Hebrews 12:1-11
(paraphrased)
Therefore, the Soko gang also, since we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race in Korea that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despisting the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Jesus who endured such hostility from sinners against Himself, lest the gang become weary and discouranged in your souls. The gang has not yet resisted to bloodshed, stiving against sin.
Gang, do not despise the chastening of Me, nor be discouraged when you are rebuked by Me; for whom I love I chasten, and scourge every one whom I recieve.
If you endure chastening, I deal with you as sons, for what son is there whom a father does not chasten? But if you are without chastening, or which all have become partakers, then you are illegitimate and not sons. Furthermore, we have had human fathers (santa) who corrected us, and we did pay them respect. Shall we not much more readily be in subjection to the Father of Spirits and live?
For our fathers (santa) have indeed for a few days chastened us as seemed best to them, but He for our profit, that we may be partakers of His holiness. NOw, no chastening seems to be joyful, for the present, but painful; nevertheless, afterward it yeilds the peacable fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.
Therefore strengthen the hands which hang down, and teh feeble knees, and make them paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed.
love.newms.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Theologies and Diapers
(yeah i know it's long (shut up, me) but it's almost my bday so you have to read it)
I used to wonder what it'd be like to be a young mother. Not necessarily in age, but the kind whose energies, attentions, affections, indeed their very LIFE, is focused on her three terrors under the age of four (Jesus save me from poppin em' out one after the other like that). For many, “mother” is a calling. I've met incredible young mothers – women who coddled dolls at a young age while the rest of us were playing dress up or street hockey, who spent their elementary and middle school years day-dreaming baby names and proudly declaring “I want to be a Mommy!” – women whose fierce love and commitment to their children inspires me to love the little terrors I don't have yet, women who are as passionate about mothering as I am about standing in solidarity with the oppressed and marginalized.
I spent a considerable amount of time musing over the lives of young mothers during college. I was fascinated by women who stayed at home all day, cleaning throw up and changing diapers. See, I have this... thing. I have to see the connection between what I'm doing and the ambiguous giant we call the “greater good.” I'm not burdened with a guilty conscience, but I can’t think of a morning that's gone by in the last seven years that hasn't started with my striving and reaching and groaning to find meaning and purpose in why the sun came up and why I am awake to see it.
And these days, amid retarded songs and chants, bratty 6th graders, and whiny complaints for candy (or the more recent, audacious requests for money), sometimes this task just about wipes me out before lunch rolls around.
Which has gotten me thinking again about the theology of changing diapers.
I remember how much it pissed me off at first. Part of being extremely passionate is wanting things – most things, most of the time – to be big and elaborate and meaningful and significant. It's also part of being human, I think, part of how we're created in the imago Dei – to want our life and work to mean something. What pissed me off was the slow and steady realization that almost never do MOST things, MOST of the time, carry weighty significance and meaning. I mean, how much purpose can you derive from five years of shitty diapers and the lingering fragrance of baby barf?
So does that mean we just live parts of our life drifting? Waiting for significance to come? Enduring, so to speak, the “boring” parts of life, the seemingly less exciting years, until the adventure, the big and elaborate and meaningful and significant comes along?
Well I can't roll with that for more than fifteen minutes, let alone the eighteen years it will take to raise a child. And I certainly can't keep “waiting” for life to happen amid retarded songs and chants, and the 6th graders will be the end of me unless I find a different way to think about these things...
Since everyone's in the habit of re-telling stories, I'll join the club. This story is oh-so-slowly helping me find new ways to think.
Wing was 12, Wang was 7, and little Wong was 5. Mom and Dad worked very hard to provide the best life possible for the little wankers - they worked so hard, in fact, that they hadn't taken one single day off since the day Wing was born. An opportunity for an extravagant vacation to Suwon presented itself, so they decided to pack their bags and entrust their little gems to a few family members. Wing was a very quiet, obedient child, so they asked Aunt Carol (the conservative one) to take him in. Wang was a bit more outgoing – always up for a party! – and they knew vivacious Auntie Katie (who lived with her surrogate father Santa) would be the perfect fit. Little Wong was a flat out devil, stubborn as hell with a mind of his own, and since Aunt Tay didn't take crap from anyone, away the wonger went.
While Mom and Dad were climbing the fortress wall in child-free bliss, Aunt Carol was busy teaching Wing how to be a gentleman. He would practice his cello on the veranda while she sipped on homemade limeade, she taught him how to sew his own clothes, and in the evening they cooked dinner… together. Women aren't the only ones meant to do the cooking and cleaning! she would always say. And Wing didn't mind her occasional rants, after all, he was learning so many new things!
