I used to write page after page on my old blogs about my life and the things I'm learning, the challenges I wanted to give, and the truths I was picking up. I quit. Then I quit thinking on whatever it was that drove me to write before I quit. And then I had nothing to say.
I'm not going to pretend that was a totally positive choice (even though a guarded heart/words are always a good idea to some extent). I haven't had anything fresh and new to share for a very long time. I haven't spoken from my heart, and I forget why. But I want to get back to where my heart was; constantly thinking on God and the way His hand reaches down into the little places of my life and shifts it around and creates me.
So I'm back. I want to write again. And I want to have things of substance to write on; things that maybe you'll care to read, whoever you are, and if not, things that I will care to re-read to remind myself of who I am in Him and what He has to pour out of me. I could miss it so easily. I could let it slip through my fingers. . . and lose whatever it is I am to be. I know I'm more than my words, but my words were always my tool to carve out my soul and discover where I am; to beat the Truth into my own brain and then let it imbue my spirit like watercolours running over the deep, thirsty surface of the canvas.
I've been busy being free; untying my heart from what was and re-tying it to other things. And I won't look back and say it hasn't been worth it; oh, I regret, and I have lived out my life in storybook lines only to find it is no childhood fantasy. But I move on. And my book is now more grown up, and it has a lot more weight to it, but it's my story; and it's one I don't want to hold the pen to any more. Let Him write it. I'm a poor poet compared to Him.
And that's really the first point I want to make: "I'm a poor poet compared to Him." That is a fine comparison. I truly am a poor poet compared to Him. But I could so easily compare my life to other lives, like a child who stares back and forth between his or her little situation and the situation of another child. "But what about HIM?" I could whine, and pout, and put my fists on my hips, or I could sit dejected, my head hanging low with little droplets of tears plopping on my lap, "I am not as good compared to..." or asking, "Why didn't I ever get a break like ____?" and on and on I could compare my situation to another.
In John 21, Yeshua asks Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me?"
"Yes, Lord," he said, "you know that I love you."
Jesus said, "Feed my lambs."
Three times, this goes on. Yeshua was pressing him, Peter was being tested and it even hurt him to be tested that hard. But he had betrayed Yeshua. He was the one who had sworn to be there to the death, and had been one to run and lie that he never knew his dearest friend & his Messiah.
Finally, Yeshua said, "Follow me!" Peter replied by looking around and seeing John, another disciple, "Lord, what about him?" Yeshua answered, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You follow me."
Integrity calls me to be whole; sound; adherent to the morals and Truths I stand by; undivided and complete. Integrity must be me standing, strongly standing within my own place in God, not shape shifting to follow what occurs around me. A fish swims by watching the rest of the school, its movements synchronized and flawless, but to put it on its own, what will guide it? I must resist the Comparisons and call my own heart to Integrity.
I must call my own heart to its reply when He commands (not suggests), "You must follow me." There can only be One heart I compare with my own and I must be willing to say, "I am a poor poet compared to Him." I am a poor poet. But my pen is not in my hand any more. Therefore, let my life be compared to the greatest of history; the most glorious of songs. For such lives and creation were never formed by the ones who held them, but by the One they compared themselves to: the Beautiful One Who held the pen.
My life is a blank page. Let it begin.
-Lawra Elizabeth
August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Civil War.
I could fight these battles.
I could fight and fight,
with my fist against the wall
and my knuckles raw and broken;
I could cry myself to sleep
until I wake to find my answers,
pushing and pushing
until this civil war is over:
I could fight this with no other
walking close against my shoulder;
rain would pour and I would trudge
along the muddy way of war--
my heart could take each step with aching
and aim toward something,
or just sit and wait for the enemy to find me.
I could run away, my lungs on fire,
my side pierced with air that pains me
and sustains me.
I could hobble away toward the back of the line
and let another win it for me,
with my head buried in the sand and all the water
taking over;
I might recover.
I could fight, give in, and fight again
and brave some sort of Alone
as my demons parade and tuck themselves
beneath my skin, and I could loathe them
with a passion and analyze my mode of action
to defeat them: I could beat them
with my will and want to thrive but
I would live still beating daily,
my heart racing, my mind braking
and restarting in the patterns I resist--
that I accept-- that I resist--
that I accept-- that I. . . .
Circles:
I could take them,
or my vacillating choices:
I'd deal,
my pillows over my head,
and sleep, and hide
and even make attempts at Right
and kick myself for every Wrong--
yes, I could fight some sort of fights
here on my own--
but I would lose them.
Or I could walk with Someone,
fight with Someone: take the blows
and spar and start to gain some ground,
leaning on an Arm that walks this
wounded flesh so far from former battle
grounds that I will fight my wars
out in the open, more than hoping for
the courage not to wall up
or to bunker down.
