The Light Sees and Knows (a poem)
The light was warm — just warm enough
To melt the frost, to dry the rain.
Dark clouds cleared as sunlight slid down
These phantom lines of hidden pain.
There is a rainbow high above
Though I cannot see with these eyes.
But I will let the light seep in
And wait with hope for bluer skies.
When I light a candle to make my kitchen more comfy, I don’t always follow the directions. Directions? For candle–lighting? Yes. According to most candle manufacturers, I should trim the wick before lighting and relighting.
I didn’t understand why until I lit an extra long wick and had a smoking candle putting off black grime into the air. Being an observant person, I decided to comply the next time. But I trimmed the wick too closely, and after that it was nearly impossible to light that candle so the flame would actually stay lit and not just flicker out.
Some people say the way to make room for illumination and true enlightenment is to ignore all thoughts and feelings, to completely empty oneself so that we think of nothing and feel nothing (at least nothing negative, anyway). Doing so will provide room for something higher to inhabit us. We are simply to be and all else will fall into place, perfection eclipsing us in the silence of minimalism and simplicity.
Perhaps my use of the phrase “be illuminated” implies that I agree. Just be and the illumination will come; we have no hand in it, God does it all.
But the irony and contrast in my mind lies in the fact that the illumination process for the follower of Jesus is not a passive “be” but an active one.
We must choose daily to want to be illuminated.
We must choose daily to lay our worries and concerns down at His feet.
We must choose daily to trust Him with our pain and questions and doubts.
We must choose daily to lift up open hands and an open heart to Him so we may receive and reflect His light.
We must choose daily to invite Him in, not so that our thoughts and feelings disappear, but so that they align more with His thoughts and feelings.
We must choose daily to recognize our hate and our limitations so we can humbly request they be cauterized by the flames of Love and Grace.
Do these choices require a stillness and a receiving? Yes. Do they also require an openness and a sense of cooperation? Yes.
Perhaps these are the ways He keeps our wick trimmed to just the right length so we are ready to be lit at anytime.
Three Lights: A Parable
There was once a grandfather who worked diligently to make a gorgeous paper lantern to hang in front of his house for a festival, to welcome his family home. Years of experience had taught him how to set the dimensions just right, so the small flame inside would not be near enough to light the vibrant sides on fire. He handled the delicate paper with equal care, fastening it without a wrinkle or tear. And when the happy day came and his lantern was illuminated, his relatives stood near it and remembered happy celebrations of the past.
There was once a glassblowing artisan who decided to attempt a particularly exquisite (and incredibly challenging) design. If successfully completed, it would yield a wonderous top for a wedding gift to his bride: the chimney of an oil lamp for their new chamber. He applied all the skills he possessed, but just as the work in progress was reaching a most critical formation point, he saw a vital part beginning to slip. In a split-second, going on instinct, he knew he could save it if he used his hand…but that using his hand would likely mean a severe burn–or worse. Yet, he didn’t give it a second thought. His hand shot forward to save the piece, a sacrifice which eventually yielded the perfect result. Two months later, when the chamber was softly illuminated and he led his sweet lady into that space for the first time, she spied the lamp and joy radiated from her smile. The artisan’s heart turned over, and he felt the fresh scar at the base of his hand, knowing he would do it again for her.
There was once a potter who made humble lamps of clay and some fine pottery besides. One day, as he was walking to his shop, he came across some boys who were playing in a trash pile. They had picked up a large bowl with a lovely blue and gold pattern on it and were throwing it on the ground repeatedly, smashing the chunks into smaller and smaller pieces. He chided them for the destruction and disruption they were causing and drove them away. When he looked down at the fragments now littering the ground, he recognized the piece; he had made it on commission for a woman in the neighborhood years before. It crushed his heart to know that someone would crush one of his most intricate pieces, for no other reason than just the sake of a temporary thrill. But then, he had a marvelous idea. He gathered up what bits and slivers he could find, and he carried them carefully back to his shop. Then, after forming a new lamp from fresh clay, he pressed the broken pieces into the sides of the lamp to form a mosaic pattern. And later, when that lamp was ready to be used, he decided not to sell it. Instead, he took it home and set it on the dining table. When it was illuminated, the family gathered around to enjoy sweet fellowship. And they all exclaimed over how the dazzling reflection of the light off the gold flecks in the broken pieces made it the most beautiful lamp they had ever seen.