Wang was also learning new things... of a different kind. Auntie Katie and her (surrogate) father didn't see the importance in making such a young child into a “cultured gentleman,” so they opted out of music, sewing, and cooking. Instead, every day brought a new adventure. Auntie Katie arranged a typed, color-coded, laminated itinerary for each day, which included things like “Waterski along the Han River” ; “Climb Hallasan at 2am to watch the sunrise” ; “Sky Dive into the DMZ,” and since young Wang hadn't participated in most of these things at his young age, he too was learning and growing in his parents absence.
Wong, however, could not say the same thing. Because of Aunt Tay's hard-nose approach to everything, he was experiencing a type of discipline that was absolutely foreign to him. And unfortunately, the little wonger did NOT flourish in this environment. Mom and Dad tried to explain before they left, “Tay, little Wong does best in an environment where he can be free to explore and discover and create.” They gave her several pointers on how to create such a space, but after one day with the squeamish demon-child, Tay would have none of it. “This little shit is gonna turn all my hair gray!” she said to herself, so she did what any rational person would... returned to her own methods.
Mom and Dad returned a week later to pick up Wing. He proudly modeled his new Irish kilt (Carol's motherland), and blushed while she bragged about his new sewing talent. His parents were so pleased! Not only did Aunt Carol keep the lad well-fed and bathed, but she invested in his future with valuable life skills, even though she only had him for a week. “Next time, we'll leave all THREE of our darlings with you!” they exclaimed in delight. Wing hopped in the car, and off they went to find their Wang. They pulled into Auntie Katie's drive, and what did they hear? Why the stomping of hooves, and eight reindeer! With a jolly fat driver, beard white as snow, it was Santa himself, Ho! Ho! Ho! Wang was thrilled to tell his brother about his escapade to the Northern lands, and while Mom and Dad shook off their shock, they were so pleased that their adventuresome Wang had such an adventure-filled week. “Though Wing probably wouldn't survive half the stuff Wang did this week, we know our little Wong would have a wankin time! Next time, we'll be sure to leave the younger two with you!” Wang bid a tearful farewell to jolly St. Nick, and off they went to retrieve the last member of the family.
Aunt Tay's house looked well-kept as always, and Mom giggled in delight. “However did she manage to keep Wong out of the azalea's? She must have discovered a trick!” she said under her breath. She was certain Tay's discipline had done the boy some good. Dad knocked and the door opened to a serious-faced Wang in a tuxedo, followed by a prompt, full upper-torso bow. His brothers burst into laugher, only to be quickly hushed by their parents. Wong ushered them into the living room, announced that he would “retrieve” the host, and bowed upon his exit. Wing and Wang were still snickering about the obnoxious butler's outfit their brother was wearing. “Mom, what happened to our Wong?” they whispered incredulously. She wasn't entirely sure, but she felt concerned – she had never seen her little Wong like this before! She admitted it was nice to have momentary calm from the storm that is her son, but she much preferred the spunky, strong-willed child she had left!
When Mom and Dad found out that Aunt Tay had implemented “Operation Butler” after being with Wong only one day, they couldn't help but feel disappointed. Obviously her plan had worked – Wong was more compliant than he'd ever been – but Wing and Wang had learned so much in their parents’ absence. Mom and Dad could see how much they had learned, and how each of them had grown more fully into the wonderful men God had made them to be. Even though Aunt Carol and Katie only had the boys for a week, they made the best of it and invested fully into their lives – something that would forever fill Mom and Dad with gratitude. They were grateful to Aunt Tay, too, and told her they'd phone for disciplinary advice when Wong was over the line, but they both agreed that next time, they'd send the boys elsewhere.
Matthew 25 tells this story a bit differently. Most noticeable is the ending, about the third person to whom a talent is entrusted: “And throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Yikes. Sorry, Tay. But I think the point of the story is this: we're given things, things to steward and care for, and sometimes those things last a lifetime, while others last only a season (or a week). In both cases, we're entrusted with them, the way a parents entrusts their child while on a second honeymoon in Suwon.
Right now, I've been entrusted with retarded chants and songs, bratty 6th graders, a hodgepodge group of attractive females (and a red-neck with a mullet), and 750 students to be goofy with for 40min a week. And what this story tells me is that eventually, the One to whom I give account WILL come back and WILL take account of what's been entrusted to me. And I think he'll take account in these ways:
Did I celebrate the journey found in Today?
