Sunday, December 28, 2014

Lines from the Months of This Last Year: November

1 (Really 2, but I already turned the clock back).
Lord Jesus.
Thank You for - believing me? - all the times I half-heartedly love You, pray.

"I am the only inheritance the priests have. You are to give them no possession in Israel; I will be their possession."
Ezekiel 44:28 NIV

Thanks for all the good.
I called and asked forgiveness.

"Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live."
Psalm 116:2 NIV

Without the scarf.
Just help me, God, to be a life-giver today.

Remember remember...
Your goodness.

You are kind to help me paint, study. Kind with the moon. Warm feet.
Things to live for (viz. You).

Dearest Lord,
Tzimtzum. Second fiddle. Pure Joy. Healer. Please feed these hungry places. I've been trying to dance, half-naked, today. I've been trying to understand the martyrs. My brother imprisoned in Iran. Barabbas, equally real. "Guys and Dolls" and the slippery sins, the glitz and charm and sickening powdered sugar of "love."
Or the hard brave brutality of it. What love lets us suffer.
I need You. I need tears. To bring all of my oldness/youngness to You to be slowly, fragrantly burned. It will be fragrant, in Your fire.
Am I brave enough to embrace? To refrain? Give me more desire. Bigger vision, bigger hope. Tempered and trusting, prudent, patient. Willing to be lonely.
Never alone.

Even though this helpless feeling of inevitable winter is coming over me, I'm glad for snow. For warmth inside.
Reading through my Orvieto journal, smelling the sweet inky smells, familiar. Words that have stayed with me, words that have changed color.
I'm wondering how to be closer to You. Why am I so frantic?
Help me pray and work.
Trust and expect. Rejoice and rest. Expect and attempt. Attempt and expect.
Jesus, help me not be so terrified of losing life. I find it in You alone.

Peace. Really.

Help them keep clean and flowing, not be too tight or fierce even now. But also be willing to love deeply, sacrificially, be hurt and hurt each other - for Your glory. Help them do good to one another. Have life more abundantly.

Again, You've done it. Thank You.
I felt tired and happy and sad, and I sang "I've Got a River of Life" in the bathroom.
"Spring up O well and make me whole..."
Let the small sacred things be noticed.

I need You so painfully this afternoon. I'm not in the right frame of mind for anything, God. But I'm Yours,
Happy Birthday.

You hunted me down,
You invited me to the picnic, You led me barefoot
into thistles and "cutgrass" but You made mud paste for my eyes,
and I don't want to miss this.

When I'm blind, You whistle like a bird for me to cross the street,
the river. You are rich espresso, strange marvelous spices
I know to be true at first sip.
Keep me never satisfied with ketchup.
I'm hungriest for You. You're salt & a blanket & magic.

I may need to take Benadryl; I can't sleep. And I'm hungy. I want to eat something, but I also want to feel hungry. To remember what longing is like. Sweat and hair and smells, trying to describe what skin feels like but sounding as inane, and feeling as inept, as someone writing about Autumn leaves and breezes. We can't do it, unless by some miracle. Instead we circle around and make stiff or flimsy allusions. Suddenly we realize that none of us has to win. We can all try, or not try, and just laugh. Just keep opening up our eyes. Just keep touching, tenderly and tremblingly. 
I say this, and I don't even know what I'm talking about. 
You see where I'm prickling with fears again? Driving into the sitty. Baby citing. Living up to my own expectations. 
I sang, "As I was walking down the street, Boo-ya," to the mailman today, before tromping out in the snow in heels and a red coat. Boo-ya. Where did that come from? 
Make me pure. Dewy and linen-like. Joyful as the burgeoning earth. We still quiver at Your Name. 

I've been sampling "Braveheart." 
"One day you'll be a queen, and you must open your eyes." 
It's better and dumber than I expected. So violent. And, ha, syncretist. Revenge is OK. Rape, no; adultery...under the right circumstances;...kilts. Oh dumbo rot. After a while, bodies become disposable. Should they?!

The tree is up and fragrant. Oh Jesus, be my company. I'm tired. 


I drove the most ever today. Thank You for taking me safely everywhere. For these last 3 hours to unwind...I must be more Yours. More single-minded. I like that play on words.
I'm happy today to be write wear I am. Gawky still, and yet so ripened I astound myself. Where did I get these muscles or that womanly turn of neck? Spider-veins are nothing new, but they're freshly amusing. 
Ai, humility. Is self-appraisal vanity? 
If only we all looked good in Your holy drab robes.
I'm afraid I'd shrivel away, or grow so shapelessly round I'd feel betrayed. Betrayed? Whatever can be trusted apart from You? What saved? Everything burns unless it plunges headlong into Your river. And You know I'm scared of water. But here's the thing:
I'm chained/sewn/grafted/fused to You already, there's no breath for complaints around Your kisses.


No comments:

Post a Comment