In truth, the grandfather and the artisan-husband and the potter are all the same person. And the work they have made and remade will always bear their mark of beauty when illuminated.
There is a single-bulb lantern hanging to the left of my garage door. When I bought the place a couple of years ago, it seem like an added bonus to help promote a safer atmosphere. But, intuitive as something like turning on a light may be, there are a number of light switches in my basement, and I haven’t always been successful in turning on that light when I wanted to.
It was only this week, when I happened to mention it to a neighbor, that I figured out with certainty which switch manually controls that light. “If it’s not working for you,” the neighbor added, “be sure to consider changing the bulb. I have had to unscrew the fixture on mine and do that.”
Later, when I went to inspect my own more closely, I found the bulb is currently working. But a spider family seems to have settled in. And it wasn’t until the light was turned on again and I was standing up close that I saw just how cozy the webs seemed to be. I made a mental note about how I would need to clean that soon, so that when I do have to change the bulb, it will be a bit more pleasant of a job.
(Yes, this non-spider-lover admits her intentional procrastination. Why deal with ickiness when I can write an encouraging blog post instead? 🙂)
Illuminating a space can bring comfort or greater ability to see. But it can also reveal things we’d rather not deal with or would rather forget. Continuing with examples in a house, light might reveal crusty grime on dishes that were poorly washed, a thick layer of dust that’s been piling up on the bookshelves, or some previously-unknown roaches skittering away in fear.
This also applies more abstractly to the human life and heart. Why do we fear letting another get too close to us, to know who we truly are and what we have wrestled with–or wrestle with still? Why is it painful when others correct our mistakes, criticize our efforts, and reject our (sometimes imperfect) gifts and attempts? Why can we be inclined to hide from God’s goodness and love when stepping into His light would require us to be fully seen, warts and all?
Being willing to be illuminated, to be completely seen for the sake of being cleaned, is not a venture for the faint of heart. It takes courage. And yet, it is not an endeavor for the self-sufficiently brave. It requires brokenness, humility.
Can God shine His love through us while we are still growing, while we are still human in a hurting world?
Yes, glory, and amen.
But won’t His love be more fully and vibrantly able to shine if we embrace the reality of the gunk we still carry and openly invite Him to sweep away the webs?
Yes, glory, and amen.
And now that my writing task is done, perhaps this humble homeowner should stop procrastinating….
I love this picture I found through a free wallpaper phone app. Not only does it display an impressive presentation; it also reflects what I want to explore more fully in the next two months.
Before we can effectively and lastingly shine in this old world, we must first be illuminated by Light apart from ourselves.
This is a fundamental, seemingly-elementary thought. Yet, I imagine I am not the only one who needs to ponder it…and come back to be reminded of it time and time again.
There’s a beauty in the heat and vibrant light of the sun, the stars, a candle’s flame, or a campfire. Yet, all of those things will (eventually) burn out.
But there’s also a beauty in the soft glow of the moon, a piece of cold rock which is warmed by and reflects the sun. And, I suppose, something that isn’t on fire of its own making can never be in danger of burning out.
These ponderings remind me of a song I have long loved. I hope that listening to it today will help us consider whether we are more prone to voraciously shine our own light or quietly reflect a Light shining on us.
I have a confession to make. Sometimes, even though I know the last steps of the way back to my own place at the end of a drive, I leave my GPS app running until the very end…because I love to hear someone’s voice (even if it is automated) say, “Welcome home.”
In fact, when I think about all the different words and phrases I would label as nice or even wonderful to hear, those two words together have to be near the top of my list.
But as with other aspects of the human experience, hearing those words in this life, body, and house are only a reflection of a deeper longing. The longing to hear my final and more glorious “Welcome home” in Heaven.
