Active Waiting

 Rolling the bulbs between my palms
        as I hum Psalm 40.
I marvel at their seeming weightlessness,
        wondering what blooms are wound within
            waiting with their Maker. 

He Who calmed the chaos and called
        the corollary creation "good"
            keeps secrets spun, 
                nourished by sun and rain and time
                    inside their papery tunics. 

While often appearing that their maturing 
        will never come. 
They wait with anticipation for the seasons set
        by the One Who causes the sun 

            to rise and warm their bed.

He said, 
        "Actively wait.
Anticipate but establish your roots in the time between.
Incline to Me,

        encountering Me already inclined

            to your candid cries." 

Nestling the papery globes in the ground,
        I wrestle with my will's way of seeking control,  
            wanting to know
                and skip the the growing in grace
                    as if harvest is an overnight occurrence. 

Trying to greedily grasp Your place 
        of knowing the end from the beginning. 
Must I always be pursuing 
        or can I rest in being pursued,
            yielding to the pace of Your choosing? 
Grace upon grace. 

Like ranunculus roots curling through fertile soil
        let me coil and interlace my will to Yours,
              finding satisfaction for a wanting soul
                  no matter Your provisions. 

"I waited patiently for the LORD; he inclined to me and heard my cry...I delight to do Your will, O my God; Your law is within my heart." (Psalm 40:1, 8)

"See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient." (James 5:7b-8a) 

Broken Windows

I look beyond the window
Of the house wherein I dwell.
I long to dance upon the moss,
Drink water from the well,
Engage in conversation
With the children playing there.
But my longing turns to tears
As I breathe this stuffy air.
This room with four square corners
That I know is not my call.
Why must I then be stuck here
While outside Autumn falls?
With all that is within my heart,
I want to self-combust.
I raise my fist to break that pane.
One whispered syllable: "Trust."
Angrily, I shake my fist
"But now, NOW is my time!"
And out of frustration
I sit to pout and whine.
But the still, small voice just waits
For me to settle down.
Then speaks in tones so gentle,
"I'm not trying to keep you bound.
I don't want you to bust the window,
But that doesn't mean You're doomed.
I only want to protect You.
Broken windows badly wound.
I'll open it up in my timing;
Child, soon you will fly free
And do those things I made you for,
But for now, please trust in Me.
I can't tell you what I'm planning;
It must be a surprise.
But when I do it that sight out the window
Will be too glorious for your eyes."
I look beyond the window
Of the house wherein I dwell
And the excitement builds within me.
As I know this: All is well.


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To read the Oregon Journey blog post that corresponds with this poem, go HERE.

Fading Mist

Drops of water

Converged

Once upon a time

To make a cloud.

Closely

They interacted:

Laughing and Crying,

Giving and Taking,

Sharing and Bearing

As they passed together

Over the mountains and valleys of fleeting

Moments.

But the winds!

How they continuously

Batter the bonds of 

Friendship.

And the sun--

How it relentlessly

Melts the marks of 

Comradery.

So the sorrow begins

As the mist is forcefully

Divided.

Not knowing at what time

It may unite again.

Nevertheless,
Time marches on

With uncaring pace and unkind intentions

That slice stubbornly

And scream silently

Through the fading mist.

The Young Man and the Sea

Cerulean waves of depth, threatening 

The young man's hope.

What is the scope

Of the horizon?

It surprised him

How well he knew the sounds

Of wind and rain.

He turned around to bait his line

Casting it to the depth of possibility

Doubting his ability.

Yet knowing he must to it cling.

Gray waves of exhaustion, overwhelming

His clouded mind.

Faith and Doubt intertwined

With harsh reality. 

The winds of joviality--

How they had dissapated to doldrums

Of boisterous calm. 

He felt the weight tugging his line.

Lifting it from the sea, he sighed

For the hook held only Disappointment Applied.

When would he land opportunity? 

Silver moon of reflected light, gleaming

Over the man.

As he fights to stand

And flourish and live.

What the light's glimmer gives!

How it paired with the stars points

To True North!

He grasps at the bow, thinking.

Renewing his purpose, line he cast

For he'd harbor no bitter thoughts of the past

For lack of faith could destroy him.

But what could defeat him?

"A man can be destroyed but not defeated." ~Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea