Let us celebrate love…

Let us celebrate love…
Not in candy hearts or diamond rings,
    colorful cards or fluffy bears
Not in fragrant roses or sunset serenades,
    candlelit dinners or starlit dancing
Not in passionate kisses or tender touches,
Not in butterflies and sparks

But grounded, steady love,
forged in commitment and constancy
    communication and compromise
    forgiveness and grace—
    oh, so much grace.

Let us celebrate love…
In our imperfect stumbling
    toward sacrifice and selflessness
In the hurt and the healing
    and the road in between
In tears that just won’t stop
    and the tissues that soak them up
In poopy diapers and sleepless nights
In cancer diagnoses and hospital visits
    and in the grief that is love persevering
In hands joined in prayer
and feet that run—
    just to be with
    the hurting and broken
    and bind up their wounds.

Let us celebrate love…
That is patient and kind
That fights—
    through the differences and disagreements
and puts in the work it takes
    to bring two lives together
That lasts until the wrinkles show up
—and far beyond.
That has weathered
    fire and rain
    joy and pain
    abundance and lack
    sickness and health
That walks through the shadow of death
    and casts out fear.

Love that would love
    at our most unlovable
Love that points to the greatest Love—
    who would choose
    over Heaven’s splendor
    an old rugged cross.

Let us celebrate Love.

"God is love...
There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.
We love because he first loved us."
1 John 4:16-19 (ESV)

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
1 Corinthians 13:4-7 (ESV)

Lovebird

This little bird seeks to soar
up in the air, oh so!
But if she finds she cannot fly
amidst fierce winds and broken wings,
May brother branch not break beneath
but bend its strength to gently
catch her tumbling down.

A Posture of Prayer

As a child in Sunday School, I was always taught to bow my head, close my eyes, and fold my hands for prayer.  As I’ve grown older, I have moved away from this rigidity, as I often pray in situations where closing my eyes would be disastrous, like walking…or driving.  And yet, I find that there was purpose in what I was first taught.  Often, intentionally posturing our bodies is a way to begin to posture our hearts, whether it’s opening our hands to receive the benediction or bowing our heads in prayer.

I first jotted this down on February 28 of this year.  It was a time that I had set aside to pray, but I found myself so very distracted by everything around me.  I had to still myself to even begin to pray.
And this is the prayer that came out of that time:

Lord, I close my eyes
for they are so quick to distract my heart,
as they look to riches, trinkets—
baubles of such little worth.

Lord, I plug my ears
for there are so many voices
shouting for my attention,
speaking half-truths,
and whispering lies.

Lord, I fold my hands
for they always twitch,
anxious to busy themselves—
in an endless grasping to earn
what you, my Father provide.

Lord, I bow my head
for I am so often proud,
looking down on my brother
and looking up to heaven
as if I deserved to be on the throne.

So Lord, I ask for you
to open my eyes to gaze upon your beauty,
incline my ears to hear your voice,
steady my hands to do your will,
renew my mind to know your rule,
and soften my heart to know your love.

 

The Silent Seasons

The Silent Seasons

The silent moments are filled with baited breaths,
tied up tongues and pounding hearts.
An astounded friend scrambling for inadequate words—
the uncountable infinities between two souls.

The silent hours are sleepless nights,
tear-soaked pillows and bloodshot eyes,
fraught with haunting thoughts and crippling fear,
Hours spent by a hospital bed
clutching each moment and dreading goodbye.

The silent days are desert dry
Bitter roots in stony ground
Parched lips and empty stomachs
Prayers screamed and fists raised
at a God who doesn’t seem to care.

The silent weeks that never end
when the all music feels so dull.
It’s a tiredness beyond tears—
when good words fall on deaf ears,
and there’s no strength to stop striving.

The silent months are filled with pain,
when friends move away and phones don’t ring.
Broken promises and hope that crumbles beneath,
a dream that shrivels like a raisin in the sun
and a cherished child who never sees the light.

The silent years are lonely years
filled with solemn sunsets
watched without a hand to hold.
Endless fields that are reaped and sown,
while the womb within waits barren still.