To that end, I’d like to share words to a song I wrote many months ago. (I also wrote a melody, but today I will not sing it for you. Will simply let you hear the beautiful promise in the words and anticipate with me.)
Promise of Heaven
You slip again, I see your struggle and how you long to be free
You look away, too ashamed to lift your eyes to Me
Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest
Close your eyes, come away
To envision the place and the promise of days
An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters
Here on the banks of these crystal waters
Claim with joy your prize
Your new name, your new song
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
Your hurt runs deep, all of the pain caused by others you didn’t deserve
Your soul can see all these injustices roaming the face of the earth
Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest
Close your eyes, come away
To envision the place and the promise of days
An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters
Here on the banks of these crystal waters
Claim with joy your prize
Your new name, your new song
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
A poem: From the Dictionary of My Life
silence (n.)
the absence of company
the absence of sound
a place where truth is often found
the choice often feared
the choice often missed
a way to give my friend a kiss
the darkness draping dawn
the darkness hiding pain
an open door to make peace again
the ending of something bitter
the ending of something sweet
a chance to hear Abba’s heartbeat
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and listening: listening to Jesus, listening to other people, and listening to my own heart. My brain has synthesized the things I’ve heard into three poems written over the past few days. I’d like to share them with you here and hope that they will bless you in some way.
One: “That Seed Persevered”
Sweet sixteen and summer breezes
Blow where Leslie walks the road from Grandma’s house
To a well-worn wooden church,
A preacher to hear, new thoughts to
Know. Later, she is pondering
The message when Hunter draws her near
And whispers, “Trust me.” Why shouldn’t she,
Even if she’s only known him
For a month? Certainly he knows best,
Being 10 years older
And promising beautiful things…
Morning comes — but he is gone —
Leaving behind a broken girl who will now carry and
Bear his son.
And seeds are snatched from soil.
Twenty-two and autumn rains
Skitter where Leslie walks the road from Bus 19’s stop
To a giant, thriving factory,
A friend to work beside, old thoughts to
Remember. Later, she is digesting
The message when a voice draws her near
And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does —
Like she’s never trusted anyone before (because
She sees she didn’t really know what it was
To know someone trustworthy —
Besides Grandma, that is)…
And she is overjoyed — until her son is stripped away —
Given by the court to his long-absent,
Only-when-convenient father.
And sprouted seeds wither.
Thirty-one and winter storms
Descend where Leslie walks the road from Ricker Bar
To a dank, notorious motel,
A stranger to meet, former thoughts to
Ignore. Later, she can no longer silence
The message when distant memories draw her near
And whisper, “Trust Me.” How can she —
Girl turned into woman of desperate means,
Trapped in a place-body-world she hates
But does not have a way — or the strength —
To escape? But she tries — truly she does — to believe
And she lasts a whole week until
The maddening craving returns.
And thorns choke her soul.
Thirty-eight and spring blossoms
Accessorize where Leslie walks the road from Bee’s Therapy Office
To a tiny white house of her own,
A quiet meal to prepare, amazing thoughts to
Recall. Later, she again welcomes
The message when her Heart’s Love draws her near
And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does —
Yet she also pleads again for the only thing
She still desires — though she feels she has no right
To ask for more than has already
Been restored to her. Then…
The doorbell sounds. And a boy-turned-man in uniform,
So long lost to her, steps back into
Her home, her arms, her life.
And vibrant green stalks thrive.
Two: Miss Camille (the Spinster) Reflects on Life with Lists
1) Things that Look Fragile but are Really Strong
Trust
Tested love
Carbon as diamonds
A soldier’s tent
Fiberglass
A silkworm’s thread
My heart
2) Things that Look Strong but are Really Fragile
Lines of Communication
First love
Carbon as coal
A soldier’s soul
Annealed glass
A spider’s web
My heart
Three: Entrusted
Of all the pieces in my shop,
My favorite is a howlite vase.
It’s asymmetric at the top,
And wears a pattern so distinct.
Displayed for years – for decades – here,
It’s never seemed to show its age
To viewers, through the glass so clear,
Who come seeking a gift “unique.”
(It has been stolen more than once –
Each thief left scratches deep inside –
But, in each instance, I gave much
To track it down and bring it back.
