Grasping air for solidity and form
arching, careening on paths unborn

scribbling on pages about my mind
unable to compose the forms of lines


endless days of searching
spent on gazes too long

the skyline's endless arching
my lostness in the throng


I am back now to the floor
roving through the store --

house of collected observation
gazing splendor, desired culmination

trimming hopes, and subduing ill
while bending down, remaining still

let it come to pass -- this all,
the predetermined path, a call

for in it I will walk as such
loving nothing half as much

As the discovery made those days ago--
as I recall the things I know;

vapor passes and burns away
as with the dawning of a day

and I am such with life and breath

condense me to great spring rain
that a passing mist would give great gain

and the withering grass preserved ere long
as the fading mist rises in a song

Clumsy words, and faltering steps
I am a particle, composing at best--

Little vain arrangements of all that I hope
and wishing right now they be lifted to float

For there is such a push that in them I feel
and without You, I descend, plummet-- I reel

Grant what is best, for I see only shadows
and the shading of all that has risen, then fallow

How great the foolishness of man
that strives against a gracious Hand --

Who carves a path that he can own
and blazes a trail to walk on alone.

His mind becomes dull, and futile at best --
he shuns what is known, and fills in the rest

A chink lies exposed, is breeched, and then grows
A hungry hollow; an insatiable foe

If only we knew, and could see all along
The things that appeal are often so wrong;

But they seize and trick, and we are deceived,
and barter what's right, for what we perceive.

But in comes grace when we're losing our way,
and out of the darkness opens full day --

Lies are exposed, and true love revealed,
and those little desires lose their appeal

For what can compare to heaven come down;
eternity near, sin's grip loosed and unbound?

Nothing compares, and I implore you this day;
Be warned, be saved, return to the way --

His ways are pleasant, His paths full of peace,
and momentary holds in Him will find release.

The day of small things

I awoke this morning after several sets of strange, vivid dreams. Seperate, and yet somehow connected, the first was set on a steep, grassy hillside somewhere in Pennsylvania. The location seems as real as life, but I've never really seen it. Its occurence has resurfaced several times, but I'm not sure if it's merely the culmination of all that delights me in those rolling hills, or really some captive memory I can't quite recall.

The steep hillside was carved and soft. There were rutted pathways running parallel along the slope, and scattered in these waving lines were women and men with old, broad-brimmed hats and flapping garments. The weather was as I picture Ireland, and it seems that was why each person was scuttling along with a perceptible haste. Each woman seemed to possess a handful of flowers, and it was obvious a funeral was to be had.

Juxtaposed in this little reverie came the thought of an old-known soul. He lost his way a bit back, and has since destructively made his way through woman after woman in hopes of re-collecting his spilled hope. I know not whether the funeral was for this man, or some other unrelated. I woke stirred, and laid there for quite some time considering this crooked sphere upon which we've all landed.

A friend spoke last night out of Zechariah 4:10, which says "despise not the day of small things." I ate those words, and apparently as I slept, they were digested into a great, sobering mass of nutrement.

Our lives consist of "small days," and while my eyes perceive my days as most insignificant, this is not so. Everything great comes first in small, seemingly unrelated spasms of hope, and if we hold out long enough, temples are built, great evils collide, and great good is wrought. I want to know this; to press it in and down, and birth it daily in my life. I desire this with every drifting tendril of my fraying soul, and I desire this for all.

I decided last week to forego my grad school ambitions, and take to the relishing of my small days. I am hoping to embark on a little bit of a writing adventure. Thanks to my wonderfully encouraging friends, and the recommendation long ago from Deb Cory, I will be endeavoring to record a memoir of sorts, detailing some of the cracked paths that have brought me here. I think of nothing but words, Him, His Creation, people, and sewing these together in some redeeming work of His love. I know not the shape, length, or gravity of such a foolish endeavor, but I can't think of anything more impractical to which I'd pour out my life! I thought I'd share this with you all...

"I'll lock the vagrant winter out, and bolt my wandering in"

I'd like to call the winter in, and bolt the summer out,
but the season it grows fervent still, and leaves fall--
their sun-scorched boughs hang languid long
and I am about them, with a sweaty brow

I have the urge for going, and I play these songs
to subdue their call -- for frosty mornings, snow
and all, that accompanies the shifting tide --
the turning times, and the death that brings forth life

"Urge for Going" -- Joni Mitchell

I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
And all the trees are shivering in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go

I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter's closing in

I had me a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
and not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell on the ground, and
Bully winds came around, pushed them face down in the snow
He got the urge for going
and I had to let him go

Now the warriors of winter they gave a cold triumphant shout
and all that stays is fying, all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and a-racing on before the snow
They've got the urge for going, and they've got the wings so they can go

I'll play the fire with kindling now, I'll pull the blankets up to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going and I guess she'll have to go

She gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
and all her empire's falling down.

Joni Mitchell-California (BBC)

Battling the Unbelief of Envy

Battling the Unbelief of Envy