayside the command to love one's neighbor. It's certainly food for thought.

3) Has the Christian community's approach to teaching the essence and holiness of purity been based on the wrong motives.

Eli and Claire point out {and I must agree based on the books I've read} that the Christian community has taught the youth to remain pure for their future spouse. Nothing wrong with that, but for the motive. Why be pure? So you can save yourself for you future spouse. What about instead preaching a purity based simply out of faithful obedience to God's command - future spouse or not. With this motive, the quest for purity no longer relies on man; it quells the waiting anxiety; it takes the impatient heart off of the hazy, unknown future spouse, and instead refocuses it to look towards God and His righteousness.

Eli and Claire include so many more thoughts and propositions in their book - each as thought-provoking as the last. Many readers may disagree with Eli and Claire; and to most, the content may sound distantly offensive - distantly, because they cannot put their finger on the discordant theme, but the subtle presence is there nonetheless. The offensive aura of the book may simply be rooted in the foreignness of the thoughts enclosed - the thoughts that just maybe God is less worked up about marriage than we are.

I received this book for free from WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for this review, but the opinions expressed in this post are mine.

Indelible by Kristen Heitzmann

Indelible. I felt a tinge of hesitation. I had to read it on my computer, downloaded to Adobe Reader. I'm a book person. I like pages, and paper, and raised lettering on the covers. But it was the weekend - one of those big, long comfy weekends that makes reading a happy event - and so, I decided to give Kristen Heitzmann's recently released, Indelible, a try. I had it read by the end of that long, comfy weekend. 367 pages. It took a top spot on my all-time favorite Christian novels list.

It's a story of redemption, of transformation, of Godly order out of sinful chaos. And it all takes place in the, by all appearances, sleepy town of Redford, Colorado - a rural community situated in the treacherous Rockies. {I confess: I'm a sucker for these rural, sleepy town plots}. But behind the generic faces of Redford's own, lie specific stories - stories of loss in a lost world - abandonment, suicide, abortion, divorce. Everyone has a wound. Heitzmann phenomenally articulates each individual's pain. She takes her reader into the soul of a Fleur, the blind artist; into the brain of Natalie, the young sculptor with the eidetic memory; into the heart of Trevor, a member of the emergency mountain rescue team; into the mind of obsessive compulsive Miles. It is one of those treasure books, in which, you become a character yourself - you taste the fear, sense the anxiety, and revel in the goodness that all the actual characters experience.

Heitzmann writes an engaging thriller - one that is both suspenseful, and yet well-written. A tough combination to find in Christian lit.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the Waterbrook Multnomah 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

Love Does:

Discover a Secretly Incredible Life in an Ordinary World
By Bill Goff

It's a refreshing compilation of anecdotal stories drawn from author, Bill Goff's very life experiences. He was the kid who talked his way in to law school; the man who unintentionally became a U.S. diplomat; the home-owner who was visited by a foreign prince; the guy who played a $$$ prank on his best friend; the gentleman who sent flowers to the lady who totaled his jeep...

Truly the amazing stories are made all the more appealing by Bill Goff's hilarious style of writing and dry humor. He is able to pull it off, more or less, without coming across as arrogant.

If the book were simply a string of these life stories, I would give the book 5 stars (yes, the stories are that fascinating). However, with every story, Goff tries to weave it back to Jesus. This in itself is not bad, but stretching scripture to apply to stories, and vice versa, is. The spiritual "tie-in" attempts are generally shallow and eventually became tiresome: "[Jesus] already digs us more. And more than that, our pictures are already in His wallet."

In addition, much of the spiritual discourse is very elementary; Goff introduces important biblical characters, i.e., Joshua, Paul, Judas, as if the reader probably does not have any clue as to who they are.  This seems unnecessary as the book is written to Christians, not unbelievers.

In my book, Love Does gets 3 our 5 stars.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the 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 

2012: In Review

Thankful for yet another year of life. Thankful for hugs from friends. For family convos over morning coffee. For trips to Southern California. For China. And all the "little things" that I have recorded throughout the year. In looking back over my gratefulness journal, I find that those "little things" - often overlooked - are some of life's most precious moments and blessings.