I washed it out and took great pains
To flush the fissures full of lies,
Then set it on display again:
A perfect buyer to attract.)
They walk along and fix their eyes
Upon its graceful, curving form,
And I cannot disguise my pride
When they request to test its weight.
For when they do, they always find
Its density is not the norm:
A craftsmanship of wondrous kind,
A worth beyond its outer face.
But they are puzzled to behold
No price tag hanging on the case.
Nor do they like it when they’re told
It will be sold once and for all
On very special, certain terms:
That they must hold it every day
Close to their heart so they can learn
To treasure gems in vessels small.
One day he comes – for whom I’ve watched –
He sees, and thinks while lifting it –
Then whispers, “This is what I’ve sought.
And your terms shall not burden me,
For I can tell, already, how
I will be blessed to care for this.
Its goodness will be harnessed now
To craft the man I’m meant to be.”
“Listen to your life and what’s on the inside. All the other sound, turn it down, and listen to your life. Let the Spirit flow, and let the Spirit show you all that He was meant to only when you learn to listen to your life.” ~Nichole Nordeman
“Mr. Wallace had us read some poems in school. I liked them. They are like songs with no music.” ~Annie in The Voice of Melody
What was I thinking, offering to host a couple of friends overnight while teaching an intensive course? Didn’t I know how exhausted I would be? Yes and no. I knew I’d be tired. But I didn’t realize how tired I actually was until Jayne and Christina arrived. But I also know what I was thinking beforehand: they would need a good, safe place to stay before their very early flight. And I had the heart and space to bless them with exactly that.
My one consoling thought that evening was, “Well, I don’t have to get up and take them to the airport. I can give my weary self a break there and schedule a pick up by Uber.” I did just that before falling into a blissfully deep sleep.
I peeled myself out of bed at 4:10 am to be courteous and say goodbye. About to walk down the steps with horrible bed hair and bleary eyes, I squinted at my phone only to realize that there were no Uber drivers in sight. Ugh. I threw on a beloved old hockey jersey over my pjs and grabbed my shoes. After greeting them at the bottom of the stairs, I summarized the situation and ended with, “I’ll take you.”
Jayne kindly offered to at least drive there, since we were taking her car. But I knew she’d much prefer if I handled the city driving. And I knew that I might go back to sleep if I was just a passenger.
So off we went, cruising through lights still on overnight timers, feeling thankful that an apparently heavy rain had by then pretty much passed. Jayne, who can be incredibly positive and sunny, even at 4:30 in the morning, tried to cheer me up with a little imagining. “I know what will happen,” she declared with a grin I could still hear clearly, though I kept my eyes fixed on the onyx pavement. “We are going walk into the airport after you drop us off and meet a really wonderful, nice looking man who’s just come off of a redeye. He will have [XYZ fitting characteristics] for you, and we will be able to introduce him to you later. He will turn out to be your perfect match! It will be God’s gift to you, and this will all have been worth it!” I laughed loudly (and may have rolled my eyes). “Ok, I am more awake now,” I muttered. “Now you want me to go back home and try to sleep again after THAT prediction??”
She giggled and proceeded to tell me about her cousin’s new writing project for a good chunk of the remaining drive. “Cousin Carrie,” as we always lovingly refer to her, is an amazingly gifted poet who lives many states away. Though I have not met her, I have been deeply moved by her work.
As Jayne brought up the topic, I withdrew a bit inside myself with painful pangs charging through my heart. I thought of the half-completed poetry manuscript sitting on my hard drive, a document I have not touched for several years.
How could I ever dream of finishing and publishing it? I thought. I don’t have a quarter of the talent that Cousin Carrie has. And when I tried to get feedback on some of the first pieces, they were never good enough. Someone always had a critical remark here and there. Just enough to make me completely doubt my ability to bless others with my attempts.
I came back to the present as Jayne was, ironically, describing a new poem Carrie had developed about the seasons of hope and despair in life: how a cycle between them is normal for us in our humanity, but how the only way to really work through the cycle each time in a healthy way is to turn eyes, ears, and hearts back to God.
