In this final post about shining, I want to share a brief thought and a short, related poem.
The thought:
True shining is born when we are what we are created to be and we do what we are created to do. When those two factors dwell together in a person’s life, genuineness and warm peace are sure to result.
The past couple of nights, a moon like this one has hung, low and brilliant, in the clear evening sky as I have driven home from various tasks. Reflecting on God’s faithfulness in every moment and our struggle to understand what it means to shine in challenging times, I now write and share this short poem.
Mirrors
I thanked the sun for warming my day,
Asked it to never go away.
But it did. Replaced by a circle of stone
Gracing me: cold and alone.
At the night stretching on endlessly
And the rock hanging over me,
I shook a fist. And I railed hard against how
The sun was light years away now.
Then a whisper rode to me upon the wind,
A timeless message sent:
“The sun is shining in a different form
And this light also warms
The heart which trusts a reflection bright
In the darkest of nights.”
So I lifted my face, set down my fears,
And reflected radiance in tears.
“I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34:4-5
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.
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
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.”
In this month’s series on being heard, I would like to draw from my own thoughts and those I have heard other writers share, giving us a chance to be heard by the world. So to all of the readers of every genre out there, and to all of the people who have a writing loved one in their life: an open letter.
Dear Reader,
I am an ever-turning brain that never completely shuts down (unless I can manage a deep, exhausted sleep). This is my amazing place of procreation. And it is my torture chamber. I wish I could turn it off at will. And I wish I could make it produce at other speeds sometimes. This brain does what it will irrespective of life circumstances–and sometimes in response to them. If I need to reschedule an appointment with you or I don’t respond to you, or I dash madly from the room while scribbling on a notepad or speaking nonsensical statements into a voice recorder, I have not lost my mind. I have simply had an idea I can’t let my mind lose.
I am an introvert. Even though I have learned to set aside my shyness for the sake of society’s expectations, I would really rather be by myself at least 89.4% of the time. (And if I have to communicate with someone, I would much rather write out my message.) This is in part due to the aforementioned brain. A chunk of my energy must be reserved for keeping up with it and all of its ideas as I absorb the details flying at me from a dozen directions, almost constantly thinking of how I can capture those details in accurate and beautiful words. And when I do dare to share any of my ideas, whether or not related to my writing, I am terribly afraid they will be rejected or mocked because…
I am an extremely sensitive soul. A creative person cannot create without feeling, experiencing, dreaming, absorbing, noticing, sensing, and embracing. This is how writers, artists, musicians, and other such types create works that captivate, move, transport, and inspire: we open our souls to see, hear, and feel all we possibly can, and then we translate what we sense into words, angles, colors, and notes. But no matter how much the world may force us to thicken our skin, we can never truly deaden this sensitivity…not if we want to be real and keep doing what we were born to do in the world.
I am a word-womb for children yet unborn, children I am protective of because, just like human children, they are an extension of myself, and they are at once imperfect, wonderful, fragile, and heavenly. And when I reveal them to the world, the results can be encouraging, affirming, non-acknowledging, constructively critical…or brutal. That’s the hardest part–holding my breath as the blanket is pulled back and the moments tick by. Will my created child be kissed, ignored, photoshopped, or bashed on the head? It shouldn’t matter. Because I live and breathe to create, no matter what. But it does matter. Because I share my creations to share my joy, to entertain and uplift and teach and change. And because the created work is so often somehow incomplete without another soul to receive the gift in it. The gift I was destined to share. The gift someone in the world needs today or tomorrow or a year from now, at just the right moment in their life.
I am a gratitude storehouse. Each time another person gives me a kind or edifying word, it helps me keep creating what’s good. Each time a venue gives me a chance to extend my introverted self and share about my creations, it boosts my confidence that what I have to offer the world is indeed worthwhile. Each time a friend offers me space to feel safe and speak from my deepest heart, it keeps me open to expressing the goodness God puts there. And each time you give me a chance, dear reader, by actually reading what I have written–and even recommending it to others–that is an echoing gift that means more than this wordsmith can say.
Thank you, now, for reading this, for understanding me a little more deeply. And thank you for seeing past the above quirks, even embracing them as you embrace me through my writing, whether or not we have ever met.
This Father’s Day, I want to focus on my Heavenly Father. He is the one who has truly done everything for me. More than I can ever fathom or repay. And all He wants in return from me is time with Him, to see His grace and goodness, and to let loose the gratitude in my heart.
On the Eve of Father’s Day, when I was driving home, I was distracted by a special cloud bank to the side. The cloud itself was seamless and unbroken, perfectly and symmetrically white. It was a silent display, and yet it exploded with the sound of the song of His love.
The sight of that sky along with the song of love it played for me inspired this poem. May it bless your heart as it has blessed mine.
A Sign For You
See how I love you, child of My hands and heart.
I have from the start, before you were consciously aware.
And when My care leaves you speechless, doubting worthiness,
I send my kindness in light, in gifts, and wait for you to see it.
Today, you raised your eyes from introspection to soak in
Sight of the heavens singing, fortissimo, over you at My command
Spread by My hand: a comforter, snowy, tucked into the blue,
Both sky and cloud — hues of perfection. And your gaze drank beauty.
Who is it hardest to truly be seen by? God? Other people? Or our own heart, when reality is faced?
Perhaps all of the above, each in its own way. These were the thoughts that moved me to create this artistic piece and to write a poem afterward. The poem below, entitled Ashes Sprout Beauty, is a collection of eight stanzas, each written as a haiku.
I will leave you to ponder it, dear reader. Be seen, and embrace the beauty that can spring forth.
Shadows hide poorly Because eyes adjust to find What’s been all along.
Yet I grasp shadows: Imaginary blankets Of security,
Until my fingers Find they are grasping only Dense smoke and mirrors.
So, now, you ask me “Whose eyes were opened to see: Yours, mine, or the Lord’s?”
Not the Lord’s, for He Has always shone, bright and clear, Seeing…and loving still.
Perhaps yours now glimpse The fragile outlines beneath Gray veils too long worn.
But it is I who Must, truly and fully, name That seen by my heart:
Light shines through fractures To nourish petals—hidden Treasure of beauty.