2012 Snapshot Moments of Simple Gifts

Truth from young lips. Bittersweet tears. Kumquats. Alarm clocks. Tenacity. Nate's green eyes. Flexible friends. Griffin Robert Gibson. Cough drops. Bedside prayers. Literacy. Godly parents. Randomly recalling fragments of old dreams. Taste. Sunrises. Sister-Sister heart shares. Sufficient grace. Waffles. Pine forests shining golden-orange from sun-rays. Museums. Teen-hood. Preserved vintage buildings. The Olympics. Greek food. Leah Horvath. The Man Who Was Thursday. Smiles exchanged. Shampoo. Ron Paul work. Hymns and poetry. Pre-birthday hugs from Mom. Peaceful nights. Youth. The van. Restaurant leftovers brought home. Texas Independence. Forgiveness and do-overs. A "hugging" family. Lung-breathing, heart-beating life. Green cow pastures. The joy and peace of knowing God. Payday. Braids. Thomas Hardy. The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Plane tickets. Raw sugar. LOTR soundtrack. Scottish heritage. For time given. Screwtape Letters. Mint Oreos. Jesus. Chinese Fortune Cookies. Tear-jerker movies and books. Singleness. The love of a jealous God. Gummy bears. Girl date with Mom. Americana. TieDye shirts. Repetition of life. Toes. Lighthouses. Morgan. Wild grapes. Hugs from Garrett. Gelato with the fam. 70's dress. Sister reunions. Zoos. The box-car kids. Madelyn Hart. Rilla of Ingleside. Car rides with Leah. Family trees. Heirlooms. Mini-homeschool reunions. Natural rights. Remembering. Clean kitchens. Panicked prayers. A protective Dad. Prosperity. Security. Salvation. Fruit popsicles. MOM. Suffrage. Indica Peace. My cousins. Seth Gaines Gibson. Naps. The Titanic. Heroics. Lightening storms. Ultrasound images. Closure. Youth Governors. Symbolism. Talks with Mom and Dad in the morning. Scotch-Irish folk music. China. Room 316. Journal parties. Nations. Sour plum juice. Elevator comfort. Orlando's dear friendship.  Moral support. The Elams. Soul-deep peace. Brothers. Imagination. Spontaneous family trips. Walmart parking lot hugs. OCD.  Anticipating joy for the next day. Spontaneous closet dance party with Nate. Generations in the house. Gracious library policies. Thorp Spring Church and Cemetery. Ancestry. The origins of dirt paths and bovine psychology. "Runaway Car". 1776. Mr. Martin. Mellow Man. Deep convos with Biff. Cuddling with Nate. Jyp and Dym. Learning assertivenesss. 800 Critical Reading score. Tears of repentance. Fried turkey. 1976 Christmas cassette. Hearing stories from my parents' childhoods. Auld Lang Syne. Life in all its richness and poignancy. This blessed, amazing year.

And here's to another year, full of God's sweet blessings and mercies. He maketh our cups run over.