Did I love and cherish the gifts that were given to me in Korea, and did I invest as fully as I could every single day I had those gifts?
Or did I squander away Today because I was worried about what to do in August?
Did I miss out on three months of life and love and adventures because I was trying to plan the next step?
I don't know what I'm doing in August. Some days I feel certain about staying, and the next I feel like I'll suffocate if I teach English any longer. But one thing I DO know is I don't want someone to ask “How was your year in Korea?” and only be able to answer about the first 8 months because I spent the last 4 worrying about what to do next.
The theology of changing diapers isn't pleasant. But it feels real to me, which is comforting. We haven't given our lives to a God who expects us to be doing big and elaborate things for his Kingdom (big and elaborate by our standards), because what is big and elaborate to him is taking the extra time to put Desitin on the baby's raw bum.
What matters to him is taking the extra time to sit with the student who knows five words of English, and listen patiently for eleven and a half minutes while they try to explain that they played baseball at the park with their dad on Saturday.
What matters is celebrating birthdays for an entire freaking weekend just in case the birthday girl wasn't sure that she was loved and cherished (seriously we're the only people on the planet who do that).
What matters is faithfulness to the process. Celebrating the journey. Encouraging and loving one another, as long as it's called Today. We don't serve a God of abrupt starts and stops, but one who sees every step, every decision, every action – big and small – as significant. I’m convinced I’m not meant to drift. I’m not created to “endure” a mundane existence until something more exciting arrives, and neither are you. The life that is happening right now is the adventure, the meaningful, significant purpose of my existence.
I decided a while back to stop waiting for life to “happen.” Life is happening NOW, and it's up to me to steward the students and songs and friends and red-necks to the best of my ability up until the very last day they are entrusted to me.
I used to wonder what it'd be like to be a young mother. Not necessarily in age, but the kind whose energies, attentions, affections, indeed their very LIFE, is focused on her three terrors under the age of four (Jesus save me from poppin em' out one after the other like that). For many, “mother” is a calling. I've met incredible young mothers – women who coddled dolls at a young age while the rest of us were playing dress up or street hockey, who spent their elementary and middle school years day-dreaming baby names and proudly declaring “I want to be a Mommy!” – women whose fierce love and commitment to their children inspires me to love the little terrors I don't have yet, women who are as passionate about mothering as I am about standing in solidarity with the oppressed and marginalized.
I spent a considerable amount of time musing over the lives of young mothers during college. I was fascinated by women who stayed at home all day, cleaning throw up and changing diapers. See, I have this... thing. I have to see the connection between what I'm doing and the ambiguous giant we call the “greater good.” I'm not burdened with a guilty conscience, but I can’t think of a morning that's gone by in the last seven years that hasn't started with my striving and reaching and groaning to find meaning and purpose in why the sun came up and why I am awake to see it.
And these days, amid retarded songs and chants, bratty 6th graders, and whiny complaints for candy (or the more recent, audacious requests for money), sometimes this task just about wipes me out before lunch rolls around.
Which has gotten me thinking again about the theology of changing diapers.
I remember how much it pissed me off at first. Part of being extremely passionate is wanting things – most things, most of the time – to be big and elaborate and meaningful and significant. It's also part of being human, I think, part of how we're created in the imago Dei – to want our life and work to mean something. What pissed me off was the slow and steady realization that almost never do MOST things, MOST of the time, carry weighty significance and meaning. I mean, how much purpose can you derive from five years of shitty diapers and the lingering fragrance of baby barf?
So does that mean we just live parts of our life drifting? Waiting for significance to come? Enduring, so to speak, the “boring” parts of life, the seemingly less exciting years, until the adventure, the big and elaborate and meaningful and significant comes along?
Well I can't roll with that for more than fifteen minutes, let alone the eighteen years it will take to raise a child. And I certainly can't keep “waiting” for life to happen amid retarded songs and chants, and the 6th graders will be the end of me unless I find a different way to think about these things...
Since everyone's in the habit of re-telling stories, I'll join the club. This story is oh-so-slowly helping me find new ways to think.