But in the silent moments the Spirit whispers
into every flutter of the anxious heart.
In the silent hours the Shepherd seeks
quiet waters for the soul to rest beside.
In the silent days the Spirit groans, the Savior pleads,
and the Father grieves, holding his struggling child.
In the silent weeks, the Master composes
a symphony we cannot yet hear.
In the silent months that seem so bleak,
the seasons when the soul grows weak,
In these months of silence the Lord still speaks.
And the years of silence cannot keep
the love of God from the longing deep.

Commentary:

This poem was inspired mostly by my blog post history, in which there are huge gaps—”months of silence,” that I just didn’t have time to write.  At first the poem was written to apologize to you who enjoy reading my writing and to assure you that God was indeed working in my life in those months.  But as I reflected further on those silent months, I realize that each of them were confusing, difficult, and painful times, in my own life and the lives of those around me, times in which I struggled and often failed to trust God.
And so this poem, which started out as an apology for not writing as often as I’d like, has morphed into a far more beautiful lament of the bewilderingly hard times, and a white-knuckled clinging to the faithfulness of God in the midst of it all—an assurance that He is at work even in the midst of the pain.

You Don’t Know Me

You Don’t Know Me

You know me
(I suppose)
as this confident young genius—
everyone’s favorite writer,
yet humbly enough
spewing knowledge, wisdom even.
Breezing through school, no sweat,
surely bound for a future bright—
bright as the smile I wear,
a ferocious fireball of energy
that will never stop
loving, serving, caring.
Sociable, skilled, smart,
All together.

But you don’t know me like I know me.
These cool shades hide tears
because the cynic in my soul
can’t see hope through these jaded eyes.
I’ve got a sailor’s mouth
and a pirate’s love of gold.
Shrine of lies and selfishness
Violent, volatile, fragile
sharp shards of glass,
a ticking time bomb.
I feel the cost of this facade,
the weight of every step
as I carry this wounded heart,
heavy with leaden armor
sweating buckets of insecurity—
I am precisely who I hate.

But I don’t know me like You know me.
My long forgotten first word
to the instant of my last breath
and every step and stumble in between.
You know my words before they reach my tongue,
my rampant thoughts before they raid my brain.
Every fraying fiber of my breaking heart,
the fears and wounds I’m unwilling to admit,
the dreams of my restless nights.
You know both the quality of my craftsmanship,
the beauty of your handiwork that lies disguise,
and every broken component of my humanity.

Yet You love me.
Knowing who I am and who I’ve failed to be,
You love me for neither.
It’s who You are:
unchanging unfailing uncontrollable
Love.

Saturday

“Saturday”

Nothing happens today.
Here we stand in the gap,
that one blank page between act one and two—
Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
Between justification and deliverance—
the chains are broken but the freedom has not begun.
Between mercy and grace—
the debt is paid but the balance is still zero;
the riches of the Kingdom are not yet ours.
Forgiven but not yet reconciled.
Between the I do and the kiss.
The storm is over but the sun has not yet broken through.
The old is gone, but the new has not come.
Death— it is finished.
But life has not  begun.
So here in the silence and the stillness of the empty grave,
we await deliverance, the birth of a new creation.
For everything is about to change…
Tomorrow.

(First written April 19, 2014)

Kingdom

Kingdom

Cigarette butts strewn down smoky streets
Alleyways reeking with rotting dreams,
Wasted…

As mothers work late into the night
Struggling to serve that next meal,
hoping their children are home safe for dinner
after each day of playing in these streets

Where women wander
under glaring red lights
waiting for vicious men to buy their flesh.

If the Kingdom could come
to my broken palace
to its rusted gates and cold stone halls
festering dark and dank
But now washed and restored
reclaimed as a temple for the King

Then here in this city
in the eyes of a child
I see hope sprouting
As the Son sets on the center of grace.

(Written 3/25/15)

The story:

Last spring break, I had the privilege of spending a few days helping out Grace City Center with a bunch of fellow Navigators from various college campuses.  Grace City Center is a really cool project of The Grace Network, an organization that hopes to combat human trafficking in the Sacramento area and beyond, an injustice that’s been on my heart for a while.  The Grace City Center is situated in the middle of Del Paso Heights, a neighborhood of Sacramento wrought with poverty, gang violence, and sex trafficking.  The center will serve as a resource center for urban youth and human trafficking survivors, as well as a beacon of hope for restoration in Jesus’ name.

This poem was a reflection on my brief time there, and a vision of hope, for the healing that only Jesus can bring.

