In the Pause--Advent Journey of Change

"So it shall be, while My glory passes by, that I will put you in the cleft of the rock,

and will cover you with My hand while I pass by."Exodus 33:22

I've been in a struggle. It is settled, here and all different. Christmas turned that corner from thanksgiving filling our hearts and all the cultural ways of doing things like I've done in the past have turned a corner too. In my heart, I don't want to be a child who can't enjoy the very things bestowed me nor do I want them to spoil me so I'm trying to hold blessings out to Giver with grateful hands and to hold them loosely.

It's a pesky balance.

I've continued to seek out this season and what it means to give and what comes out of heart. And my struggle is this: How do I balance it all or am I overrating balance and maybe spiritual balance is off-balance?

I'm still in the tug-of-war.

We seek this glory of His closeness and it rearranges thoughts and I'm shuffling them around between Him, me and mess. So lately I've been in the pause. I'm studying this cleft which has stilled me, quieted me,  and brings me watching from behind His Hand which covers my place against edged surfaces of rock and wait.

My night watch only ends by a burst of birds singing in dawn the sunbeam rays splitting light. And I listen in the cleft of anticipation for present to be split by Presence so I may see the back of Glory passing by.

To hear in the small stillness like trees silenced by their noisemakers reaching their trunks and only a naked branch quaking in the wind, this is the season. To hear in the quieted silence like the hours before dawn and only sleep breathing with the clock, this is now. To meditate long like a dormant meadow under winter's rule which only waits for spring to set it free, this is it. 

To hear Voice which breaks the air like a whisper is loud after vacant noise kept it's silence, this is our spring sprouting in winter.

Like a crocus flower which rises early on the next season, His birth speaks the same to these masses. And we circle 'round each year this axis of birth whose Word holds this globe's suspension and we know this birthday is the budding crocus of Heavenly seasons.

Each day faithfully rises like our spirit renewed on it's dawn, but I need extra reminding this dawning birth and a Life and celebrate this Light which broke our night. This is it, here and now and I have questions on this Rock so I'll practice by counting and wait in the pause.

Making Christmas a Christ day by practicing Him along the way and isnt that really a: "Burnt Offering--Aroma's Spiritual Warfare"

I shared this at "Christmas Change" and you may click over to read more changes or even leave your own.

Yea! So excited to also be joining Ann at her place this Christmas journey. Click over and be blessed....and share yours too.

"Then He said, 'Go out, and stand on the mountain before the LORD.' And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice." 1 Kings 19:11 and 12

How To Give? The (un)Forgiven

Some memories laid dormant from a childhood shattered in violence and for years I fed off the bad and fueled them through my teenage days. But 18 came with it's unannounced year of good memories finding their way back and all my energy for harboring pain of a childhood torn by family violence stopped cold in it's track. All the pieces together a puzzle came whole and no longer just the pieces shaded dark. And I thought I'd learned it well this forgiving for a new wholeness allowed me too.

But my 20's came, I was a mess and didn't want to give this kind of giving and all that's fair or just railed against the injustice. Somehow my thanks was tangled down deep and I didn't know why I had to travel it this way. I took baby steps in a charade long before I felt them by heart.

Somehow I stumbled head-long into this weed again which hid in the garden of my heart. Large towering tree-like blooms a source of shade and I never saw it until He walked the soil of it with me. The tangled root bound underneath and how was I to live without it? All my thanks entwined with a root this weed I'd grown to like.

How did I circle my way back?

My thoughts no longer fixated on a biological father of remembered good along with pain. I had fled that grip to only slip into another. A crumpled marriage, a daughter, and right there in her father is where I began a new dig. I'd given darkness a new home by way of weed I nurtured by feeding it justice by all my injustices. For truly I needed this savior because I didn't know another and justice was all I had.

I was tangled with this weed, the bitter root and my loving Gardener called me out. So I began giving even though it felt all wrong and I'd give but then take it back. Persistence continued on because I didn't know how He was pruning it out. My soily soul had grown close with the weed like a familiar friend and I wasn't sure how life lived without.

At first my heart didn't want to submit this type giving but my mouth pushed it out. More than once. It started in bumpy jolts as I spoke them like blessings but then wished them not true. I'd speak of saving graces to only not believe them deserved and then prayed them back. My heart was wedged and my mouth had to clip it out. So I continued to speak, to bless, to pray the graces until my heart slowly followed.

