Look up

Yesterday Sue's Quiet Disruptor's blog encouraged us to look up, and today's longer weekend post focused on recovering our inner navigation - not ony by looking internally, but also connecting with other like-minded people, to find the true north of our personal compass.

I have been musing along similar lines for the past week or so. Thinking about how much our perceptions can change just by standing in a different place and looking in a different direction.

I love the Message version of Romans 5 v 2: [through faith] We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand - out in the wide open spaces of God's grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise.

It takes faith, and courage, to thrown open our doors. Courage to be real - to say that sometimes we don't feel like shouting our praise, to say that sometimes we feel bogged down with the chaos around us and within us. Courage to look up - to change our perspective and recognise the greater truth.

Led into the wide open fields
She stands, head bowed, starring down
Below the expansive skies
She wallows in the dirt and mud
Sees beneath her feet only crushed grass, crushed dreams
Doubts the promises of grace and freedom
Weeps with loss of hope
While the wind patiently whispers
Look up
Glimpse the unlimited horizon
Dare to believe
You are already free

Stepping out

In my last blog I mentioned setting out on a walk with my little dog despite the very wet weather, and how the emerging sun then provided inspiration. I finished writing my poemy-piece the following day, but never posted it.

Turns out that was to be one of my last walks with Pippa. She died yesterday. So today I post in her memory.



 
Stepping out I face the storm
From the other side
I have heard the whisper:
Who will go for us?
And despite the rain,
the pain,
the risk,
My answer can be nothing but this:
Here I am, send me.

Stepping out I press on through
Taking steps of faith
for I know the way
is not to circumvent
But face the haze,
the maze,
the truth,
Trusting that I do not walk alone
Here you are, with me.

Stepping out I greet the light
Beyond the gloom
the bright sun’s rays
reach with cleansing fingers
And I emerge restored,
refreshed,
and free,
Breathing deeply the purified air
Here you live, in me.

Seasons

One of my favourite activities is taking my dog for a walk on the beach. It doesn't matter what the weather is like, I find the wide open space, vast expanse of sky, and changing moods of the sea inspiring. The best walks are often when it's raining. And I am alone. And the wind seems to whisper to me, words and phrases that weave themselves together poetically.

This morning was one of those walks. There had been a very heavy downpour but I set out in full waterproofs to exercise my little Terrier. Unsurprisingly, I was the only person on the beach. But the rain stopped and the sun came out, and I found myself reflecting on how quickly things change.

Yesterday, I friend asked the challenging question, "What 3 pieces of advice would you give your younger self?". I found it hard to narrow it down to 3... but one of the 3 I chose was this:
            Write down all your ideas, the journey is important.

There have been times when I was younger that I have felt ashamed to say "I wrote this" not so much because of how good I felt my writing was, but because of what I felt my words might reveal about me and where I was. But as I get older, I am less afraid to own the journey; to see that where I was, or am now, does not limit or define where I am going, and that there is value in the ups and downs. And I am slowly beginning to see that within every scribbled jumble of words there is some degree of merit. So I am writing down more; phrases and ideas that may one day be woven into a poem, or whole pieces that are waiting to be refined and shared.

This morning, as I gathered poetic fragments in my head and thought about how I was going to pull them together into something, I found myself thinking back to a piece that I started writing from the wind-whispered phrases on a similarly wet morning walk on the beach about 9 months ago. Before I write something new, I decided to re-visit, and finish, this piece. It says nothing about how I feel now, nor even how I felt then as it was written with someone else in mind. But that someone might now be you.

Because you said there would be seasons
I will wait in the rain,
knowing that the sun will eventually come
and these tears of mourning
will glisten with joy,
for after each day's ending
comes the new dawn.

In this season of searching and shouting
I will not loose my grip,
trusting that you will continue to hold me
until I silently find you
and open my eyes to see,
from my broken fragments
you've melded a whole.

Brother

Families can be complex. And siblings sometimes don’t get on. My children certainly aren’t best friends all the time, but there are many moments when they are and I observe them working and laughing together – like this evening when they amusingly decided to help each other cheat during a family game of cards so I couldn’t win.
And I recall the joy of playing with my little brother when we were growing up, and getting into good-natured mischief together. I still enjoy his company. And I know that I am lucky.

Many people are not so lucky. Thinking about “family” doesn’t bring them joy. And the terms “brother” and “father” bring them pain. So using those terms for Jesus/ God can be less than helpful.
But the fact remains that Jesus did walk on earth and participate in this sometimes wonderful, sometimes painful, thing we call family. A while back I was asked to write a poem about Jesus’ humanity and I found myself wondering what it would have been like to have been his actual brother, or sister. And how that fraternal closeness extended to his disciples. And extends to us now.


He stands with me
together in our father’s workshop
catches my eye
his own eyes bright with amusement
words unspoken
just an explosion of laugher
sharing life.

Here, united in our labours
his carpenter’s hands mould the wood
artfully crafting
skills honed by repeated attempts
and failures
not unfamiliar with frustration
and disappointments.