Wing was 12, Wang was 7, and little Wong was 5. Mom and Dad worked very hard to provide the best life possible for the little wankers - they worked so hard, in fact, that they hadn't taken one single day off since the day Wing was born. An opportunity for an extravagant vacation to Suwon presented itself, so they decided to pack their bags and entrust their little gems to a few family members. Wing was a very quiet, obedient child, so they asked Aunt Carol (the conservative one) to take him in. Wang was a bit more outgoing – always up for a party! – and they knew vivacious Auntie Katie (who lived with her surrogate father Santa) would be the perfect fit. Little Wong was a flat out devil, stubborn as hell with a mind of his own, and since Aunt Tay didn't take crap from anyone, away the wonger went.
While Mom and Dad were climbing the fortress wall in child-free bliss, Aunt Carol was busy teaching Wing how to be a gentleman. He would practice his cello on the veranda while she sipped on homemade limeade, she taught him how to sew his own clothes, and in the evening they cooked dinner… together. Women aren't the only ones meant to do the cooking and cleaning! she would always say. And Wing didn't mind her occasional rants, after all, he was learning so many new things!
Wang was also learning new things... of a different kind. Auntie Katie and her (surrogate) father didn't see the importance in making such a young child into a “cultured gentleman,” so they opted out of music, sewing, and cooking. Instead, every day brought a new adventure. Auntie Katie arranged a typed, color-coded, laminated itinerary for each day, which included things like “Waterski along the Han River” ; “Climb Hallasan at 2am to watch the sunrise” ; “Sky Dive into the DMZ,” and since young Wang hadn't participated in most of these things at his young age, he too was learning and growing in his parents absence.
Wong, however, could not say the same thing. Because of Aunt Tay's hard-nose approach to everything, he was experiencing a type of discipline that was absolutely foreign to him. And unfortunately, the little wonger did NOT flourish in this environment. Mom and Dad tried to explain before they left, “Tay, little Wong does best in an environment where he can be free to explore and discover and create.” They gave her several pointers on how to create such a space, but after one day with the squeamish demon-child, Tay would have none of it. “This little shit is gonna turn all my hair gray!” she said to herself, so she did what any rational person would... returned to her own methods.
Mom and Dad returned a week later to pick up Wing. He proudly modeled his new Irish kilt (Carol's motherland), and blushed while she bragged about his new sewing talent. His parents were so pleased! Not only did Aunt Carol keep the lad well-fed and bathed, but she invested in his future with valuable life skills, even though she only had him for a week. “Next time, we'll leave all THREE of our darlings with you!” they exclaimed in delight. Wing hopped in the car, and off they went to find their Wang. They pulled into Auntie Katie's drive, and what did they hear? Why the stomping of hooves, and eight reindeer! With a jolly fat driver, beard white as snow, it was Santa himself, Ho! Ho! Ho! Wang was thrilled to tell his brother about his escapade to the Northern lands, and while Mom and Dad shook off their shock, they were so pleased that their adventuresome Wang had such an adventure-filled week. “Though Wing probably wouldn't survive half the stuff Wang did this week, we know our little Wong would have a wankin time! Next time, we'll be sure to leave the younger two with you!” Wang bid a tearful farewell to jolly St. Nick, and off they went to retrieve the last member of the family.
Aunt Tay's house looked well-kept as always, and Mom giggled in delight. “However did she manage to keep Wong out of the azalea's? She must have discovered a trick!” she said under her breath. She was certain Tay's discipline had done the boy some good. Dad knocked and the door opened to a serious-faced Wang in a tuxedo, followed by a prompt, full upper-torso bow. His brothers burst into laugher, only to be quickly hushed by their parents. Wong ushered them into the living room, announced that he would “retrieve” the host, and bowed upon his exit. Wing and Wang were still snickering about the obnoxious butler's outfit their brother was wearing. “Mom, what happened to our Wong?” they whispered incredulously. She wasn't entirely sure, but she felt concerned – she had never seen her little Wong like this before! She admitted it was nice to have momentary calm from the storm that is her son, but she much preferred the spunky, strong-willed child she had left!
When Mom and Dad found out that Aunt Tay had implemented “Operation Butler” after being with Wong only one day, they couldn't help but feel disappointed. Obviously her plan had worked – Wong was more compliant than he'd ever been – but Wing and Wang had learned so much in their parents’ absence. Mom and Dad could see how much they had learned, and how each of them had grown more fully into the wonderful men God had made them to be. Even though Aunt Carol and Katie only had the boys for a week, they made the best of it and invested fully into their lives – something that would forever fill Mom and Dad with gratitude. They were grateful to Aunt Tay, too, and told her they'd phone for disciplinary advice when Wong was over the line, but they both agreed that next time, they'd send the boys elsewhere.
