Written almost one year prior to this day.

You do all things
in seasons:
sowing, growth,
pruning, reaping.
Toil hard, You who
eternally cuts away
the dead in
me.

Let my life be
as a garden.
Annual sin covered
With perennial mercy,
Perennial goodness --
Returning year after year.

You replace the hard soil
of my soul
with that which
longs
to blossom
into a fragrance
pleasing to you,
My Gardener.

Enjoyment

Tonight in my evening class, my friend Joseph and I wrote some haiku. I would be delighted to share them with you, because they're just down right funny.

Crazy crazy snakes
Tangled 'round my sweaty feet --
No . . . just your fingers.

They stepped into what?
God! Too many lima beans!
The ones I threw up.

Specifically fruit
of the loom -- it is the best.
Chafe free yet so snug!

So, these are just a few of the enjoyable quips and quibbles that entertained us during class. I promise I did learn quite a bit. You could quiz me, and I'd pass!

Yesterday morning, while attempting to pray and actually just voicing a bunch of worries, the clause "be still, oh my heart" came to mind. I could not place where the clause was originally from, but I figured that five semesters of literature survey courses gave me ample excuse to justify my forgetfulness. Surely it had been in some great poem that I had merely misplaced my mind! While I should have been answering daily homework questions for Brit Lit, I instead typed "be still, oh my heart" into Google.

Numerous options to satiate my desire for context sprung to the top of the results list: a song by The Postal Service, one by Sting, and a few vague and unliterary references to Victorian poetry. None of these sounded quite right. But, because I like The Postal Service, I was satisfied to consider my quest done. I walked away from the computer (still worrying), but humming the tune to a good song.

Later the same day, chapel was a worshipful celebration of the Ressurection. After singing a few songs, I notice that the following song is "Be Still My Soul." Suddenly it made sense that God didn't want me to worry about the condition of my heart; rather, God desires a peaceful and still soul, and the heart and its flighty emotions should then follow suit. I am not called to worry about the condition of my heart, for God cares immanently more for the care of my soul -- the eternal part of me that is to mirror my Lord.

My prayer must be a cry for the stillness and peace of my soul rather than the stillness of the passion-driven heart.

The Glutton of Grace

Gluttony and self-control. How often we hear those two paired, but I always seem to think that self-control is a way to regain ground lost to the inner glutton. Oh! I just ate an entire chocolate cake! I must regain self-control and go run 10 miles! But I think there is a better way to prevent that deadly sin to make a mockery of the work God is performing in and through us. Gluttony is, as its root, a willingness to replace all desire and want with the pleasure derived from a certain thing.

But God gave us a world full of pleasures! Are we not to enjoy the cocophony of wonders He happily bestows? Of course we are, and we are to enjoy them to the fullest. But the Psalmist writes in the 44th psalm we are to "boast in God continuously, [ . . . ] and give thanks to [His] name forever." If we are truly living with a thankful heart, the desire for anything more than God gives will be completely unnecessary. The thankful heart continuously praising our good God will be in rapturous joy for the things already given and the promises for the blessings to come.

Such a heart only desires to feast itself on the grace and goodness of a loving God. Rather than worry about how to regain the already lost self-control, temper the hedonistic passions on the goodness and love from our pleasure-loving Lord.

Written for my good friend, the writer.

Turning slowly, the blade gently grinds
Cutting an edge that could easily kill.
Lead obeys fingers causing friction at will,
Forcing thought from frantic minds.

Turning rapidly, the pages we spew.
Clearing the mind in attempt to convey,
But it all comes out jumbled, and to our dismay
The eraser removes marks but never the rue.

Turning wearily, as others think us daft
We write like hell to regain control
My skill since departed, the piece lost its soul.
Inspiration seems naught, we have only craft.

Turning gracefully, my thoughts to you
Whisper a prayer for the writer within;
Knowing our struggles are closely akin.
Espouse courage for the sake of virtue.

Low Pain Tolerance

The past few times I've listened to Dr. Impson teach, the theme of suffering has come up. Whether lecturing on Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "In Memorium" or talking in CLF about her own struggle with pain, it has brought me to tears every time. Suffering is something that everyone naturally hates to experience, but for some reason, it really -- I mean really -- shakes me up.

For the past few years, I've struggled with the tension between being one who's heart breaks for the things God's heart breaks for and one who is able to do something about it. It's been hammered in my head that crying doesn't solve anything; then why do I do it?! Why does my heart break so easily for the widow in the orphan, when we were called to "look after the widow and the orphan in their distress," but James never offers crying for them a viable option.

Maybe we need criers to soften the hearts of others, to make them aware of the pain they blindly walk past. I mourn the pain of the widow and orphan; my heart aches for their suffering. I just need a way to not feel so helpless. I need a partner in my quest for change, one who holds the stature to make the dominoes fall. Maybe tears help weaken the hard heart of the first domino. But I place my confidence in the hope that I have the ultimate Domino-Pusher upholding me.

Wrote this a while ago...

A light held fast to the corner of a cabin illuminating everything in its small world. Many creatures were in awe of this light, and some even tried to go close to the source. Insects buzzed and flew straight up to the lighted glass. What audacity to go poke and prod in order to find the source! Trying to overcome a substance they knew nothing of, their bodies continued to press hard against the glass. These bugs could very easily spend their lifetimes searching for a way through the glass veil and never find the source of the bright warmth. About a yard away on the cabin wall, a leaf-bug simply sat. He sat and enjoyed the light; he did not struggle with the complex issues other insects were wrestling with. He sat in the light, in its warmth and stayed there. He was content not knowing all of the answers the other bugs wanted; the leaf-bug knew that from where it rested in the light, others could look upon its beautifully crafted legs, head, and wings. They could marvel at the power of the light to illuminate such intricacies. It would not be long before others were drawn to sit and rest with him beneath the warm-lit world of the light.

Sit and enjoy; cease striving and know that even in resting in Him glory is still brought to the Light.