stolen moments

we each have a story
our own story
tidy or messy
light or dark
it is our own

occasionally
not satisfied with their story
someone covets another's
and claim it as their own

piece by piece
word by word
event by event
they wrap it around themselves

it never truly fits
as it is not theirs
but for awhile
they manage to hold it together

however
like a borrowed cloak
either too long, too short
or too small

if one looks carefully
gaps can be found

but for a season
or perhaps only a moment

they try to make it fit

and when it is my story
coveted by another

when it is my moments
stolen

can the weaving
of the tapestry that is my life
ever again be complete

or will there always be a tear
with a ragged edge
mended by
a mismatched thread

altar moments

My bending turns to prostration
when the blinding knowledge of who God is
and who I am
becomes a reality in me.

Not even the tick of time is heard
only the ragged rending of my heart fills the silence.

God always gives me the grace:
the question is, will I accept
and allow Him to tear out by the roots
the shrubs of my own will.

In response to the overwhelming cry of the Holy Spirit living within,
wrapped in the swaddling clothes of trust
I cry
come Lord Jesus, come.

Entering the realm of pure faith
the stones of my emotions are hurled at me by satan

This is a thin place
only a tissue paper
separating the material from the spiritual
where I hear the sweet songs of God.

A very tiny breeze whispers,
Come higher
live within the enclosed garden of My love.

I rest, put my folded hands in my open heart
And allow God to tell me that which He wishes me to know.

Friday night moments

while at a soaking prayer evening last night
I was struck by the diversity

a bit surreal
this place, an office by day,
now carpeted, wall to wall, by bodies
fat, thin, tall, short, old, young
male, female
black, white and several shades in between and around

and in a moment I saw
the only common thread was brokenness
some more
perhaps some less
but all broken nonetheless

we were together
and yet separate
each one alone before our God

fueled by pain
or loneliness
or fear
or love?

I am not sure of the others
only my own

Jesus showed me His side
His wounded side
asking if I would touch that wound

it was through this wound
the "church" was birthed

just as through the wound on Adam's side
his bride was birthed
through the wound on Jesus's side
His bride was birthed

and I knew the only way
to touch that wound
on the side of Jesus
is to touch His church
touch His people
one by one

there is a broken body
we are the broken body

there are moments in the touching of one another
when Jesus is brought into the brokenness
the Wounded entering His wounded.

unspoken moments

In the end
we will remember
not the words of our enemies
but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King Jr.

discovered the truth of this today

again

on the other hand
I also was offered
and accepted
a "job" today.

a surprise in this season of my life

not sure where it is leading
but I am looking forward to the journey.

this moment

people rush in
and people rush out
and even when they were there
they were not there
they were in the moment ahead
or the moment behind.

some people who come in for just a moment
are all there
completely
in that moment.

my life goal is
to always
be here
now

Sunday moments

It was raining again ........

I was awakened very early this day
An emergency concerning someone with heart pains ...........

At church to pray with my pastor
I felt and tasted his heart pains
The very ones he tries so hard to hide

In the sanctuary
Feeling and tasting the heart pains around me
I reached high in my worship to grab onto the Hand of God

My pastor spoke of the desperation in some
His words releasing a river of hearts
That streamed to the front

Tears rained on the altar
As the Heart of God
Drew us all with powerful tenderness
Deep into the wounded side of Christ

The programme for the morning
Abandoned
Out of preference for the Presence.

Moments of God's heart
And the hearts of His people
Touching

Then the long drive through the rain
To be with another heart
Heavied with sorrow and responsibilities
And yet lightened in hope

There was a stilled body
And although now an empty casing
One could see he had been a handsome man

Now freed
To limp and struggle no more
To dance and jump and laugh
And delight in Jesus
For all eternity

The hip replacement
Replaced by a
Heart replacement
In a moment
Of God's mercy and love

God writing straight
With the crooked lines of a life

As the rain continued to pour down
There were piercing moments of brilliant Son-shine
As my heart
And the heart of my friend
Touched

It rained on the drive home too
Inside and outside the car

Moments of Jesus' tears of intercession
Mingling with mine

It rained all night
Until
Dawn birthed a new day

It is not raining today.

middle of the night moments

The principle of exclusion
Identity or worth is achieved by excluding all but the chosen. The terrible price we pay for keeping all those other people out so that we can savor the sweetness of being insiders is a reduction of reality, a shrinkage of life.

Religion reduces the huge mysteries of God to the respectability of club rules, of shrinking the vast human community to a “membership”. But with God, there are no outsiders.

Christians are never alone before God: we are always united with other human beings, we are an integral part of one another, it is Love that binds us together. Love is a person. Love is God.

We hold each other’s heart, turn to one another and blend with each other in the heart of Christ.

Sadly we often allow unity to pass through our fingers while our hands are lifted in prayer.

cocoon moments

Today I have been thinking, feeling and seeing cocoons – with an acute awareness of the butterfly possibility within but feeling the ever tightening wrapping of the cocoon

Begins with a pupa – some are uglier than others, some are quite fascinating, some fat, some thin, some short, some long, some with hair and some without. Sort of like us?