Matthew 25 tells this story a bit differently. Most noticeable is the ending, about the third person to whom a talent is entrusted: “And throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Yikes. Sorry, Tay. But I think the point of the story is this: we're given things, things to steward and care for, and sometimes those things last a lifetime, while others last only a season (or a week). In both cases, we're entrusted with them, the way a parents entrusts their child while on a second honeymoon in Suwon.
Right now, I've been entrusted with retarded chants and songs, bratty 6th graders, a hodgepodge group of attractive females (and a red-neck with a mullet), and 750 students to be goofy with for 40min a week. And what this story tells me is that eventually, the One to whom I give account WILL come back and WILL take account of what's been entrusted to me. And I think he'll take account in these ways:
Did I celebrate the journey found in Today?
Did I love and cherish the gifts that were given to me in Korea, and did I invest as fully as I could every single day I had those gifts?
Or did I squander away Today because I was worried about what to do in August?
Did I miss out on three months of life and love and adventures because I was trying to plan the next step?
I don't know what I'm doing in August. Some days I feel certain about staying, and the next I feel like I'll suffocate if I teach English any longer. But one thing I DO know is I don't want someone to ask “How was your year in Korea?” and only be able to answer about the first 8 months because I spent the last 4 worrying about what to do next.
The theology of changing diapers isn't pleasant. But it feels real to me, which is comforting. We haven't given our lives to a God who expects us to be doing big and elaborate things for his Kingdom (big and elaborate by our standards), because what is big and elaborate to him is taking the extra time to put Desitin on the baby's raw bum.
What matters to him is taking the extra time to sit with the student who knows five words of English, and listen patiently for eleven and a half minutes while they try to explain that they played baseball at the park with their dad on Saturday.
What matters is celebrating birthdays for an entire freaking weekend just in case the birthday girl wasn't sure that she was loved and cherished (seriously we're the only people on the planet who do that).
What matters is faithfulness to the process. Celebrating the journey. Encouraging and loving one another, as long as it's called Today. We don't serve a God of abrupt starts and stops, but one who sees every step, every decision, every action – big and small – as significant. I’m convinced I’m not meant to drift. I’m not created to “endure” a mundane existence until something more exciting arrives, and neither are you. The life that is happening right now is the adventure, the meaningful, significant purpose of my existence.
I decided a while back to stop waiting for life to “happen.” Life is happening NOW, and it's up to me to steward the students and songs and friends and red-necks to the best of my ability up until the very last day they are entrusted to me.
Friday, May 7, 2010
My unsaved family and friends have always been heavy on my heart and today God asked me, "How important are they really to you? What are you willing to do about it?" I didn't know how to answer.
I read Deut. 9:1-21. Moses had just spent 40 days and nights fasting with the Lord on the mountain when he recieved the 10 commandments. Then he came down only to find the people even more wicked than before, golden calf and all. I'm sure part of him was furious. There he was sacrificing himself, intereceding for them for the last month and a half with no food or water, and they could care less. Clearly he was furious. He broke the two tablets right in front of their eyes. Yet, even with his anger toward them, he truly loved all those people. He knew God's anger toward them. God wanted to completely destroy them. So what does Moses do? He does it all over again. He layed prostrate on the ground for 40 days and nights, with out food or drink, to intercede for these people. He pleaded with God, reminding Him of all He'd done for them so far, the promises He'd made them and the righteousness of their ancestors, asking Him to have mercy on them. And God listened to Moses and honored his request.
He layed prostrate and fasted for 40 days. Moses loved these people so much, and he dedicated himself to their salvation. How convicting... I'm lucky if I remember to pray for those people in my life. It's not that they aren't important to me... but are they really? Do I care enough to dedicate my efforts, prayers, and time to intereceding for their salvation? It doesn't seem like it. But prayerfully I can get there.
John 16:24
Until now you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will recieve, that your joy may be full.
Tayonce. HEEEEEYYY.
I read Deut. 9:1-21. Moses had just spent 40 days and nights fasting with the Lord on the mountain when he recieved the 10 commandments. Then he came down only to find the people even more wicked than before, golden calf and all. I'm sure part of him was furious. There he was sacrificing himself, intereceding for them for the last month and a half with no food or water, and they could care less. Clearly he was furious. He broke the two tablets right in front of their eyes. Yet, even with his anger toward them, he truly loved all those people. He knew God's anger toward them. God wanted to completely destroy them. So what does Moses do? He does it all over again. He layed prostrate on the ground for 40 days and nights, with out food or drink, to intercede for these people. He pleaded with God, reminding Him of all He'd done for them so far, the promises He'd made them and the righteousness of their ancestors, asking Him to have mercy on them. And God listened to Moses and honored his request.
