The Night Creation Held its Breath

The Night Creation Held its Breath

[written Christmas Eve 2013]

On this night before Christmas, as the highway traffic hums on and the epileptic Sweet Frog sign lights up the wall with its constant blinking, I try to stop an imagine the night creation held its breath. I close my eyes, and I try to quiet the noises, but with no luck. I wonder if that’s how it was in Bethlehem too. With all those people in for the census, I doubt it was truly a “silent night”. Snores and late night spousal arguments may have filled the streets. Murmers about the Romans and the zealots, not to mention complaints about the long trip, were heard throughout the town, I’m sure. I doubt many noticed the young couple on the donkey, nor the star above. I’m sure if they did they chalked it up to some strange phenomena.. or maybe even aliens.

But nature would likely tell a different story. “All creation groans with eager anticipation for the adoption of sons..” How much more so would it stir with excitement for its Creator to finally tread its earth again — just like the good ol’ garden days. And then there were the angels! For years God had been planning redemption and restoration, and it was finally here. Oh, how they must have held their breath, stifling their joy at the Master’s joy. How long He has waited for this day! Sitting on the edge of their seats, they prepared to serenade a group of smelly sheep-herders, but first, they just have to see the birth. 

And for two souls, Mary, and our Abba, I’m sure time stood still. It couldn’t go fast enough. The Savior was almost here! Yet both of them knew; with a twinge of sadness they recognized, He would not forever be hers to hold. He would grow, He would grieve, He would ache. All of this glory for one long day of pain, and three more of silence. I wonder if Joseph noticed Mary’s face fall… But only for a moment. Yes, that may come but it is not yet here. Right now a mother holds her baby, and a Father holds His daughter. Right now she is storing these things up in her heart, and right now He’s protecting it. Right now there is a stillness and quiet beyond the ear’s ability to hear. For right now, in the city of David, a savior has been born to you. He is Christ the Lord.


The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

[Back story: On Friday the 2nd I was processing life and loneliness, the draw to create and how it breaks me. God, as usual, was being a wonderful sounding board for all my confusion and hurt. Ultimately though, I have a hard time believing Him when He says He loves when I create and fling it out into the world. And all my questions boiled down to: Then why doesn’t my art catch? Why is it not good enough-why am I not good enough- for it to be caught? What good is a half-hearted, or rather, a not-quite-good-enough, creative to Him? How can it do Him, or the world, any good if the words are spoken, the art created, and left unheard, unseen? I realized creating is the only way I know how to communicate and I angrily asked Him why He made me this way, “But why? It’s so lonely. I’m so lonely over here. I want to be heard. Creating is not fun for me, it’s heart-wrenchingly painful. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifeline.”
The picture that popped in my mind left me sobbing. I saw it all like a movie, and seeing as I can’t animate it for you, I’ll have to roughly jot it down, and hope you’ll be able to see it too:]

Art, words, pictures, poems, folded carefully into perfect little paper airplanes.
There’s a chasm and on the other side it is bustling with crowds and friends and towns.
The artist sits alone, creating then folding.
A line of pegs sit at the edge to the chasm with strings that connect to each plane. Many of the threads lead straight down into the chasm where the plane was lost. Others bridge the gap but the planes lay motionless on the other side, either trampled, neglected, or unseen. Those strings remain attached to their pegs, little feelers flung across the gap, left in silent hope. The threads hanging into the chasm with their fallen planes are eventually cut off at the peg, but only when the artist has enough heart left for a proper eulogy and grief.

She falls asleep each night on the ground facing the stakes watching with weary eyes for a twitch.

Supplies are replenished when needed; coffee brought in the morning and late into the night. Blankets are draped over her shoulders in the cold and they’re straightened as she sleeps. Shade is provided when the sun blazes or when the sky cries her tears.
And the artist creates on. Her blood compels her and her bones would snap under the weight of her heart were she to keep it all in.
So she keeps on.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Grieve, cut.
Watch, wait.
Cut, cut, cut, break.
Cry, scream, straighten, breath.
Create, fold, tie, fling.









In Winter’s Battlefield [Poem-a-Day: 30]

In Winter’s Battlefield [Poem-a-Day: 30]

Blue white mist rises
from the creek bed on the horizon.
It softly drifts to hush the brandy grasses,
that blow and shake in fear as Winter approaches.

The trees stand stately,
on the hill they refuse to acknowledge
the rains have left them bare and dripping still
from their postpartum, babes ripped from their arms.

Yet in all of this ache
the sky has not remembered the time of mourning.
It stretches and spreads, free of the clouds
that had confined its piercing blue.

In seeming act of rebellion,
the sky screams forth in radiant light,
letting out its purest tune in hues
that dare the cold to come and try it.

And here I find myself,
at home amidst the contradiction,
breathing courage o’er the grasses, grieving
with the trees, and spread my soul wide with the sky.

I thrive among the strife
of living in the two worlds at one time.
And although I ache and hope for this embrace made tangible,
Light fighting back darkness sets a fire in my eyes.

How the Sun Loves a Home [Poem-a-Day: 27]

How the Sun Loves a Home [Poem-a-Day: 27]

Houses I see, but they aren’t home to me.
In my mind they house another family.
Some that I visit, and in which I stay,
But to live there forever just is not my way.

I like to see them from afar,
meet them on the porch where they are,
and talk for a while, enjoy a dinner or tea,
maybe stay for the night to wake with the morn
and watch how the sun loves their home.

Oh, I love how the sun loves a home,
how it fills it with light from morning ’til night,
and how the shadows dance round in return.

But then after I see, its the road left for me;
not to stay but to wander and roam,
to be in one place and then move to another,
all the while tracking the sun.

The forest feels deep enough to let me be free,
and the sky in the desert is home.
The mossy, green knolls all laugh as they roll,
and I laugh in the joy they’ve become.

Because oh how I love,
the way the Son loves a home.

Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

Spyglass [Poem-a-Day: 22]

I pick up my spyglass
on this fine overcast day,
and raise to the horizon
to see what comes this way

Dawn thunders on,
pouring over the waves:
The crests of these grassy hills,
burning embers, they blaze

Dawn slips on by,
bringing with it noon-day light.
The sky is still a blanket,
and the birds are a-flight.

Dusk rises up
from the horizon to seize;
before her long purple gown
the remnants of day flee.

Night hushes us
with its midnight blue song.
The clouds slip away to show
the starry host and throng.

Sing through the night,
my darling, sing with the moon,
and I’ll raise up my spyglass
to the Right-Now’s tune.

King of Light [Poem-a-Day: 25]

Oh King of Light,
please bind up these lies;
these lies that consume us,
and tie up our minds.

Oh King of the Armies,
come shatter these chains.
This bondage is heavy,
and it just won’t break.

Oh King of my Peace,
please come breathe on me.
Clear up the air,
to You no devils compare.

There’s no darkness in You,
in You there’s no fight.
No lies can hold up,
to Your love and Your light.

With You all the darkness
and devils, they flee,
and I’m finally gasping,
I’m finally free.

A Poem in the Night [Poem-a-Day: 19]

A poem in the night
like a whisper on the wind
revealing the thoughts of the
innermost man.

Wake in the morning
to find those sentiments passed,
still the poem keeps on whispering,
“Look what we’ve found.”