The pupa crawls around for a season and then attaches itself to something –
And starts to wrap itself up, one strand at a time, until it is completely encased and no longer bears any resemblance to what it was – and can no longer move at all.

A new season arrives and a tiny little opening starts to appear at one end of this sarcophagus. Almost imperceptibly, this tiny little opening enlarges and when the time is right, something starts to emerge. This something also bears absolutely no resemblance to the pupa, the creator of the cocoon. It is a painful, slow emerging, one wriggle at a time, until the escape is complete and a damp, tightly folded multicolored something is seen. During the passing of moments a stretching and unfolding occurs – wings are identified, a body is evident, heads, eyes and colors that take your breath away – there is an acute awareness of the fragility of this thing of beauty – an elegant exquisiteness. Any touch at this moment, damages so intensly that death is the result. Eventually what we see and know as a butterfly shakes itself free of any cocoon residue and flies off, doing exactly what it was designed and created to do, in the shortness of the life it has been given.

And I have been thinking about myself–

Am I in danger of attaching myself to something only to eventually begin wrapping myself up, with strands of religion, legalism, deferred hope, shattered dreams, words given that have been broken, denominationalism, compromise, tolerance, rejection, fear of man (to name a few) – winding each strand around myself so slowly, so carefully that, although I am the wrapper, I am not even aware of the wrapping, until eventually I am completely encased, not recognizable and not able to see.

And then when the season changes and I dare to begin to emerge, will hands touch, trying to shape – or trying to quicken the emerging before the right time – and in this assisted emerging, I die.

I do not want to spend my life as a pupa not fully allowed to develop into what I was created to be.

I do not want to spend my life in a cocoon, wrapped in the dark, imprisoned.

I do not want to have hands shape me in their “assisting”

You see, I have been the pupa, I have barely existed in the cocoon and for very, very brief moments from time to time I have flown free in the shape and colors of my destiny.

But I do feel it all beginning again ……….

A pupa, being asked to attach myself to something ……..

first and last moments

I have been thinking about the process of dying
and the process of birthing -

I have friends involved in both processes at the moment ..........

and it seems to me there are contractions involved in both
the contraction enabling arriving
and a contraction enabling leaving

it is no small feat to travel the birth canal
and enter the world

and it is no lesser a struggle
to step from the world
into eternity

the contraction enabling an entry
necessitates pain and hard work
and is it not the same,
the contraction of leaving -
there is pain and hard work for the one leaving
and pain and hard work for the ones left behind

hands are required
someone receives the newborn into their hands
Someone receives the born again into His hands

the hands receiving the newborn should be clean
the Hands receiving the born again must be pierced

the birth canal
and
the valley of death

life emerges from both
a "momentary" life
an eternal life

both these lives
involve Blood
a Cross
and a Death

the womb of our life
can become a tomb
filled with the death and stench of bitterness, offence and unforgiveness
or it can be a womb
filled with life
a life of peace, mercy, grace and joy.

and I know of tombs
that have again become wombs

we have that choice

and today
all I can do is pray
for both my friends
and give thanks
for the two processes
and the two lives
about to emerge

salty moments

it is raining today

In response to everything I had seen
I began to cry.
In the silence of God
My tears flowed
Until it seemed they filled the earth.
And I knew that Christ also cried.
Perhaps this crying was a deeper entry into His silence

In the depths of this silence
God opened the eyes of my heart.
The deep silence of God hovered over me
I was deep down in the silence of God.

In this great silence of God
When I could not pray with my lips
The words were pronounced by my heart.

Touching the sky and rooted deeply in this silence of God
Is a cross made out of wood.
The Son of God hung on this wood,
On this cross full of splinters.
On this cross God bleeds.

Finally,
I lay down peacefully in a garden
And the Wind,
Which is part of God's silence,
Passed by whispering,
That was one of the tests
God tested you and did not find you wanting.

is it simply raining
or are the heavens crying
salting and softening the scars of the earth
with the tears of its Creator

moments

why blog?

if someone else reads my thoughts
does that validate them?

if there is a truth for me
and someone else disagrees
does that make it no longer a truth?

is it important
that anyone else would read my wonderings

and if so,
to whom is it important -

to me?

and if so,
why?

but for today at least
I will have two journals
one that I will reveal
and still
one that I will not.

and why is that?


re-gifting -

I have heard of this over the past few years
sort of makes sense
certainly brings a few laughs now and again

causes one to wonder 'tho about the giver
and their choosing of the gift
would there be pain in the rejection
and re-giving of their gift

there is one gift that cannot be re-given

the gift of a heart

can be accepted
treasured, valued
held close

or

can be broken
tossed away
trampled upon
rejected

but cannot be re-gifted

ask Jesus.

wondering moments

and I wonder
why am I doing this
what am I opening up
and who would care

and yet

I take a deep breath

and

publish