He layed prostrate and fasted for 40 days. Moses loved these people so much, and he dedicated himself to their salvation. How convicting... I'm lucky if I remember to pray for those people in my life. It's not that they aren't important to me... but are they really? Do I care enough to dedicate my efforts, prayers, and time to intereceding for their salvation? It doesn't seem like it. But prayerfully I can get there.
John 16:24
Until now you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will recieve, that your joy may be full.
Tayonce. HEEEEEYYY.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Little Hope
Hebrews 6:9-12
"But, beloved, we are confident of better things concerning you, yes, things that accompany salvation, though we speak in this manner. FOr God is not unjust to forget your work and labor of love which you have shown toward His name, in that you have ministered to the saints, and do minister. And we desire that each one of you show the same diligence to the full assurance of hope until the end, that you do not become sluggish, but imitate those who through faith and patience inherit the promises."
"But, beloved, we are confident of better things concerning you, yes, things that accompany salvation, though we speak in this manner. FOr God is not unjust to forget your work and labor of love which you have shown toward His name, in that you have ministered to the saints, and do minister. And we desire that each one of you show the same diligence to the full assurance of hope until the end, that you do not become sluggish, but imitate those who through faith and patience inherit the promises."
Sunday, May 2, 2010
why does everything have to have a title.
The words I seek, it seems,
drift just beyond the reach
of my thirsty ears.
Or they lie, perhaps, within the dark, rich soil
embryotic in shape and size and form.
Would I spur them to take shape and size
to find their place in my hungry mind and form on my empty page
before they are quite ready to come on their own accord,
would be folly.
And yet -
my ears strain.
I feel the growing pains,
the ache in my heart as this embryo swells and shrivels,
the longing in my being for articulation, explanation, revelation...
this mouth of mine longs to testify.
Where are you, O words?
You who speak of the heights -
and the heights from which I've fallen.
You who speak of the shadow in which I'm found, with
a crown called beauty
an anointing of reverence and gratitude
an appearance anew that reflects restoration and redemption within;
indeed the very garments upon these once-weary shoulders have become
oh-so-light and oh-so-white, like the first December snow.
You who speak of the garments
once stained with passion, sacrifice, obedience, and the garments
once washed in Passion, Sacrifice, Obedience.
You who speak of once,
the Once in time,
the once in my life,
the once upon a time when this name was called forth for an exchange:
passion for Passion
sacrifice for Sacrifice
obedience for Obedience
garment for garment.
Where are you, O words, words who channel a Voice?
Channel, won't you, through this hollow space?
Let the roar of the testimony resound!
Travel, O echo, beyond the shadows,
into a darkness where garments still like in wait...
wait...
wait...
Wait, must I, for these words to come
Lie down, must I, in the dark, rich soil and in my embryotic state, wait.
drift just beyond the reach
of my thirsty ears.
Or they lie, perhaps, within the dark, rich soil
embryotic in shape and size and form.
Would I spur them to take shape and size
to find their place in my hungry mind and form on my empty page
before they are quite ready to come on their own accord,
would be folly.
And yet -
my ears strain.
I feel the growing pains,
the ache in my heart as this embryo swells and shrivels,
the longing in my being for articulation, explanation, revelation...
this mouth of mine longs to testify.
Where are you, O words?
You who speak of the heights -
and the heights from which I've fallen.
You who speak of the shadow in which I'm found, with
a crown called beauty
an anointing of reverence and gratitude
an appearance anew that reflects restoration and redemption within;
indeed the very garments upon these once-weary shoulders have become
oh-so-light and oh-so-white, like the first December snow.
You who speak of the garments
once stained with passion, sacrifice, obedience, and the garments
once washed in Passion, Sacrifice, Obedience.
You who speak of once,
the Once in time,
the once in my life,
the once upon a time when this name was called forth for an exchange:
passion for Passion
sacrifice for Sacrifice
obedience for Obedience
garment for garment.
Where are you, O words, words who channel a Voice?
Channel, won't you, through this hollow space?
Let the roar of the testimony resound!
Travel, O echo, beyond the shadows,
into a darkness where garments still like in wait...
wait...
wait...
Wait, must I, for these words to come
Lie down, must I, in the dark, rich soil and in my embryotic state, wait.
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