All your waves and breakers have swept over me. (Psalm 42:7)

They are HIS waves, whether they break over us,
    Hiding His face in smothering spray and foam;
Or smooth and sparkling, spread a path before us,
    And to our haven bear us safely home.

They are HIS waves, whether for our sure comfort
    He walks across them, stilling all our fear;
Or to our cry there comes no aid nor answer,
    And in the lonely silence none is near.

They are HIS waves, whether we are hard-striving
    Through tempest-driven waves that never cease,
While deep to deep with turmoil loud is calling;
    Or at His word they hush themselves in peace.

They are HIS waves, whether He separates them,
    Making us walk dry ground where seas had flowed;
Or lets tumultuous breakers surge about us,
    Rushing unchecked across our only road.

They are HIS waves, and He directs us through them;
    So He has promised, so His love will do.
Keeping and leading, guiding and upholding,
    To His sure harbor, He will bring us through.

- Annie Johnson Flint

I just felt like writing this, so I did

This is one of those times I just feel like writing.

This is what I do when the day has left me weary.

This is what I do when my gnarly thoughts need untangling.

This is what I do when I want to make something beautiful.

This is what I do when I need to talk to myself about God's truth.

This is what I do when I'd like to pass on an interesting thought.

This is what I do when I need a space with no one talking in it.

This is what I do to breathe.

This is what I do,

Even when I have nothing to say,

Even when all I have is this.


image is by Jim Blob Blann at flickr

fire

We made a fire today:
piled branches
in a top-heavy heap
and watched
as flames licked and spat and hissed,
roared high above our heads,
flicked their tails in a column of
dense
green
smoke.
We had to stand well back,
shield our faces,
dodge falling embers,
evade choking fumes.

And I looked,
trembled,
and thought,
“It is a dreadful thing
to fall into the hands
of the living God.”

We made a fire today:
it died lower, low,
till leaves vanished,
twigs glimmered,
branches charred,
ash deepened,
coals glowed.
Tamed
(but not tame)
it invited
marshmallow-toasting,
potato-cooking,
melody-singing,
hand-warming.

And I looked,
dreamed,
and thought,
“His wrath burned out
in the body of his Son,
God becomes
refuge
comfort
sustenance
warmth;

but never safe,
never to be disregarded,
never to be taken lightly,

for our God is
still
a consuming fire.”

(See Hebrews 10:31; 12:29)

This post first appeared at The Briefing.

what I'm reading: on nostalgia from Places we love

I'm a nostalgic person, a collector of memories.

I deliberately fix scenes in my mind - a child's face, a favourite view - so I can recall them at will. When we leave a place we've stayed on holidays, I look back through watering eyes until I can't see it anymore. I even feel nostalgic about things which haven't happened yet, like the year my children all go to school.

If worry is the art of living in the future, nostalgia is the art of living in the past. Neither equips us for serving God in the present. Living in the future fills me with anxiety and fear; but living in the past fills me with regret for the mistakes I've made, longing for the things I've lost, and discontent because the present can never live up to my idealised memories.

Which is why I love this quote about not lingering over things which are past. It's from Ivan V. Lalic's poem Places we love, which I found at the head of a chapter in Cornelia Funke's Inkdeath.

When you go, space closes over like water behind you,
Do not look back: there is nothing outside you,
Space is only time visible in a different way,
Places we love we can never leave.

image is from uhhhlaine at flickr

a tear fell to earth

A tear fell to earth
I know not where
It's dried up now
But in that tear
Were pain and heartache
Grief and fear
All wrapped up in
That tiny tear
Forgotten now
But one thing's clear -
God hears my sighs
And counts my tears.


I woke up yesterday with this little ditty in my head. Funny what pops into your head while you're sleeping!

I sought for joy

It seems to be a week for poems, so since I've just shared my final post in the series enjoying God, here's a little poem about the search for joy.

This is one of the mercifully few (3!) poetic attempts I've made as an adult. I wrote it in my 20's, reflecting on how, as teenagers, my friend and I pursued "experiences" of God, and how I'd come to see things differently, especially after reading John Owen's Communion with God. You might notice a reference to this verse:

The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17)

I think this poem is in iambic pentameter, iambic being the opposite of trochaic, with every 2nd line having a feminine ending (according to wikipedia, which is the full extent of my poetic education). There's something odd going on near the end of the last line, no doubt to "create a more interesting overall rhythm and to highlight important thematic elements" (wikipedia again); this seems unlikely, since I knew nothing about any kind of meter when I wrote this poem. Ali will have to fill me in on the rest, since she knows far more about poetic meter than I'm ever likely to. Pure doggerel, no doubt! Anyhow, here it is, all 2 verses of it:

I sought for joy

I sought for joy, for ecstasy, and found
Swift fire: but it burning swiftly faded,
And, glowing embers falling all around,
Left bitter ash, dull smoke, all darkly shaded.

I sought for God, through lonely night and long,
In darkness dank my flick'ring flame fast dwindled:
But soft I felt his touch, and heard his song,
As, singing with delight, his love flame kindled.

image is from stock.xchng

Tiger

It's not trochaic like "Tiger, tiger, burning bright", but it is about a Tiger. So in affectionate homage to Nicole's Poetry Mondays, and Ali's poetry experiment, here's an alphabetical poem my 9-year old daughter Elizabeth brought home last week, which shows that she has far more promise as a poet than her mother ever will:

The Tiger
A Tiger watched me through the trees
Butterfles flew away and I froze
Can anyone help me? I shouted shakily
Digging ants crawled around my feet
Everything seemed to fall silent as the Tiger watched me
Fun? This was not fun I thought
Growls echoed through the jungle
Hungrily the Tigers tummy rumbled
I started to run but the tiger just came closer and closer
Jumpily the Tiger got ready to pounce
King Cobra came past me and I screamed
Luckily I woke up and it was only a dream.

image is from stock.xchng

a poem

Something short and sweet today, a poem I wrote 11 years ago, at a time when I felt uncertain and scared about what my life would be like. Today it struck me how faithful God has been to me during my life so far, through all the times of pain and happiness, as I know he will be to the end. One day I may take this "pom" and put it in iambic pentameter (if I ever find out what that is) but here it is for now, in all its unadorned amateurishness.

The future

The future:
a road of shadows,
sudden beams
of light break through.

Joy, suffering, no guarantees -
save that Your company
the journey long
beside will be.

Your love, sweet draughts,
life-giving drink;
Your words to hear,
Your work to do.

The joy of Your dear countenance.

At journey's end,
an open door,
a sudden light,
home -

and You.