Saturday, March 2, 2013

a blog. an oddity. a poem

Earlier I bounced between taking a nap, or taking a bath. My right heel is bothering me, and the thought of just getting it warmer is enticing. If I head to the bath, I can bring a few books along, although I know I'll sleep at some point. Always afraid I'll drop something in the water.

I pull the sheets down on the bed, but then turn to the bath. I pull back the brown curtains that hide the garden tub, glorious sunshine streaming in the frosted window, warming the wall. I place my hand in the warm light and feel the water rushing in...a bit cooler I think...and it fills, gushing from the faucet.

I mosey around the house and grab my stash of books. A few from the library weigh me down, but it's Ann Voskamp's 1000 Gifts that I'm looking for. Poetic grace at it's finest. I find it in the kitchen, stashed between prayer journals and my own Joy Dare. I head back to the tub, nearly full, and stack the books on the chair on the side. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I give the bed another glance...an afternoon nap would be refreshing...but again I think of soaking my heel...and go to the tub.

Once in, I let the water cover me. Perfect. Warm enough to bring relief, but not so warm that it makes my pulse raise and I have to shower afterwards, for all the sweating I've done. I dry my hands on a towel and reach for the book...starting where I'd last finished off at....something about a moon...

I find my spot and sink in deep, elbows in side ridges supporting my hands out of the water. I'll need to be careful to not fall asleep. I could imagine the tweets that would inspire, but would hate the water logged book, knowing how water twists pages and ripples hard bound covers. I'd seen them enough in the library to know who read in the bath.

Not MY books.

Ann's words soak into me like the warm water and sunny spot on the wall soak into my very being. I multi-task my thoughts, sitting in this peace, and remembering how sweet it was last night at the "Encounter" time at the Fayetteville Prayer Room, voices, hands lifted high in worship for our King, then groups led through prayer, lifting voices louder, each time in passionate pleading to God - first in repenting hearts - then asking for His intervention against human trafficking; for revival and unity in His body, the church, and finally for revival for the city, the region, the world.

The first few times, one of our pastor's daughters sat with me on the carpeted floor of the dimly lit large room. She casually asked why there were so many old people there tonight. I chuckled. Being over 50 myself, I wasn't nearly college aged, and although the time is open to anyone who wants to pray and praise, I was definitely the minority. There was a small group of mostly women sitting to one side in the back. I knew they were leading a workshop on praying & meditating through the scriptures this next day. Their presence wasn't uncomfortable, but I wondered how it impacted the "regulars" as they poured in.

At first, it seemed mostly girls...young women... were coming to participate, but once the room was full there were about 80 people all together. I'd say that the college age male had a slight crowd advantage. I think God would be pleased to see men taking up the task of praying intentionally. I have hope, should the Lord tarry, for the next generation.

Worship was sweet, and familiar modern worship songs were played, 2 guitars, one box drum, 2 men leading songs. The room was small enough that we all made harmonies together. Although they were amplified, the voices of the multitudes created a sweet aroma of offering; pure worship, communion with God.

Eucharisteo.

Which is why my thoughts had turned from the book to last night's experience in the first place. And Ann's words, written all spoken, thought in her head, makes me desire to write words as if in high school again.

all lower case.
all ee cummings-like.
and maybe
no punctuation
at
all

(I LOVE the poetry he wrote, as odd as it may have been; I think my old soul got it. I don't claim to ever be capable of stirring the soul with words, such as he wrote.)

And I'd never thought to write a book, or did I? Was that a dream buried in my own lack of self-confidence; trusting a dream to my father's demise? I vaguely remember a cousin giving me a blank journal with the inscription in the cover "now you can write that book..."

Was it a dream of mine, or just a lie to pin a goal to? Something to make it seem that I was serious about something when I was lost in everything?

So, soaking in the tub, washing away in warm water, warm light fading, and Ann's farmer-wife words, I set the book aside to contemplate, to meditate my favorite way...

MORE of YOU Jesus...(inhale)...
LESS of me...(exhale)...

and within a few breaths of soaking in Jesus
my minds sailing off on a wheat field ocean
under the light of the august moon
and i'm wishing i was sitting at my kitchen table
keyboard in place
hands in motion
writing the words God inspired
to bring my heart to rest
on being alone
with Him

and i'm torn as to why He comes to me
with words to write
all lanky sentences and poetic phrases
when i'm no where near the computer
and half-asleep in meditation
at His feet

knowing
that by the time i got out of the tub
out of the towel
into my clothes
sitting in my kitchen
those words will have vanished
far from my reach

and i'll be
left

all

alone

to try to capture the Essence
of His Spirit
of words
that filled my mind
earlier
not believing He actually gave them
to me

and when i write
keyboard in front
proper posture
to accomplish word filled pages
my mind sits empty
to write worth reading
of preparing the heart
to go
to send
to sustain
miles from here

yet now
my mind
still meditating
my posture relaxed
sitting on couch
not kitchen table tending
by light of fading sun
and cool of evening
and tummy grumbling

i don't want words to send a soul around the globe
but to call one back home
to sit by me
and dry tears of lonely

to fill the gap of grands all missing
from toys not scattered
and widows clean
the pain of them being so close
and so far away
withholding messy floors
shrieks of glad
laughter spilling in
till my heart overflows

is it mine to hold
or to ask of holding
when He beckons me come
and sit at My Feet
when my mind is so sorrow
my pride so fractured
to walk this again

yet i know it's my road
to stumble down
till i walk it uprightly
without hesitation
or fracture
or fear
or tear shed in sorrow
of pity
or pride

i'll walk down this road
and gaze in His Eyes
and sit at His Feet
with no pity or pride
i'll not soon forget His Peace
or His Presence
and gift them that withhold
with mercy
and grace

my joy dare
it seems
is a lesson in hurting
to know the shoes worn
of other's
alone

with no Spirit to guide
not having His Peace
His Presence
His Caring
His Love
His Grace
His Mercy it seems
beyond their communion
while He waits
for Eucharisteo
alone