It ended with a long cavity barren of root where my thanks freed it's tangled pull below. Only after that bitter weed tossed aside did I see how it's blooms had shadowed. It took lots of giving in way of forgiving to liberate the whole thing out. And I never saw the roots or how to begin or desired to even try 'til a Gardener showed me how. And in this type soil, raked by forgiveness's toil, is fertile for thanks to grow.

I now stand guard over this heart which leans down in battered waves and digs deep if allowed. Holy Spirit's expert eye counsels me where to search and I continually have to give Him the grounds to walk my heart. And easy is not always the path by which it comes sometimes it's by wrestling and toiling with the soil before I'm ready for His planting. But one of my greatest giving was in forgiving and I hope to always give more.

I shared this at Ann's place click over for more "Walk With Him Wednesday".

Jesus said: "Therefore I say to you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much. But to whom little is forgiven, the same loves little.” Luke 7:47 (NKJ)

That Word!

Anticipation waits in a stockpiled mess and thaws like the turkey in our refrigerator. Gathered in heaps of preparation by collected menu items and the day comes on some common word. Simple letters together but collectively they bring praise. How I want to take this day and remember it for the word it is? Thanksgiving comes and we know this season and celebrate.

Attention to time and place set aside to come together and we carry on the week. Fellowship passes, until each the place they'll gather. It isn't far from our thoughts and so we meditate and plan table spreads to come. Centered 'round food and abundance spilling from oven, we're breaking this bread of thanks.

My thoughts ticking off the days of cleaning, preparing and scheduling time for the day. I can't help but think of thanks and the giving and wanting to take this day all year. The blessings heaping tables and reminding me those which heap a life. And fellowship shared by communion together as we walk in it through life. And thawing out thanks reminds me how it really feeds a soul. The tables will clear, the dishes will pile, the stomach will stretch and we'll fill up on giving thanks, this nourishment of gratitude. And how easy it is to give it on this day which carries the word.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I also shared this at Emily's "Chatting At the Sky" and I'm unwrapping the word of thanksgiving.

How do You Heal Heart-Sick?

It took a week of being sick, energy wiped clean, before the fog lifted. Rest, vitamin c, cold meds, and lots of ricola cough drops and finally I'm feeling better, whole and present. I don't know if I trust my tired-state of writing and so I haven't hit "publish" on two posts I wrote during the week.

This side of health and things and holidays like Thanksgiving, Jesus' birthday, New Year and I not wanting to spread the sick and I'm wondering about being soul-sick. The carrier I am of germ which lays dormant for time and then goes full-blown rampant. It skews the day through weakened states of awareness until all I know is sleep and hibernation.

How long would I carry a soul-sick germ before it'd weary me to slumber? Make me groggy and only see through dimly?

My eyes opened by health and my heart hurts and I don't know how to put it in action.

How much must I despise the fettering before I truly unfetter? How much must I love before Love is all I care to know or all I ever long for?  How much is too much of this thing which pulls inside?

This ill of soul-sick has only healed to a heart-sick and I'm thinking of how He felt here. Walking among us and seeing our need and how did His heart bleed? 

I'm only a vainly veiled flesh and need the curtain torn, the veil ripped to enter Holy of Holies by His Spirit. I don't know how to minister heart-sick with fleshy hands, or how to sustain it in worldly wares, or how to compel it fruition. A heart-to-heart of His and how does it contain an earthly vessel and not explode? Implode? Or fizzle away by it's dampened burden?

I'm thinking of motivation or my lack and all the pain I choose to miss. I'm thinking of goods and all I have and how I should bless.  I'm thinking of my children and all our days spent together and how I want their hearts over outward obedience. I'm thinking of church and how it's built by Christ and how it's really about His people. I'm thinking of Christmas and Jesus' birthday and what present would He like me give.

I'm thinking of silence and all the quiet and how He speaks to me there. I'm thinking of  my hardened heart and how it's loss changes in pain. I'm thinking of His softened one and feeling things and how it all feels too much.

I'm thinking of feelings plunged through and pricked by Him and how do I keep their gain?

And I'm thinking of how can I not thank the One who came and saved me from myself, a stiff-necked people of who I belong and am one. How can I not praise the small shallow things of my routine mundane for even in those His Spirit goes with me:

#155--Laundry and all these clothes of which I loathe to put away, but am thankful for their plenty.

#156--A pantry full of food for a feast, beckoning the day of Thanksgiving.

#157--Refuge found among fields and meadows on our farm and how they refresh my soul

#158--Two rambucous boys who's energy fill a house will noise and I'm straining to know these boyish ways.