November

Harvest moon glows like a

Tipping canoe in a black sea

Bare, stretching tree fingers

Criss-cross its face --

Grey rivulets against the yellow silhouette 

The precarious vessel

Seems at rest

Not bobbing

Just subtly in time

Drifting further down in

The dark sky expanse

Of waters

Sinking deeper

A constant

Though sparse

Mingling of stars

Range as points of reference

As buoys and distant lighthouses

For the lonely canoe

And the wind cannot wreck it

Nor waves beat upon it

It sinks because it has

Been commanded to do so

And even now,

The slender ship dips into obscurity 

The Homeland is Elsewhere

It is a longing

Growing deeply

Ever intense

Subtle sighing of the soul

Reminds the traveler

Where he is going

The dark canyons and

Sudden cliffs seem endless

The shadowed valleys and

Dreary fogged lands stretch out

Seemingly forever

And weariness may linger

Bruises may form

Blisters will scab

And wounds – of battles –

Foreign battles in a foreign land

Ache as only man’s flesh aches

But the traveler moves on

Waiting and watching for that sudden rise

For the swift glory of majestic mountains

For a valley of golden light

For the burning longing testifies to it

The longing that was tucked away in his soul

Since his first birth

And awakened and kindled in his second birth

That knowledge spurs

The traveler on towards

The unseen, yet known land

He has been a foreigner

Wandering aimfully

In this dry and thirsty land

All his life

But it wasn’t until his second birth

That he understood

That his homeland was elsewhere

He was not a native-son

And even now, he walks

Through the darkest passage yet

His man-heart trembles

But the Friend who has reawakened

The longing

Is with him

And the traveler is strengthened

For he is nearing

The place that

Odes

And poems

And songs

Have memorialized

Yet failed to represent

A place of returning

A haven of welcoming

A going home

And The Shadow passes

And the traveler with a final step

Leaves behind the foreign land

The land of vultures

And before his hungry eyes

He sees a valley ever wide

Rising up through forested trees

To mountains of unseeable heighth

And the golden light of an eternal dawn

Breaks through the groves and meadows

Gilding the wings of soaring eagles

And haloing a dwelling

And to this dwelling

The traveler’s eyes are drawn

His world-weary eyes are satisfied

And the longing wells

In his soul like tears of the ocean

The doors are all flung open

The windows all a-jar

For him

Welcoming

Beckoning

And with a swiftness

Of a renewed soul

The traveler nears the house

And the darkness

Of the former lands

Are forgotten

The worries and cares

Are erased

His memory

Is only for this dwelling

In the celestial valley

How often his soul

Dreamed of this place

How often his Friend

Would whisper to him

Of its beauty and peace

And before the grand house he comes

With no fear of rejection

Nor hesitation in his mind

But as a son coming home

To those who love him

And think of him by day

And by night

And he enters

And the welcome

Is a fulfillment of all hope

That was ever hoped

And he is embraced

By those who have longed

For his arrival

And the celebration is sweet

And his wounds are dressed

By the Faithful Friend

The Balm of Gilead

Eases the pain

And blisters heal

And the bruises disappear

And the traveler’s dusty

Dirty

Ripped

Blood-stained

Garments are exchanged

For the white raiment

Of the Household

And the son

Sees familiarity everywhere

There is nothing unknown

Every crevice in the house

Comes into focus

As if from a dream

From a recollection imprinted

On his heart

And the longing

Once burning, hurting

Is now

Satisfied and redeemed

And it rests as a quiet song

In the son’s heart

A hymn of salvation

October

Time in ribbon roads

Swiftly twirl from sight

Woven like thread through history

Through the rear-view mirror

The fields meld in crayon golds

And discarded greens

Away

The amber rays of a sinking sun

Reminscient of days given

Of time had

Of moments in life

Autumn breathes

It’s like seeing

Daily Life in vintage daguerreotypes

The road turns

Inverted

Pines embrace and reach out

Across the road

Now disappearing

Scenery drifts

Changing

Journal entries

Remember the mundane

The bronzed roadside reeds

Bend, unbruised

Always unbruised

Water reflections

Tell the thought of the skies

Tradition survives

Because of generations

And homes

And old photographs

And rear-view mirrors

And because of the beauty

Of Time given

Grateful:

adjective 1. warmly or deeply appreciative of kindness or benefits received

Life's been pretty non-stop busy lately. I'm speaking for myself, but I bet you and I have this common. Just a guess. :)

I haven't written in my Thankfulness journal in over a month - a sad sign of what suffers when my calendar fills.

And in all of this alarm clock ringing, cell-phone talking, e-mail typing, stop-go driving, school-home-school-home routine {insert your specific come-go-come-go routine}, it's so worthwhile and important to really stop. STOP. And reflect. And give thanks. More than once a month or once a week. Every day.

This is my thankfulness . . .

breath. pine-sol. ceiling fans. celebrations. home. "amen, bob, amen." sunrises. weekly dates with the sister. hugs. stories. family gatherings. long goodbyes. icecream cake (yum). coffee. organization. generations. cute wrapping paper. dance lessons with griff ;). libraries. stationery. road trips. this season. grace. cooking. sleep. memories. nostalgia. spearmint. the righteousness of God. storytelling with seth and nate. blueberries and strawberries. gummibarchen. cousins. cool fronts. downy softener. ice. sincerity.

And I'm thankful for time to reflect. And for the time given.

Morning Musings:

     The sun-shadows illuminate the sleepy trees with dancing golden bars of light. The clouds - white and detailed - are dabbed across the canvas of a waking sky. Veiled in the mist, deer nuzzle through dew-jeweled grass. Quiet stillness. 