The Woman I’m Not

The Woman I’m Not

The Woman I’m Not is five foot six
and dress size two.
She’s completely hairless,
save for her perfect falling locks
that frame her flawless face,
dusted with just enough makeup
and more than enough effort.
Her fashion sense is always on point—
never too gaudy, never too plain.

The Woman I’m Not is in incredible shape.
She’s run a few marathons and a triathlon—
so she doesn’t struggle up the stairs.
She is strong and coordinated,
able to lift herself—and her team
on the court and on the field.

The Woman I’m Not is talented.
She’s got a lovely soprano voice,
perfect pitch, and a knack for harmonies,
accompanied by graceful fingers upon ivory keys.
She can dance, skillfully weaving her body,
footwork in step with the rhythm.

The Woman I’m Not is a Stanford graduate,
Double major, summa cum laude.
Stacks of awards, some of which she’s had to turn down.
She’s read hundreds of books, even published a few of her own.

The Woman I’m Not is confident, assertive, decisive.
She knows exactly who she is and
where she’s going in life with her big dreams and aspirations.
She’s organized—living space and life itself
laid out, planned out, everything in place.

The Woman I’m Not is bold, adventurous
and dreams to travel the world.
Unafraid to dive into new experiences
and strike up conversation with strangers.

The Woman I’m Not makes friends quickly—
Her friendships are deep as they are broad
and they are many, for she loses not one.
She loves well, never failing to empathize.
She never stutters, never mumbles,
but always has the right words.

The Woman I’m Not is good with kids.
She patiently listens to their questions
and tenderly cares for their boo-boos.
They flock to her like chicks to a mother hen
as she tells them stories and makes them laugh.

The Woman I’m Not is an effective world-changer.
She’s gone on countless mission trips,
and returned with a new passion each time.
She’s not overwhelmed by the complexities of the world’s problems,
but has solutions for each injustice she sees.
She holds nothing back from this service,
not time nor money, not life nor limb.
She touches many and her life is full.

The Woman I’m Not is…
She’s an illusion,
just a shadow of who I was made to be,
the devil disguised as an angel of light
who, drawing my gaze from my dear savior’s face,
leads me to stray from becoming
the woman I am—
a woman of I AM.

(Inspired 8/17/15, Drafted 8/20/15)

California to Me

Calfornia to Me

California to me
is ancient redwoods,
towering, tall kings of the north,
and coastal cliffs
well worn by water and time

California to me
is the colors of the Bay
and the bridges that hold it together.
The gentle roar of a rushing BART train…
It’s the hills of San Francisco
and is swarming streets buzzing with life
It’s the smell of fresh fish on the wharf
and the lively clamor among Chinatown’s shops.

California to me
is endless acres of nourishing earth
and the snaking veins that deliver her lifeblood.
It’s tomato fields and peach orchards,
happy cows and newborn lambs,
and long summer days of picking grapes
under the scorching sun.

California to me
is rolling golden hills
covered in blue oaks,
foothills of the snow-capped Sierras.
It’s breathtaking views of ancient granite monoliths
and thundering veils of tumbling water.
It’s meadows filled with wildflowers
and quiet country roads.

California to me
is speeding down dry desert roads
in the Deathly heat that soon
gives way to freezing nights,
past sand dunes and shrubs and cactus.
It’s silent sunrises over Joshua trees,
in a land where the toughest carve out life
from the surrounding red rocks.

California to me
is where stars are made—
flashing lights and red carpets,
where dreams are lived larger than life.
It’s rivers of concrete flowing with cars
the sky filled with smog
and a purple haze at night—
the city that never sleeps, never stops.

California to me
is sun-drenched beaches,
and the people tanning upon them
as seagulls circle above.
Its the feel of sand between toes
and the sound of waves at night,
after the sun has sunk into the sea
and bled orange watercolors into the sky.

California to me
is home.

Inspired by Rachel Friesen, who posed this question:
“What do you picture when you think of California?”
This poem is something of a reply.
(Written June 19, 2015)

Vanitas

Here in this field of billowing wildflowers—
The sun filtering through a
blanket of baby blue,
reaching down to stroke its
fingers through your hazel brown hair—
I gaze into your laughing green eyes,
and grab your hand and squeeze it tight.
All I know is I don’t wanna let go.

(Written April 22, 2015)