"A lover, not a fighter,"
and yet fighting life-long wars,
the guns aimed; ready; fire!
as my bleary eyes blink open
every morning.
I could rush the walls, precariously,
and foolishly abandon any thought
to throw myself into the clash
that I've not chosen;
or, I could take the sword in hand,
my hands that tremble with its weight
and feel incapable of wielding it
and shield myself, afraid of the outcome;
afraid I'm not strong enough;
afraid I'm still sitting on the sidelines,
only dreaming that it's over,
and let another take it up with me,
no longer claiming my Civil War.
My war?
When did I take this persona,
claming sole responsibility?
I've been bracing myself against myself
for so long that I despise myself--
yet I can't run myself through,
and no one will do it for me:
Pressing on is my prerogative,
my ally; my burden. . .
to finish Best and finish well
is the better part of my dreams.
I could fight these battles,
or I could lean them on Another,
my crippled limbs shaking,
and draw my Strength from some release
of breath, and burden, and habitual instability;
letting go of fast reactions,
my claim to this, my want of this struggle
for fear of losing my identity in something New:
somehow finding comfort in knowing who I am
in the dark I took yet knew as Enemy.
If I'm not the Dark, or the Struggle With It--
all the things I've ever been--
then who am I?
The shadows curl up under me
and curiously dissipate beneath
my timid feet.
With this Help,
the Darkness runs from me, for
I am Light.
And it is strange.
My old is new and new is aged in ancient Power
that defines my battle grounds
and scores the lines that set me toward an End:
my hope, that one thing that hangs gleaming brighter
than the rest,
for which I cannot fight alone:
to obtain it, or to touch it; to feel my fingers slip around it
and grasp what I've been longing for in sunset
and horizon;
the face within the mirror--
I must surrender in the moment:
the glass shatters; the veil is torn,
my sleep jostled, thoughts turned over;
the agony of being reborn
where angels brush against the soul of man,
charged to lift him above the stones,
to keep his feet from stumbling;
to walk him out and guard him well.
In that broken, bloody place, I'll rise
and draw my Breath to walk out there,
but not alone:
I'll fight and rest, and share the weight
when tears frustrate and silence reigns and I sit
on my couch still tempted,
lying on my bed unmet by Promises my faith believes
when I still feel the dark betray me;
my body wrecked and mind still trying to loop,
replaying lies and fears--
sweet Love comes by with some sweet song
she whispers in my ear.
She contrasts everything I've been
and I feel pierced. . . aggravated. . .
and awakened
by this gift of One Who rouses me to fight
again--
to pull my shirt down over my head,
get out of bed,
and tell the day, "I'M HERE!"
I'll share my battle hand-in-hand,
and when I'm tired, be carried in--
to throw it down, to war again--
And in that wrest and rested state,
fall to my knees,
give in, and
win.
March 28, 2009
I could fight and fight,
with my fist against the wall
and my knuckles raw and broken;
I could cry myself to sleep
until I wake to find my answers,
pushing and pushing
until this civil war is over:
I could fight this with no other
walking close against my shoulder;
rain would pour and I would trudge
along the muddy way of war--
my heart could take each step with aching
and aim toward something,
or just sit and wait for the enemy to find me.
I could run away, my lungs on fire,
my side pierced with air that pains me
and sustains me.
I could hobble away toward the back of the line
and let another win it for me,
with my head buried in the sand and all the water
taking over;
I might recover.
I could fight, give in, and fight again
and brave some sort of Alone
as my demons parade and tuck themselves
beneath my skin, and I could loathe them
with a passion and analyze my mode of action
to defeat them: I could beat them
with my will and want to thrive but
I would live still beating daily,
my heart racing, my mind braking
and restarting in the patterns I resist--
that I accept-- that I resist--
that I accept-- that I. . . .
Circles:
I could take them,
or my vacillating choices:
I'd deal,
my pillows over my head,
and sleep, and hide
and even make attempts at Right
and kick myself for every Wrong--
yes, I could fight some sort of fights
here on my own--
but I would lose them.
Or I could walk with Someone,
fight with Someone: take the blows
and spar and start to gain some ground,
leaning on an Arm that walks this
wounded flesh so far from former battle
grounds that I will fight my wars
out in the open, more than hoping for
the courage not to wall up
or to bunker down.
"A lover, not a fighter,"
and yet fighting life-long wars,
the guns aimed; ready; fire!
as my bleary eyes blink open
every morning.
I could rush the walls, precariously,
and foolishly abandon any thought
to throw myself into the clash
that I've not chosen;
or, I could take the sword in hand,
my hands that tremble with its weight
and feel incapable of wielding it
and shield myself, afraid of the outcome;
afraid I'm not strong enough;
afraid I'm still sitting on the sidelines,
only dreaming that it's over,
and let another take it up with me,
no longer claiming my Civil War.