Friendships forged
bonded like family in understanding
sweet outpouring
of love now unafraid to seek assistance
trusting still
as painful tears fall unrestrained
‘til hope is resurrected.

We walk together
he laughs and works and weeps
travelling light
mindful of greater needs to be met
upturning tables
outbursts of anger misunderstood
wholly holy.

Dawn turns to dusk
I see him strain with unceasing effort
wrestling temptation
suggestions of an easier option
a way out
exhausted but not overcome
he chooses goodness.

He stands alone
surrounded by the crowds
catches my eye
his own eyes filled with understanding
heart breaking
he calls out my name
he calls me brother.

The mountain

There are weeks when everything seems overwhelming. When just getting out of bed requires a huge amount of effort, like climbing a mountain.


But these are the weeks when I also wish I was actually climbing mountains. Maybe it is the desire to get away from it all. Or maybe it is more about the view and getting a new perspective on things.


This week is one of those weeks. And I have found myself thinking a lot about Elijah when he fled up the mountain (1 Kings 19). On a roller coaster of emotion, Elijah seems both hopelessly depressed and self-righteously angry at God. And missing the point.


Sometimes mountains aren't for climbing. They are for moving.




When the weight of what is
overwhelms the vision of what could be,
you will find me up the mountain.
Fearful and exhausted
here I lie curled fetal-like waiting to die.
Angry and rejected
here I cower in the cracks waiting for a sign.
Invisible and alone
here I weep,
and wait.
Until the whisper of what is
overcomes the roar of what should not be,
and I find you moving the mountain
with the mustard seed I grasp.

I am

A recent change in our house is that I am now trying to make my own bread. I don't find this easy; I like my baking to be quick and I am not very good at waiting for dough to rise.

Yesterday found myself reflecting of the idea of Jesus being our bread. Not just the obvious picture of Jesus breaking the bread, a symbol of his body, to share with his friends before facing death. But the whole process of bringing together different elements and then patiently waiting for the yeast to work and the dough to rise before it is exposed to the heat: In Jesus we find aspects of God and mankind blended together as a whole. And his work on earth wasn't simply a stepping down to earth for a few days to fix things, he experienced the whole slow growing process from a baby to adulthood, and then waited again as he taught his disciples and they slowly got the drift of what he was about. Ony after this process did Jesus face the intense challenge of the cross, completing his work in earth, and bringing us life.

Last year a few of the Presence Project Creatives gathered together to make a Chapter in a Day. Together we reflected on the "I am" saying of Jesus. I am the bread of life (John ch 6 vs 35) was one of aspects I chose to weave into the poem I wrote on that day.


I am
  sufficient to nourish and sustain
  satisfying the aching hunger in your soul
  the fundamental element in your daily diet,
your first meal of the day
  and your last bite at night.
I am the bread.

I am
  the narrow path cut clearly through the undergrowth
  providing a faithful compass when you are lost
  here walking the winding road with you,
holding your hand from first tentative steps
  until you’ve run the final race.
I am the way.

I am
  the revelation of indisputable fact
  defining black and white in a misty sea of grey
  turning faith into its rainbow kaleidoscope of authenticity
the first word spoken
  and final note left hanging in the air.
I am the truth.

I am
  vital to your very being
  the blood rushing through your veins
  energising breath of pure air as you emerge from the oppressive smog,
from the first unfurling shoot of spring
  to final leaf fall.
I am the life.

I am
  outside of time yet present now
  before anything was and into the unforeseen forever
  the crucial cord woven through the narrative of all that is,
alpha and omega
  beginning and end.
I am who I am.
And I am with you always, to the very end of the age.

How Long?

I love the Old Testament, the stories of men and women of God who mess up time and time again, but God never gives up on them, or us.
God waits for us.

And we wait for Him too.
The Presence chapter entitled I Wait is based on Psalm 130:
Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins.
In the piece I wrote for it, I wanted the trace the idea of both us and God waiting through the old testament stories. And echo the fact that irrespective of how many times we mess up, there is always an opportunity to start over again.

How long? How long?
The cry echoes through the centuries.

Looking up at the countless stars,
waiting for the promised child,
a father waits for the birth of a nation.
He listens, misunderstands, makes mistakes, starts over again.

Impatience maps a trail
of wrong turns and redemptions
Deception repeatedly dividing brothers
as jealousy and fear sells family into slavery
Summoned to sit with kings
and growing as memories fade
Until the nation wins its freedom from oppression
only to wander the endless desert
and enter a promised land
where so rarely there is peace.

Looking up at a distant star,
waiting for the promised child,
whose death and resurrection whisper rebirth.
We listen, misunderstand, make mistakes, can start over again.

In the boat

I have been thinking a lot about boats these past few days.

I work in what was once a little fishing village and across the road from the office sail boats sit on the promanade ready for fair weather sailing. At the other end of the bay is a port where cargo ships come and go, when the tides are right.