#159--Failings which lead me Up for many are mine that lead me back to Him.

#160--Friendships in flesh and blogland which stretch across miles or neighbors and touch my heart.

#161--Health and all it's benefits and restful awareness.

#162--Freedom and those who crossed an ocean in a hope of new beginnings.

#163--Little old farmhouses which provide shelter and plenty like a desert filled with manna (sometimes I've grumbled for "Eygpt")

#164--A husband who has a vision and faithfully reminds me when I lose mine.

#165--Encouragement to keep trekking, trudging this land and turning it back to promise (not a curse) as we continue to battle the restoration and vision for a family farm.

For more gratitudes this Thanksgiving week, visit Ann's place.

Hushed Stones

Tipped paint spills

like a busy easel smudged

by brush stroke's dappled artwork
of colliding colors.

Paintings in life as we drive

through their frames where

walls or museums couldn't hang

each one.

Modern meets ancient by

automobile wheels strolling their

tread through treelined arches and
bursting array of a split open sky.

Who needs the stones to

cry out

when all 'round is arranging

or rearranging by tip of brush

my Lover of soul speaking

tenderly to me? 

Why let rock deprive

my mouth from

speaking Him so? 

I can't let it be, this
Bridegroom calling
out me, and clamp

my mouth sealed shut.

And who needs
Pharisees' legal

wrangling the lasso
that'd bind me from

washing His feet?
Lower I'd go and

     despised even so,

to gather the droppings

from a field of this my
Kingsman Redeemer.

No stone speak out

or law could arrest

the shameless love
    He draws 

my own crying Him out.

And stones need only be rock

and silently perch their dirt
for how can I not
      speak these echoes
which spill this heart?

"And some of the Pharisees called to Him from the crowd, “Teacher, rebuke Your disciples.” But He (Jesus) answered and said to them,

“I tell you that if these should keep silent, the stones would immediately cry out.” Luke 19:39 and 40 NKJ

I also shared this at Emily's "in the hush of the moon" Imperfect Prose, for all us imperfects.

I shared this at Emily's "Chatting At The Sky" and I'm unwrapping Tuesday.

Naked Words

I want to hide sometimes

by those words

I've flung out far and arch them back like

boomerangs and tuck them down

stuff them away and hide them in a little book or folder

like I did when I was a teen.
How I wrote

poems and stories in private

and selectively revealed them at discretion

or hid them away like silence.

Last night climbed the walls after

day ended long ago and

and hunger abated my dinner

because my stomach was in my heart.

The house fell sleep except 

my turning

wrestling with covers and

words that wouldn't stop their beating.

So I penciled under a lamp some of these here

to clear a mind hefted by things as:

"What molecule makes the DNA of sin's separation

so far from a father?"

And the readers read and those things which bleed

 from a life forsaken and another thought enters then goes:

"What gene is passed the

generation next

by which a prodigal begets a prodigal

and not save it so?"

Sleep came like a lumbered beast

and I only knew it briefly.

I don't mind the soul's baring a naked strip

but how many words can convey it

before it begs a tug for clothed?

I have no regrets in penning but

moments flash where I want to grab like 

silence and folder them away
and hide.

But I don't

 and leave them there

like something detached from a person

who lived them much ago.

Because it's not for me alone to know

the path which carried me here

and I read others

'though different than mine

and paths by different routes

 am blessed by their sharing.

And Redeemer of all these ways

 journey's twisted jaunts

allows me grace to not fall

under the spell of silence

so I it lay down bare.

Because the end of all I know

the bruising

 is worth the reed 

Him who laid down His for me

which begs the stripping more.

I'm joining Emily at "Imperfect Prose" and click over to read from these broken beautifuls.

How does a messy life give thanks? When mothering births prodigal daughters?

I don't speak of her often. How can I say it? Far from my womb which birthed this daughter to life and I don't rightly know the treatment for re-yoking this type of broken disease. Distance is more than a mile marker or time spent in travel, it's also one created by wounds, hurts, choices, or failures and these are the things which stretch between us.  A prodigal daughter not only distanced by miles but also in her heart.

My fierce protection, all those years ago, pushed me to the edge in hope to control the safety of her but it only served to be the wick, the fuse, which only blew shrapnel under pressure. How desperate a parent feels when their child seems against them and isn't this the very thing divorce does? Makes our children pick sides and broken-hearted parents with failed and shattered marital debris and we don't want to fail at one more thing, our children.

