Let your light so shine

  May your eyes shine today
     with peace that passes
     your worried planning,
    your fears for tomorrow,
    your hopes for the future --

      passing your deepest
          understanding.

May your footsteps be sure and joyful --
   your heart carrying no load
  but the singing of love's song.

May tears and sorrow flee from you --
your enemies finding softened hearts
         a renewal of trust,
        outstretched hands,
     a palm to palm re-awakening.

     In your deepest place of secrets,
whatever the shadow that makes you wince
                and cry
       by yourself, to yourself,
              'How could I?'

        Turn to Jesus and listen:
     
   He said, “I am the way, and the truth,
 and the life. No one comes to the Father
         except through me.

Then spoke Jesus again unto them, saying
       I am the light of the world: 
           He that follows me
 shall not walk in darkness, but shall have
             the light of life.

      May you forgive yourself
      as Christ forgave Peter.
      He will also forgive you.
   May you abide in the grace
 and the love of our Lord forever.

Beautiful to God

We think of white fences and wild roses --
of spiderweb sparkles shimmering on the lawn,
at peace in the morning's dew.

We think of sleepy lakes and friendly country valleys -- of rugged granite
mountains and the climbing of ancient trails, at home with wild ravines and forested evergreens.

Home.

Safe and known.

It is home our hearts finger as cherished memory: Mother calling suppertime with hot food at the table; dad making a joke as he drives up. Children washing hands and family dropping by to say, "Hi!"

These things are beautiful to our hearts,
precious to our memories.

But.

The here music, the now wonder
is the truth of people and their hearts, seen and unseen -- known and unknown --
at home or not at home, shining in our lives, their individual beauty right before our eyes:

The grocery bagboy with the limp who rambles on and on to himself -- but stops and smiles back at you;

the cranky old lady at the video store with sad eyes and hair dyed too red -- whose face comes to life when you notice her keepsake bracelet;

the department store cashier with the hard attitude and the heavy accent -- who dips her head when you notice her locket and tells you about her kids through softening eyes;

at the food pantry the tattooed man, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and dirty jeans winks you a confidence and shares a gold toothed grin -- whispering that he slips tracts about Jesus into customer's bags;

the roadworker who drops the vacant stare and flashes a hesitant sweaty hand -- because you looked in his eyes and waved.

God's beauty is his image in each of us. He is our rock and our home -- home
to each one of us -- His family. Let us rejoice in Christ's family. Let us remember to see the beauty of His making, the beauty of his myriad images,
in the unwashed
and the sunwashed
alike.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Hebrews 13:2 English Standard Version (ESV)

2 Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hi again! I'm back from a long hiatus and now I'm doing some blogging for my church. Here is the revamped piece from this blog that I shared with them today. Hope you enjoy it!

Beautiful to God

We think of white fences and wild roses —
of spiderweb sparkles shimmering on the lawn,
at peace in the morning’s dew.

We think of sleepy lakes and friendly country valleys  — of rugged granite
mountains and the climbing of ancient trails, at home with wild ravines and forested evergreens.

Home.

Safe and known.

It is home our hearts finger as cherished memory: Mother calling suppertime with hot food at the table; dad making a joke as he drives up. Children washing hands and family dropping by to say, “Hi!”

These things are beautiful to our hearts,
precious to our memories.

But.

The here music, the now wonder
is the truth of people and their hearts, seen and unseen — known and unknown —
at home or not at home, shining in our lives, their individual beauty right before our eyes:

The grocery bagboy with the limp who rambles on and on to himself — but stops and smiles back at you;

the cranky old lady at the video store with sad eyes and hair dyed too red — whose face comes to life when you notice her keepsake bracelet;

the department store cashier with the hard attitude and the heavy accent — who dips her head when you notice her locket and tells you about her kids through softening eyes;

at the food pantry the tattooed man, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and dirty jeans winks you a confidence and shares a gold toothed grin — whispering that he slips tracts about Jesus into customer’s bags;

the roadworker who drops the vacant stare and flashes a hesitant sweaty hand — because you looked in his eyes and waved.

God’s beauty is his image in each of us. He is our rock and our home — home
to each one of us — His family. Let us rejoice in Christ’s family. Let us remember to see the beauty of His making, the beauty of his myriad images,
in the unwashed
and the sunwashed
alike.
———————————————————————
Hebrews 13:2 English Standard Version (ESV)

2 Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Forgiveness IS.

Pulled out of the handy Pandora's box of tricks, they wait until needed -- the shaded perspectives and j'accuse shadows from years past. A moment of conflict and out they come: Acid memories like corpses painted on warehouse walls, dead with the weight of crossed purposes, weighing you down -- pieces of arguments and points of view falling off  like multiple versions of CSI episodes.

But that's not me, (or you for that matter.) No matter how many times anger paints it and no matter how long the finger points. We are all of us essentially paradigm free from yesterday, inside this continuously present Now.

I remain who I am. At home in my own skin. Patient. Waiting, without expectation of permanence, down will be up again. Or not.

Eyes clear and  Spirit strong, I walk with Jesus.

But still I sin, you sin, the world sins: Upon a breath's turn all is forgiven, clean and new.

No dragging bodies of self made monster memories, accusations or addictive avenues of ego-escape from our Home that is the Lord. The Alpha and Omega calls to prayer, a life obedient to love and tender honestey. All we can do is drop our own protective masks. The healing balm and saving grace is up to God.

Freedom

Covered with your smiles, I pull the layers high and spinning in your warmth, let go the feelings as they fly and flow; gentle folds soothe the boned brittle day. Under the Comforter, inside the lines of space -- deep within weathered bits of time, dimensionally hued we bond and spark, glowing for a feathered moment inside the dark, a heart ring flares and trumpets sound. Dream writings, heaven breathed are finger spun, seen from The Cave, and found. It is done. Carved into the constancy of Now, four posts stand guardians of flame -- safe and spirit named. Covered with your smiles, I awaken, putting You on as my dressing gown and singing a song of freedom.

Hark!

I took the day and moved it forward. Heard the call
and moved the pawn of self: Onward to the centered
fold of now.
Checkmate evaded, castled home spared and
bishop triangulated, I ride the wild horses
in tandem and jump the barbed wire fence,
lifting the pregnant queen to wide and circled safety,
ever and always one move away from the sanctified crown
of the annointed King. The story told the time of reaping,
time of deep winter comes a' keeping, humanity comes
calling -- kneeling down, close to ground -- searching
for light in the snowy night, searching for sound --
of bells jingling and crystalline, bright and clear --
for trumpets of angels with voices shining --
always close, always dear. Hark!

Open My Ears

I am here -- waiting, listening. What are You whispering to me? Blow the breath with force. Sometimes I need a gale to hear, I think. They are all so thick, these acid tones that circle my days in tarnished sound; they wreath not greening holiday boughs but legacied rust -- entombed in ice, hardended moments of silence -- curtained with memories of tinsel days past, fragments sharp-edged and broken-bent --dead falling past advent, ripping toward the re-birth of spring. I am here -- waiting, listening. Close my ears to cacophony that they may be opened anew to Your rhapsody.