making the connections

How Deep the Father’s Love for Us

How deep the Father’s love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss,
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One
Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross,
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my barking voice
Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom
-Skillet

I’m the the wisp of smoke,
from that stranger’s cigarette
that floats shyly in the stale wind.
You look in a moment of hate,
bitter disgust, and shallow conceit,
but you will walk on and forget me.

Come down, Come down now,
Come down from your high place
in the leaves. See they’re falling,
they’re falling, they’re falling down on me.

Come, Come, sing sweetly,
gently as the moon rises above,
and do not notice the waves
creeping by, closer and deeper by.

Be, Be, Be someone else for a minute,
Pleasant freedom for one eye blink
like the fall of the leaf before
it mates with the ground,
and dies far too young.

Oh, I am flocks of crows flying above us,
far far below the heavenly stars and
darkness of hell’s nights.
Sleep, Sleep, dream of waking in peace,
in chaos, in the afterlife. In bubbles, and
shelters, and tunnels of love with decaying
white-paint chipped swans and lies.

In between, in between, this is nothing.
In between, in between, this is touch,
this is a tear, is a smile, is a waiver to life.
This is a pain, this is a beauty,
this is a thin tower tall above us.

And I continue to swirl, and curl,
and swim in the sky, and breathe
you in deeper and deeper,
shallower and shallower,
all throughout the night.

In between, In between you and me,
is simple death and burdening life.

and the floor falls lower and lower, as the phone rings louder and louder.
and the walls close in, closer and closer, as the ceiling caves deeper and deeper.
and the heart beats slower and slower, as the breaths are shallower and shallower.
and the eyes look higher and higher, as the screams are softer and softer.
and the soul broke smaller and smaller, as the tears grew larger and larger.

and all vanished into thin air.
into the forest.
into to oblivion.
into to foggy memories.

I am being unwritten.
Erased away, and…
is this being forgotten,
or just reworked?

Better phrasing,
because You know,
the best words.

I can only write
my broken humanity.

Pages are being torn out.

I just spent the last 5 days with 8 people I love immensely. I say this without generalizing…

I love Colin and (including but not limited to)
his amazing mind and ability to speak and think and create ideas.

I love Timmy and (including but not limited to)
his exuding sense of humor, unique ability to make me smile when
my world is crying, and mind-blowing creativity.

I love Katherine and (including but not limited to)
her profound heartfelt words, her passionate character,
and truthful being who gives life to me when I’m around her.

I love Trevor and (including but not limited to)
his flexible yet enthused nature, his humor-inclined
character, and his steadfast and intelligent persona.

I love Abbi and (including but not limited to)
her ability to speak honesty, and her openness,
her love that she pours out upon others, the way
she motivates, and her responsible nature.

I love Ryan and (including but not limited to)
his gift to bring laughter, and how he call it as he sees it,
for his servant attitude, always ready to help and fix and figure out.

I love Melinda and (including but not limited to)
her honesty, her fun-loving nature, her peaceful spirit,
her awareness of who people are, and her openness to life.

And I love Todd for who he is in my life, and in the lives of
the ones I love, for his ability to laugh amidst struggle, and
his gift to calm and reinforce my heart, his fun-loving spirit,
his brilliant brain and his willingness to share his knowledge
about everything from theology to disneyland.

I love these people. And we just spent the last 5 days talking,
laughing, singing, encouraging, asking, wondering, questioning,
doubting, struggling, loving, crying, changing, discussing, opening,
embracing, touching, worshipping, riding, driving, eating, sleeping,
drinking… together. Living life together.

Together we approached issues that weren’t easy,
discussed topics that weren’t comfortable,
and made some incredible realizations.

But we still have a lot of work to do, and I don’t feel like we have entirely (or even begun to) debrief the trip.