I picked myself up by boot straps and tried to be better above all I knew to be. Schools and teachers, friends and sleepovers and me involved, a hands-on parenting mother who was exhausted in my attempts to fight the good fight for this my only daughter. But after all is said and done, I only shared half her life in home and at times can feel it's loss. How do I give thanks in failure?

Although she lived with me years beyond death of a marriage, eventually battle lines splinter bonds. Civil war would break out time to time between families branched together by one lone girl and thinking each had the right. The ammunition would stockpile for battle days and energy spent in marching toward it. How does one give thanks in war?

What a relief these battles are long behind us but it's only been replaced by a cold war. No spies, legal ranks, or hunkering in the custodial bunkers are needed anymore. She's 21 now and outgrown the system. Civility replaced all the warring and I wonder how do I give thanks with battled wounds?

I think of her, the way things could be. And though His great peace surpassed all my understanding way back when, I'm still waiting for that change. The moment of Him bringing promise for her, the one He gave me all those years ago and wondering will I see it this side of Heaven? I hold it out and know that healing is only sent from above. All things flung into the wide ocean of pain which splits open hurt and we'd carry the waters without Him.

How do I give thanks to things I wish undone?

Long ago, I laid down my arms, my "rights", and realized my "control" was never mine. I was just a desperate cliff-hanger clinging for dear life trying to save myself and others. Thinking I was strong like Super(wo)man to rescue the day. Fallacy crumbled cliff edges and I was too busy living to notice the danger. Only after plunging to the depths below did it all become clear to me. I needed help and not the kind world gives because that worn out path had wearied me in failure by it's vain success.

My life depends on it and so I must. Give. Thanks. Not to the horribly twisted things I became from desperate mothering. Nor to the mistakes piled up high and most not even visible until after the heights toppled down to a prodigal daughter.

 I give thanks because I must lift higher the goodness of Good that outshines the shadows of bad.

I look to a Father who ministers our father-less, to widows, the poor and the prodigal. I give thanks because He's the Shepherd who seeks the one lost sheep among the fold, leaving the ninety-nine to find me and her.

I give thanks beyond the dregs of a life gone awry so I could make free like eagles wings and soar.  I turned my eyes away from the miry clay of my life and put focus on the Potter of this clay who gave me Life. I give thanks because my heart would choke on darkness without it. I give thanks because He gives Life from death, those dry bones in the graveyard of life's mess.

My heart is allowed to run wild, crazy love-like and snatching thanks from the simplest sunset, valley vista or green meadow of farms. Giving this beating pump called heart His blood that transfuses all goodness His thankful praise. I don't know all the ways to do thanks, to mete it out, minister it to daughters near and far. I just run headlong to Lover of souls and I start by simply starting. And not stopping.

And I give thanks, my heart going first, until it rises and raptures my face. I practice drawing close to thanks-Giver who washes life's sorrows and hurts with Living water until it gushes forth and I start by simply starting.

It's the only place where nothing's lost and everything gained. In a life of messy heaps and prodigal children like lost lambs, there's a battle to attain the Hem of gratitude's robe. I reach beyond stagnant skin, my selfish wrapper, grabbing it's sometimes slippery stitch and wonder how to spread it. And all I know is how to begin.




 "Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." Romans 8:27 and 28

Sharing at Ann's place on "Walk With Him Wednesday" with the question: "The Practice of Giving How do we GIVE thanks? How does doing thanks look like?"

I Wasn't Ready for You

The weekend's end came with an added hour from clocks turning back but my body feeling like it lost at least two. Monday rudely came and interrupted Sunday and I scrambled to look alive with week's worth of doing ahead of me. And I slowly tackled the daily tasks of meals and clothes, chores and school, while sleep begged me to bed.

His mercies new every morning, but day's like today, I need them every hour.

Beauty blossoms outside the door and knocks for me to join it. Sun glowing change from fall's cool air and leaves blowing their last waves. I pause to notice before they gather the ground below them.

Bare-faced and hunkered behind walls, I dreaded to face the day. I pined a better one from behind glass panes. And read others in same condition as me from Lisa-Jo to L.L. Barkat sharing Monday's inglorious begin. I afford little time for squatting for it's length would only make it worse. So I move to do and finish the race, if only for the day, the hour, the minute.

In the drudgery, I attempt to wrap with all appreciation breath from the moment. And knowing the day isn't so bad, even for a Monday. I'm off to right it, the wrong it started by finishing something, anything and ending it better than before. Starting over with each minute anew and hoping to gain one iota of productivity and perhaps 'saving' Monday's reputation, if only for today.


