Friday, March 28, 2014
Sunday, March 23, 2014
I wake slow and easy on a Saturday. Love on the dog, choose bits and bytes before brekkie, dig through the web to surf, sit around the net warming my open hands to stories, to life.
Stand beside my niece on her first trip to the ocean. Drink satisfaction in the recording studio with my son. Witness jellyfish and whales with Dale. Sing "In the Jungle" with Billy and Jimmy. Mock Alberta Spring with Marcia. Weep with two widows, dancing together on our ashes.
David shows why otherness is worth the hazard and John reminds me there's no transformation without brokenness. Serena shares a cup of grace, that faith isn't about perfecting a behavioral combination - it's about trust. Period.
And I pray gratitude for
- an office in a spacious place
- enlarged borders
- forgiveness found and forwarded
This isn't social networking
This is the net working like a Body
All parts a part
A living breathing
Virtual. Virtuous. Vibrant. Reality
of love, loss, beauty and truth
Good morning friends.
God's got this -
holding us all in wide open
and we get to be here
holding each other
and this dear reality.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Deep bitter roots
anchor a furrowed trunk knotted
gnarled and split from growing round
old rusty lies and barbed words
entwined below and above
dying bloodlines slowly pulse, choke
from grafted resentment
anger and exposed wounds
but Hope breathes life
shines light into hidden spaces
where Faith gets on its knees
to reclaim this territory, inch by broken inch
Truth digs deep through hard-packed soil
trampled under years of neglect
makes a channel for Love to soak
loosen resentment's tight grasp
Prayer waters the earth with tears
whispers in petition, thy kingdom come
weeps release, thy will be done
and finally Forgiveness breaks free
The trees of the field clap their hands
in every rising branch, buds burst into blossom
begin to thrum the Tree's true name -
Saturday, March 8, 2014
I find truth in the strangest places.
The back of the newspaper buried in an obit. In middle of a medieval movie cloaked in the king's last ditch pre-battle speech. From late night Facebook posts by renegades and rebels with long hair and deep roots. From celebrities getting awards for depicting horrible things. And in the stark, screaming silence of an unanswered email.
And though more rare, I still hear truth in tradition: sung from the choir, whispered in flickering voice by candlelight contemplatives. When long-haired music rises like a wave on the North Shore, dashes against the volcanic rock of my soul, formed when the world was born. I see truth in the sweat of horses over fresh plowed earth. And I stand mouth agape, split open at the selfless setting sun, the clouds all gathered round in glowing admiration.
You leak truth out your pores, give it graciously in thumbs ups and likes, in coffee dates and broken bread, the way you bring the shards of your heart in your unwrapped shoebox and we put that let-go puzzle together again, sometimes with the help of the King's horses and men.
Truth makes its own path. Walks hand in hand with wisdom. It's spoken by old bald men and tall blonde women, bounces happy in a child's eyes and pulses in the laments of colleagues new and old. The next generations, from a troubadour father, pen it in videos, stage and song. It cheers in the come-from-behind win and weeps healing in crushing defeat.
Let the one who has ears to hear, listen. And never, ever, be afraid to let us see you sweat. You are tilling the earth in truth and we will feast together on the harvest.