And right now… I’m looking for a little breathing space, a few quieter moments,
and maybe some good hard sleeping on my own sweet bed.

the white petals overlapped,
covering her monstrosity.
but they are wilting,
like roses on a strangers grave.

all that keeps her alive,
are all the lies she tells,
and the hours she is awake
trying to remember to who.

her heart is held together
by crime tape and safety pins
but they aren’t keeping it
as safe as the wall she built

and she hears light and
sees the musical notes
that float by her into the air,
but that won’t calm her.

so she pulls hard on that
cigarette, like it will save
her from this hole she dug,
but it only digs a little deeper

and so she licks her lips,
and so she sighs. it sounds
just like the words, the words
“Help me”.

Is anyone listening to me?

graceful gallows gathering good gentiles
succumbing to the soft sound striking the summer air
her fragile hand, the cylinder of smooth calm
and the fragrance lingered on her delicate skin,
the soft perfume of the nicotine kiss

the rough rocks teach her how to read
the tears she chokes back, help me read her.
adept at masking her life, this ride from hell.
she stands on the corner of sharp concrete
watching the cars creep, continually coming.

watching, waiting, wishing, wanting.
and she asks is this my life, held back
by the encompassing fingers of smoke
that makes her close her eyes, and faint
into her memories of brilliant clarity.

she drifts back into that old limousine
she takes a step back, back into paradise
back to the sturdy buildings of youth
when she knew who she was, or
maybe who she wanted to be.

but the man across the street
beckons her roughly, away from
her good thoughts and into
reality, as dark as it was
the animated orange man,
and the white crosswalk.

Well for Lent I’ve officially decided to give up all sound in my car while I’m driving.

More about this later, maybe… I’m doing journaling/spiritual exercises every night now, so what used to be my blogging time is mostly used for that… but I’ll try to get on here and keep people (whoever reads this thing) updated on my life, and lent, and mexico prep.

Alright. Nightynight time.

We crawl.
We walk.
We stumble.
We die.

We thirst.
We pine.
We need.
We want.

We have.
We hate.
We give.
We love.

We think.
We hurt.
We look.
We feel.

We.
I.
Us.
You.
Them.
Her.
Him.
We.

We are now. We weren’t always. We won’t be forever.
We are now. That is it. We thirst and die, except.
We crawl. He guides.
We walk. He holds.
We stumble. He loves.
We fall. He prays.
We die. He lives.
We live. He dies.
We are. He runs.
We stand. He is.

He is. He was. He is. He will be.
We are. We were. We are. We will be.
Together, We are.
Apart, We are not.

Through the windows, the light caught the particles, the infinite and inscrutable grains of history that lingered in the stagnant air. Only in the light can the dust be seen, illuminated specks that were invisible moments ago; only when the dust collects in corners and unseen surfaces is it significant, but the dust settles, the dust exists and dances unseen upon our arid earth, lounging on the covers of the greatest tomes, and floating in the spaces between our breaths. The dust has witnessed the crimes of history, the sadness of decay, the hollow remains of devastation. The dust that scampers across those lazy beams of sun may have once been a column of marble, supporting the lavish lifestyles of Rome or Spain, or a piece of the mountains blasted away, replaced by human advancement. In the still silence, the dust settles, a fragile state of temporary tranquility. I was dust before I was clay. I was the fleeting echo of Adam, as “the first man was of the dust of the earth, the second man from heaven. As was the earthly man, so are those who are of the earth; and as is the man from heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. And just as we have borne the likeness of the earthly man, so shall we bear the likeness of the man from heaven” (1 Corinthians 15:47-49). I settled on ledges and observed creation, aware, consciously aware that Something, Someone could make me– a momentary, microscopic molecule– worth something. I did not understand anything beyond this truth, yet I knew it was true. I was still dust, but the dust was stirring.