My war?
When did I take this persona,
claming sole responsibility?
I've been bracing myself against myself
for so long that I despise myself--
yet I can't run myself through,
and no one will do it for me:
Pressing on is my prerogative,
my ally; my burden. . .
to finish Best and finish well
is the better part of my dreams.
I could fight these battles,
or I could lean them on Another,
my crippled limbs shaking,
and draw my Strength from some release
of breath, and burden, and habitual instability;
letting go of fast reactions,
my claim to this, my want of this struggle
for fear of losing my identity in something New:
somehow finding comfort in knowing who I am
in the dark I took yet knew as Enemy.
If I'm not the Dark, or the Struggle With It--
all the things I've ever been--
then who am I?
The shadows curl up under me
and curiously dissipate beneath
my timid feet.
With this Help,
the Darkness runs from me, for
I am Light.
And it is strange.
My old is new and new is aged in ancient Power
that defines my battle grounds
and scores the lines that set me toward an End:
my hope, that one thing that hangs gleaming brighter
than the rest,
for which I cannot fight alone:
to obtain it, or to touch it; to feel my fingers slip around it
and grasp what I've been longing for in sunset
and horizon;
the face within the mirror--
I must surrender in the moment:
the glass shatters; the veil is torn,
my sleep jostled, thoughts turned over;
the agony of being reborn
where angels brush against the soul of man,
charged to lift him above the stones,
to keep his feet from stumbling;
to walk him out and guard him well.
In that broken, bloody place, I'll rise
and draw my Breath to walk out there,
but not alone:
I'll fight and rest, and share the weight
when tears frustrate and silence reigns and I sit
on my couch still tempted,
lying on my bed unmet by Promises my faith believes
when I still feel the dark betray me;
my body wrecked and mind still trying to loop,
replaying lies and fears--
sweet Love comes by with some sweet song
she whispers in my ear.
She contrasts everything I've been
and I feel pierced. . . aggravated. . .
and awakened
by this gift of One Who rouses me to fight
again--
to pull my shirt down over my head,
get out of bed,
and tell the day, "I'M HERE!"
I'll share my battle hand-in-hand,
and when I'm tired, be carried in--
to throw it down, to war again--
And in that wrest and rested state,
fall to my knees,
give in, and
win.
March 28, 2009
Flight.
Love is a slow, slow, slow,
slow dance,
wrapped around you
and down you and up
and intense,
like a ribbon wound tightly
and a sparrow set free,
left to wing,
soft, and sing,
as he sits on the fence.
And he dreams of some
heart-racing pace
in the skies.
(For just once, he would die.)
Sweet and reckless
and shy.
The risks are so high.
He would try.
(So would I.)
And the ribbons would fly,
ever high, like a kite
hitting clouds without strings,
only held by a ring
on my finger.
(Let's linger.)
It's better held still,
close your eyes,
and the dance will unwind
like a streamer,
the slow, slow, slow
quickly speeding to flight,
spinning, sent on momentum
of feelings confined,
and the time swiftly climbs
toward the cloud-bursting heights,
'til the sparrows find sky
and the ribbons untie
without where, when, or why;
Love will fly.
(So will I.)
May 14, 2009
slow dance,
wrapped around you
and down you and up
and intense,
like a ribbon wound tightly
and a sparrow set free,
left to wing,
soft, and sing,
as he sits on the fence.
And he dreams of some
heart-racing pace
in the skies.
(For just once, he would die.)
Sweet and reckless
and shy.
The risks are so high.
He would try.
(So would I.)
And the ribbons would fly,
ever high, like a kite
hitting clouds without strings,
only held by a ring
on my finger.
(Let's linger.)
It's better held still,
close your eyes,
and the dance will unwind
like a streamer,
the slow, slow, slow
quickly speeding to flight,
spinning, sent on momentum
of feelings confined,
and the time swiftly climbs
toward the cloud-bursting heights,
'til the sparrows find sky
and the ribbons untie
without where, when, or why;
Love will fly.
(So will I.)
May 14, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Her Song
What is your name?
Who are you talking to?
I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.
You're riddles and rhymes.
Are you slightly amused?
Well, laugh all you want, my love.
I'm still confused.
'Cos you sit the longest while
in corners of my mind
strumming your fingers through
all my thoughts,
playing in time.
(How you do what you do.)
Can you walk by?
We've painted all the signs.
I'd like to brush your arm,
tell you you're mine.
You soon unfold;
I am a secret smile.
Lips sealed, but certainly,
I am enthralled.
You're everything I've got.