I have never been on a sailing boat, nor a cargo ship. My own boating takes a rather different form - my parents, siblings and I have a canal narrow boat, 56ft long and about 7ft wide, which we take cruising around the English & Welsh canal network each summer. My children learnt to steer the boat when they were still quite young; because they were a little too small to properly see over the top of the boat to see where they were going (even when standing on a step-stool), they always had a grown-up stand with them. My parents named the boat "Shammah", from the name given to the city at the end of Ezekial: Jehovah-shammah, The Lord is there. Whenever I am on the boat, I am reminded that God is there. Standing with us.

And God is there in the various boat images scattered throughout the bible. Jesus may have been a carpenter, but he certainly had a lot to teach the fishermen who were his friends about boats.

From my musings, I wrote this boat-themed poem today. Especially for two of my friends.


We left the harbour long ago
path mapped out with calmness
from security, into the vast unknown.
But in open seas we are tossed
by relentless storms with pounding waves
and exhausted, we long for stillness.

We dream of dropping anchor
but inertia could tip the balance
drag us, drowning, under
So we keep on moving
patch the sails and plough on through
alone in the endless fog.

In the eye of the storm,
silence dares us to pause
and take note, we are surrounded.
Here we stand and face the storm
supported by a mesh of rigging
formed from a host of interlinking hands.

We stand together in the boat
holding tight to woven cords of truth
strong enough to take the strain.
Hope echoing through history;
above the earthquake, thunder, rushing wind,
comes the gentle whisper.

He stands here with us,
commanding the wind and waves,
beckoning us on;
Be still.
Step out in faith.
The Lord is here.

Woven

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me... 
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
(Psalm 139)


I know there to be truth in these words, and yet it would be wrong to pretend that it is always easy to believe that I am wonderfully made. I have a tendancy to be a bit of a perfectionist, and can be very critical of myself; I find it easy to focus on my failing and flaws. Amongst the wonderfulness, there are dark places and pain and tears. But, as I have grown, I am slowly starting to recognise that the things I once saw as weaknesses in me are often vital threads in the essence of my being. The fact that these things are woven into my life was not a mistake; they help to make the emerging pattern that is me.

Creator God

Creating.

In the unseen places

Flesh and bone, muscle and nerve

Knitted perfectly

To your unique pattern.

In the secret places

Joy and sorrow, hope and peace

Woven carefully

Through our unfolding days.

In the dark places

Pain and tears, laugher and love

Sewn deliberately

Life's tapestry develops.

In the waiting

Still Creating

God in us.

Heartbeat

Last week I mentioned Andy Hunter's Presence Project - a creative app that weaves together music, film, poetry and photography to deepen people’s connection to God. Over the years I have been involved in the project and written a number of poetic reflections that you can read, and listen to, on the app. This week, I thought I would share them here too.

Heatbeat was my response when I first heard Andy's music for the Over the Water chapter, based on Psalm 29 v3: "The voice of the Lord is over the waters...".  I was struck by the background beat in the piece that amplifies and changes, and yet somehow remains constant. It made me reflect on how I hear God's voice and my own faith journey - faith, for me, has always been a contant but within the certainty there have been questions and challenges and dreams and changes. Faith changes, flows and grows. Faith is like a dance.

I recently came across an article by a Canadian rector, Alastair McCollum, who put it beautifully like this:
I personally like the image of faith as a dance – it involves movement, it’s dynamic, energetic, constantly changing. Yes, there are certain steps which are named and have a certain form – but there is also room for improvisation, exploration, leaping, falling, quietness, joy, exuberance, discovery.
And like any dance it doesn’t have to be explained, in fact to reduce it only to words would strip it of the power, and the beauty, challenge, and wonder that it possesses. 
And in the dance, I learn to trust in the music, the movement, my partners, as I allow myself to fully join in with the attempt to add shape and purpose to the steps of my life, and to invite others to join in order that we might be transformed and transform the world with God’s life.

I heard his heartbeat.
A child held tight in Father's loving arms,
Knowing safety,
Shielded from the storms.
In the closeness the beat was unmistakable.
Dependable.

I heard his heartbeat.
Stepping out in faith and hope,
Dreams soaring,
Growing in the rhythm I knew so well.
In the walking the beat was steady.
Strong.

I thought I heard his heartbeat.
I knew my Father,
Walked with him,
Re-telling the stories from my youth.
In my remembering the beat was unchanging.
Predictable.
Fading.
Dull?

Did I hear his heartbeat?
Was that the beat I knew?
It skipped a beat.
Pulsating patterns,
Unpredictable.
Untamed.
I cannot assume routine within this rhythm.
I can only stop and listen,
Breath held,
Heart pounding.

I have heard his heartbeat.
And it now dares me to dance.

He
Dares me
To dance to his heartbeat.

So together we will dance.
Ballerina-like with powerful precision
Each step guided with easy grace.
Until I dance with freedom.
Movements flowing like ribbons caught by the wind.
Ripping across the calm waters.
Cartwheeling,
Like a gymnast moving corner to corner across the mat,
But I will not stop there,
God is not confined by the boundaries set by man.
I will dance my dreams again.
Spread my wings,
and fly,
moved by the wind,
carried over the waves.

This is his heartbeat.
This our dance.
Ever constant.
Ever changing.