As I stirred, I collided with light, and the in the light I was effulgent, radiating in a way I had never known possible in the days of my quiescent observation. This light was what I yearned for, and I knew it was part of the truth I had always known. And the light was refracted through the window pane, and the more I pursued the light, the more light I realized was pouring through the glass, in the corners and the edges that used to be my home. But I could not return, I could not settle back, looking upon the light rays that I now knew were there. Because upon those shelves of yesterday I was “lukewarm—neither hot nor cold” (Revelation 3:16), and I was, in the light, burning with questions, on fire to pursue the truth I had always known. And in this quest for the light, I found the Source. And I, the once lingering speck of dust, became clay. For “O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand” (Isaiah 64:8); as the light revealed my substance, the Potter transformed me from an evanescent scrap of history into an eternally malleable lump of clay. In the past three years, I have been wedged, thrown, hand-built, carved, glazed, and broken. I have been so many pieces of pottery, vessels created by God. Through community, God has molded my heart; through honesty, He has mended cracks; through His love, mercy, grace, and peace, I have been reborn, recreated in His image.

Pottery is not an immaculate work; it is an art of struggle and creativity, a delicate balance between oppression and patience. Through these past few years, I have experienced the course of becoming a new creation. I have weathered the harsh wedging of the clay: the removal of inconsistencies and air bubbles and remaining pieces of dust requires smashing the clay and making it obey—a potter’s version of a gardener’s trimming, as “He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful”(John 15:2). I have been centered upon the wheel, I have fought against the Potter, being pushed and pulled. I have been defiant, refusing to be centered until my world spins out of control. Yet the Potter is patient, and kind, and does not reject His clay. And I have grown to love being centered, constructed, created by Him. Being stretched and wedged and changed, changed from a single speck of dust into His masterpiece, His art, His planned vessel, has taught me to love the broken and rejoice in Him, taught me how to share my story and reflect His light. I was made from history, but I exist in Him, through Him, and for Him.

The young flower danced to some internal drum,
with some light-headed boy who took her and ran,
Unfolded and open in the cold bitter wintry night.

There she was. Shivering but okay, changing by the minute,
living while the sun was down, and buried underneath the ground.

And she was dancing to the rhythm of some unsung anthem,
a song of sadness and pain that plays in silent dark rooms.

The young flower was free right? but she choked herself
with the approval of me, and lay down in the grass,
because nothing could hold her up this time, no hands
reaching down from heaven to carry her through it all now.

But she was free! do you ask, why did she give up?
She was so free. Free and beautiful, blooming and
lovely, counting her petals was a past-time of yours,
And if only you knew how captured she was, then
you might understand. But how could you know?

Because the song that she danced to that night,
Screamed at the end, and made me remember my life,
And the boy who took her and made everything right,
Left her and broke her, and took out a shiny silver knife,
Right there, in between those trees, in the mirrors of truth,
and the smoke of love, she was slaughtered, ripped from
the ground, killed: only for the cause of death did we die.

And she’s free, wilted and gone, never to dance again in the wind.
And she’s free, holding a place, against bleached white soil,
and industrial rock, marked with my name and a date of our death.

We are free. Taken and broken by the world, they cannot reach us now.
But our roots still remain in the hollow great spots were we danced
once upon a time. They couldn’t grow again, but they will,
oh, they must serve as reminders that we are not always free,
that the song that is in us is sometimes just a scream,
and that rescue wasn’t possible for us, but it so is for you.

That bleached ground and smooth stone that harbors
our short lived lives, to a deaf world it valiantly preaches
of a life worth living and of taking a hold of those you love
most and never letting go and of how to be free. Will you listen?
Will you understand? Will you open your eyes and look around,
Will you realize that it is you who is screaming into your song,
that you are taking your life away, and to stop and be still?

Will you be free, for my sake and the pretty little flower’s
who life was broken for me? For me. For my remembrance.
For me, who was never free, some actually beauty was taken
For me. For some white-washed and tired good memory, they
laid her at the stone. They didn’t know me at all, but the flower
Understood. Please, promise me, that you’ll listen to my grave?