There comes a time when you realize that you are grasping on to something that has already slipped through your fingers. The pain of the closed fist becomes greater than the pain of letting go. No use staring down the drain either. The Coriolis effect is mesmerizing but it wont drown the sorrow.
The sorrow will recede, even though the phantom pain quivers. Step back, and stretch out your hands. Offer up the creases, the callouses, the cramped knuckle joints. Let them find other hands that will hold and help and heal.
True gifts are held in open palms.
Friday, 14 February 2014
The sweetest water sings the song of descent. When the river tries to hold it in, hold it back, it floods with muddy silt, the stench of stagnancy. The music drowns.
Living water is giving water. Love is a downward motion, its beauty in the emptying. It only sings downstream.
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
A child prays and all of heaven leans in for the whisper.
“Dear God, thank you for this beautiful boy and the house that you made. Thank you for giving Jack and me as a present to Mommy and Daddy. Bless you with joy, Amen.”
This ordained praise rearranges my thoughts and reorders my loves, renews me in a kingdom truth. This prayer uncensored becomes sweet incense in the room, suspending us all in a held breath of heaven.
She is leading me to our Father, and though I falter I need only bring my scraped knees to Him.
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
The memory of a vision warms a winter morning. How is it that one can remember something which hasn’t happened yet? This place is full of those wrinkles in time, the sudden appearing of some creature or phenomenon with the distinct character of another world. The blinking eye beneath the hedge, the gilt edge of the day's first page.
These visions – maybe it’s something in the water.
Here the rivers run eternal. They cycle through the heavens and into the calling deep, whispering, murmuring. They are the language which every living thing interprets. They are the undertone of every forest’s hymn, every songbird’s aria. They are the bloodlines running clear and clairvoyant through the countryside. Here there is a spring which never freezes, even in February.