"Have you commanded the morning since your days began, 
     and caused the dawn to know its place,
that it might take hold of the skirts of the earth, 
     and the wicked be shaken out of it?" - Job 38:12-13

_________________________________________________________________________

Evening Thoughts: 

      It's deeply summer - an August eventide full of moon glow and whispered wind hushings. Streaks of bronze and dapples of gold gild the tiring fields. Harvest time is inevitable. And the waning summer season longs to embrace it. 

"Can you fasten the chains of the Pleiades
     or loosen the belt of Orion?
Can you bring out the constellations in their season
     and lead the Bear and her cubs? - Job 38:31-32

Insights Gained: China Trip 2012

            For three weeks in July, I went to China to teach conversational English to students. I would be the teacher - the one doing the instructing, right? That’s what I thought. But in so many ways, my position in China was as a student. I was the one taught. New understandings were opened up to my eyes. Fresh perspectives were added to my lens; misconceptions were discarded. Thankfully, I had a very gentle and wise Teacher during my stay in China. He only assigned lessons that I could handle, patiently guiding me when I hit a wall or was discouraged or just downright dumb. ;)

            God soul-stretched me. He opened up my soul with gentle prods, sweet revelations, and answered prayers. He lovingly revealed Himself to me – His way, His will, His strength, His ultimate authority. God renewed the joy of His salvation in my heart; He, the Consuming Fire, sparked my heart with a new perspective and understanding.

            For the first time in my life, I came to understand with clarity that God is truly the God of all nations. His love and plan break through all barriers – through bars of iron and gates of bronze, through language barriers and national boundaries and hardened hearts. God never changes from time zone to time zone or from generation to generation. His sovereignty knows no limit or variation. His love reaches to the blue skies here at home, as well as to the skies over China. Perhaps this all sounds so elementary, but for me to experience this revelation firsthand was profoundly impactful.

            However, more than anything, during this trip God revealed to my casual heart the precious pricelessness of secured salvation. Daily I came face to face with a people who had no hope – the vast majority did not know the name of Jesus, let alone the sweet redemption He offers. Never before had I seen such depth of hopelessness. It made me all the more conscious and grateful for the depth of Hope that fuels my life every single day. I came to realize that the precious assurance of salvation is that unexplainable peace that surpasses all understanding. What a beautiful, soaring peace it is to truly know one’s eternal salvation is secured and protected by God Himself. My eyes were opened and heart broken to see so many without knowledge of this Hope – the Hope that makes life worth living.

            Additionally, this experience in China reawakened in my heart the sweet longing for Christ’s return and the unification of the His Bride – the Church. I yearn more than ever for the glory of that coming day, when believers from all history, tribes, and nations will come together in worship before our Savior. Isaiah 25 was a chapter that I read over and over on the trip – oh, how I yearn for that Day on the Mountain. The veil will be torn from the nations. Death will be swallowed up forever, and the Sovereign Lord will wipe the tears from all faces. And we will say:

         “Behold our God upon Whom we have waited and hoped, that He might save us!  This is the Lord, we have waited for Him; we will be glad and rejoice in His salvation.”

                                                             

On that Day, our Hope will be fulfilled.

            The trip was truly soul-stirring; it was a “teaching moment” that lasted three weeks.  I will always treasure the memories of that time and cherish the relationships made and friendships forged. I thank the Lord for gently teaching me, for spiritually stretching me with great mercy and tenderness. I rejoice in all that He is doing in China and throughout the world. We serve an active God!

            “O Lord, You are my God; I will exalt You, I will praise Your name, for you have done wonderful things, even purposes planned of old in faithfulness and truth.” Isaiah 25:1

Belated Blog Christening

I was reformatting my blog today {thanks to some lovely malware issues - it's all resolved, folks} when I realized that I had never christened my blog with that traditional "First Blog Post Explaining the Inspiration Behind My Blog Title."
Yes, these post-types are a bit cliche, and not to mention that as mine is coming one year late, it is also anticlimatic.

But as the ancient men and poets of lore say, "Better late than never."

I wrote the following in September of last year. It seems to echo my thoughts behind my blog.


And because it was so beautiful, it set me longing, always longing. Somewhere else there must be more of it. It almost hurt me. The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing to find the Place where all the beauty came from. - C.S. Lewis in Till We Have Faces
 
      I had just spent an evening with family. Family that I loved dearly and saw rarely.  I am blessed with an extended family that shares the bond of salvation through Jesus Christ – that timeless bond with ties deeper than flesh and blood, uniting generations.  
      I was night-sky watching. Bewitched by the moon and her star-bright entourage, I thought and reflected and was burdened. A haunting sadness, a desperate longing, overwhelmed my heart. The emotion hurt, both numbing and burning. The hollow in my chest - where my heart beats and soul watches - felt pain. An intense yearning.  A sense of solitude – unadulterated aloneness – pulled at my heartstrings.
      I had just spent a lovely evening with some of my favorite people in the world, and yet something lacked. I had come up short.  I felt cheated. Because though I had glimpsed into the love of Christ and fellowship of His people that evening through the interaction of family, I knew, knew with all my heart, that there was more.  Beyond this life. There was Something dearer, purer, lovelier. Someone far more radiant. There had to be. The persistent longing said so.
      My soul wasn’t satisfied. It was starving. Ravaged with hunger. I had felt the community of Christ, but it was a far cry from heaven. It was but a taste, and that only whetted my appetite. I was no longer content with the shadows.  I burned to see the Bright Day. To see Truth. To see Beauty. To see Reality. To come face to face and hand in hand with Unconditional Love.  I wanted to see perfection with a perfect perspective.  All I saw, felt, or knew, was just a foreshadowing of the Glory that one Day I will gaze upon with utmost delight and incredible awe.
      There was beauty in that family gathering. The beauty of broken and dirty souls redeemed by the Son of God.  The radiance of believers fellowshipping and loving one another.  But, even so, my spirit ached to know where that beauty came from. I hurt to see the Source of that beauty.  "I felt like a bird in cage, when the other birds of its kind are flying home.”  There was pain in that longing, and there was joy. 
      Years later that throbbing desire still occupies my soul. In this dry and weary land, where there is no water, my soul longs to be satisfied. I long for the Day when I shall awaken and be fully satisfied, beholding the face of my God, and having sweet communion with Him – on that Day, my quest will end. I will then see with my own eyes, where all the beauty came from. I shall be face to face with Love.

May we always be idyllically occupied with desiring Christ. Yearning. Thirsting. Hungering. For Him. May we always be idyllically occupied and serenely content with longing to know where all the beauty comes from. May it be the sweetest thing in each of our lives.



Reactions: 

This Thing of Ours:

How Faith Saved My Marriage
by Cammy Franzese

Cammy Franzese was a lower-class girl. The oldest of seven. The daughter of a Chicano rights activist. She lived in the L.A. suburbs. She danced. And she married a mobster - a Mafia-Man.

This is Cammy's story of her young life, her courtship with big-time movie director {and highly sought-after criminal} Michael Franzese, her marriage to him, and the years of havoc that threatened to break her marriage vows asunder.

Cammy marries Michael, unaware of his criminal background. Beforelong, she finds herself in the midst of federal trials and FBI raids. On the weekends she and her young kids make the long drive to visit her husband in prison. For years this is her story. Her life. Her mundane day-to-day existence. But despite the bleakness all around, Cammy clings to her faith - the Christian beliefs that her mother instilled in her as a child.

This Thing of Ours is an true-life story of God's provision and conviction. It makes for an interesting read, however, Cammy's writing is sub-par. She also jumps around from short story to short story without smooth transitions, but with a few bunny trails thrown in for good measure. I would give this book a 3 1/2 stars.


Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the 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 

A Rural Eventide

The compass winds hush the land and whistle in the vale
Roses lament as petals tent, and Pleiades sets its sails
The fields sleep-talk; the moon ghost-walks
Its glow is wan and pale

Ravens cry their lullabye, and owls their morning song
The hours creep as daylight sleeps, and eventide grows strong.
Stars breathe bright like twilight kites
Before the slumbering throng

Bracken twists o'er the creek; it haunts upon the stream
Ivy twirls and ferns refurl their echo-whispered dreams
The clouds sky-scrape, veil, and drape
An ochre-violet cream

The country church stands sentinel, silent hangs the bell
Gravestones old and concrete-cold, escape night's ubiquitous spell
The shadow-fog seeps, ancient secrets it keeps
Hoarding to one day retell

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".