The conversation between us continued. At the same time, however, I could clearly hear God whispering, “This, daughter, is my gift to you. This is why you needed to host them and get up so early this morning.” I sighed and whispered back in my heart, “Yes. I receive it.”
I dropped them off at the designated curbside and swung back out into the slightly heavier traffic. As I turned to head back through the one-way streets of downtown, I thought about Jayne’s earlier prediction and smiled. I smiled at the ridiculous odds that such a thing might actually happen. And then I smiled a little sadly to remember all the times that others have tried to feed me variations on a line of lopsided theology. The wording is always a little different, but the thought remains the same…
If I will just have enough faith and self-love to silence my quiet inner desire (to be rightfully pursued by a decent, God-fearing man), then I will somehow be mature enough to actually deserve said man’s attention. And God will magically plant him right in my path so that we can live a perfect life, happily ever after. (Sounds like Joel Osteen and Michael Eisner meeting to plan an epic movie production.)
That’s bologna. There is nothing wrong, immature, or pathetic with a single Christian person, who lives a perfectly responsible and full life of their own, still completely longing to meet and marry a good person. Years of waiting don’t have to be depressing, but a growing desire to marry is not a sign that one is sinfully discontent.
That’s because God’s love and human love are not the same. And while God’s love fills us like nothing else can, there is still a part of our human wiring that was designed for a special connection no other human relationship can quite fill.
I also realized on that surprisingly lucid and mentally productive ride home why presenting my poetry to the world more formally is such a daunting task. It’s because poetry is the song of my soul.
And who would want to present the song of their soul to the world so it could be torn down as cliche, poorly developed, and lacking in proper form?
Likewise, who’s to say when a poem is completely formed and finished? Shouldn’t that be up to the poet and not to those giving critiques?
And, in all honestly, is a poem or song ever really completely finished? I don’t know that it is, because I know the way I write a poem one day will not be the way I would write or revise it another day.
That is the cycle. The cycle of hope and despair. The poem or song of our lives which is actually the song of our soul coming out in whatever we produce or create but are terrified to show to the world.
Because we are not perfect yet. And we hear the criticisms of others far more readily than the voice of our own life.
But we should listen to that life voice when it says, “Look up. Acknowledge that in your humanity which is completely fine and reasonable. And hope for the good things God has yet to give.”
I got home and sleepily spoke some of these musings into my voice recorder before embracing another hour of sleep.
Later, I checked in with Jayne. At the end of her text reply, she added: “That guy we were talking about may have eluded us yet again…rats!”
I just smiled…
Maybe you’ve heard one person say to another person, “Just stop and listen! Do you hear what you’re saying?”
I had such a conversation with myself the other day. It was a wake up call when I had an onslaught of negative thoughts pound through my head and I realized it was easier to just give up and listen to the negative thoughts than to actually pay attention to what I was saying to myself… to what I was believing in my heart as a result.
When I really stopped to pay attention, however, I recognized it was a little bit like the warning light that flashes on my dehumidifier when the machine is telling me that the filter needs to be cleaned.
But even though I was starting to pay attention and hear more clearly, I knew I needed help with cleaning the filter. And I knew it couldn’t be a one time deal. Just as the filter on the dehumidifier needs to be cleaned every certain number of working hours, the filter of my mind and heart need to be cleaned on a regular basis too.
It’s vital, if I want to maintain a healthy perspective.
So I wrote this short prayer that I want to start reading every morning, as a way to reset my mind for each day ahead. And I’m praying that the power in God’s response will help me to hear and catch those negative thoughts more quickly in the future, so that they don’t become such a snare for my heart as each day rolls along.
“Lord, thank You for every need You’ll fill today and every good gift waiting for me. Even the ones I can’t see. I receive them in advance with gratitude. Thank You for the protective filter You’ve set over me. If anything hard comes, You’ve approved it for a reason You know. I trust You and Your wisdom. Please clean the filter of my heart and mind so that I can see and choose to respond to those hard things in life-giving ways. Teach me how to see and how to choose. Today is good because You are good. No matter what, You are good.”