Everything I'm not.
How long is forever, my love?
Is it a lot?
I hope it's enough.
I've tried your name,
but only a time or two.
Oh, I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.
May 14; June 3, 2009
Who are you talking to?
I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.
You're riddles and rhymes.
Are you slightly amused?
Well, laugh all you want, my love.
I'm still confused.
'Cos you sit the longest while
in corners of my mind
strumming your fingers through
all my thoughts,
playing in time.
(How you do what you do.)
Can you walk by?
We've painted all the signs.
I'd like to brush your arm,
tell you you're mine.
You soon unfold;
I am a secret smile.
Lips sealed, but certainly,
I am enthralled.
You're everything I've got.
Everything I'm not.
How long is forever, my love?
Is it a lot?
I hope it's enough.
I've tried your name,
but only a time or two.
Oh, I'm in this frame of mind
pondering you.
May 14; June 3, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Shiver.
Glance, and Heaven
tip-toes in, disarming
and warming and tenderly
then,
Stop. Your world stands still
and mine revolves around our. . .
I'm not allowed to say the word.
(But soon I will.)
I will.
And standing, spaced,
the cold rain aches
against my skin.
I think of when you
hold me close,
and ache again.
Every precious word
still bites my tongue
in silent waiting
(yet, a smile):
read through my windows
for a while,
the feelings in their movement
without explanation.
The thought of souls so close
and quivering,
it stirs the warmth of sweet sensation--
God has stitched two hearts,
and better,
stitched them into one.
(You're mine.)
The warm, deep-settling in
this chill,
you walk toward me
(in thoughts; dreams; waking).
You're there,
right there;
l*** in the making
sparks in the cold and
makes me shiver.
-L.E.
May 4, 2009
tip-toes in, disarming
and warming and tenderly
then,
Stop. Your world stands still
and mine revolves around our. . .
I'm not allowed to say the word.
(But soon I will.)
I will.
And standing, spaced,
the cold rain aches
against my skin.
I think of when you
hold me close,
and ache again.
Every precious word
still bites my tongue
in silent waiting
(yet, a smile):
read through my windows
for a while,
the feelings in their movement
without explanation.
The thought of souls so close
and quivering,
it stirs the warmth of sweet sensation--
God has stitched two hearts,
and better,
stitched them into one.
(You're mine.)
The warm, deep-settling in
this chill,
you walk toward me
(in thoughts; dreams; waking).
You're there,
right there;
l*** in the making
sparks in the cold and
makes me shiver.
-L.E.
May 4, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Tremble
Within touch,
there's a space
between yes, and don't;
a pause,
and that holds for quite a while.
Her eyes seem deeper,
thoughts glance at her hand.
It seems smaller,
and sweeter,
and. . . like it needs held.
And he swallows hard,
the line is tripped
between,
they both know it
and know that it's
what they both think.
There a certain heart flutters
(its petals swirl
down,
down,
down, fragile; undone).
Her hair seems finer,
her laugh brightened some.
She knows that he sees.
He has a deep glance,
and nice eyes
that hold volumes
she'd like to read.
Within space,
there's a trembling
movement they've felt;
like threads in the breeze,
the silk in a web.
The silken fingers
link them with ease,
back and forth, back and forth,
as his thoughts
brush her cheek.
February 14, 2009
there's a space
between yes, and don't;
a pause,
and that holds for quite a while.
Her eyes seem deeper,
thoughts glance at her hand.
It seems smaller,
and sweeter,
and. . . like it needs held.
And he swallows hard,
the line is tripped
between,
they both know it
and know that it's
what they both think.
There a certain heart flutters
(its petals swirl
down,
down,
down, fragile; undone).
Her hair seems finer,
her laugh brightened some.
She knows that he sees.
He has a deep glance,
and nice eyes
that hold volumes
she'd like to read.
Within space,
there's a trembling
movement they've felt;
like threads in the breeze,
the silk in a web.
The silken fingers
link them with ease,
back and forth, back and forth,
as his thoughts
brush her cheek.
February 14, 2009
Bloom.
Wouldn't you like to know;
I would like to,
like to know and let it stay.
I would be so fragile
and you would be so strong;
and then my arms would hold you
when you cannot last too long.
My tendrils wrapping 'round you,
I'll grow with you,
your stem about to break,
I'll bend
and wind up you until my weakness
is your strength.
(Please grow with me.)
February 13, 2009
I would like to,
like to know and let it stay.
I would be so fragile
and you would be so strong;
and then my arms would hold you
when you cannot last too long.
My tendrils wrapping 'round you,
I'll grow with you,
your stem about to break,
I'll bend
and wind up you until my weakness
is your strength.
(Please grow with me.)
February 13, 2009
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