"...Just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life." Romans 6:4

For more Monday musings click here at L.L. Barkat.

You Know Light's Brightness from Dark

It's black, heavy belly corners a spot this living room of our farmhouse

and warmth glows there when the fire is on.

Chilled air escapes by way of forced heat pushing it out
and lighting a path for cold bones

like something from Granny's old place or Laura Ingall's little prairie house.

And when the embers light go low, temperatures heat dropping
 is when we must open the door

and blow. Wind flaming them higher and coals glow back to life.

 Ember-carriers have crossed my way when darkness was where I'd run.

Some came and didn't know the light they flickered into the black belly which had heaved my heart.
They only knew the Flame.

And when life pressed in to things not nice or comfortable, I saw them lean to One's
igniting and comforting heat.

They let Him burn,
each a spark along my way
and knowing not their impact.
I want to be like these
who came and were before me.
Not preaching or sermon-laced
just living a Flame
and I wanting to burn like them,
to know the fire's lit brightness
which my darkened eyes had seen.
I didn't know how Spirit's blowing
raised the licks
for a bonfire carried in flesh.
What was this thing of Light which unburdened their day?
This place of solace and comfort with cold, dark days all around
and supernatural praise erupting
their lips?
How did they find it when all else would turn them away
draw them to dark or just plain gray?
The possibility to enter Heaven from earth seemed long and far
but I watched them rocket up and marveled their flight.
So we are flame-carriers, lit by Holy Spirit blowing, bringing bright wherever we go
erupting Light in darkness and we. may. never. know.

With a thankful heart and gratitude to match,
I share some of the flickering flames here.

Your light said all I needed hear.

#148-A high school teacher not always aware, of writing programs for computers
now old the glare of screens couldn't
hide the glow she carried for me to see.

#149-Or others, two in fact, a couple so sweet and Jesus-lights, full-blown fire came just when I entered the belly of dark prodigal's journey. Twenty years back and naming you, Sondra and Dwayne, only seems right though I know it was more than you, it was the Flame.

#150-A coworker, from Army days I spent, who praised with songs in workplace
and mentioned to me a Song of Songs, they're intimate praises and
I only bewildered.

#151-The neighbor all strawberry blond, many years ago who prayed for rain to water her tree

and I scoffed, but wondered.

#152-Many singled friends, the church I braved to enter, who ministered morsels and lit the Flames of grace.

#153-To many more, along cyberworld who spur me on the race, you
give to me these things of Holy sparks that Light the flame in words.

#154-And to a handful many in person I should know, these ones who long to burn for Him and count it all a loss, encourage me to do the same.

Visit Ann's place for more gratitude and thanksgiving.

I Was Scared of Church--How I came back, what I found

I crossed the threshold all fear and trembling

dressed for Sunday's "best"

hiding stains and ugly and past under layers

of heels, hose, skirt, coiffed,

and painted mask on face to pretend

the thing I wanted to be--good.

But behind me the stench of all my choice,

so it is I slithered in and looked for crumbs

from the banqueting table of a Father.

All I'd considered to receive were leftovers of a feast

His Words falling, dripping from a podium above

and I pulling every scrap to hold inside.

I remembered being cut to the wick,

a child hiding in closests.

Then deseperate teen years

ridiculed, made public spectacle as if the "prostitue"
and a bad example to peers

by the very youth leader of my large church.

 I was lost in trying to be different and loved

with all the wrong ways and dressing the part.

And although innocence still marked my teen path,

I wanted to hide it, lock it away and pretend something else.

Over time I let the innocence slip

marry young and away, across continents in hope to find

it all again.

I only made it worse.

So I returned a broken adult, another big

church, another state, shaky limbs and quavered across in.
Tiresome pretending a fraud, so I befriended
some pew-sharers along my way.
While time cracked my fragile shell, a seemingly hard thing,

but brittle in Love and finding good isn't what I am

or need to be.

I'm just a cup to hold Him in

and that. is. all.

His Love words flowed to me healing

and then miracles still happend

as it also flowed from Grace disciples who loved Him to me.

And I now see podium-man just like me, sin-flawed,

mistaken-riddled even if none can see
and I never seeing with eyes, just His heart.

Holding nail-scarred Hands in my own hand reminds the flesh I am

and masks of chaff are burned away by fire in His eyes.

And my good is this: A no good self is all I inherited from Garden

yet Goodness came in humbleness a Man

who places all of His in me.

"His eyes were like a flame of fire, and on His head were many crowns. He had a name written that no one knew except Himself. He was clothed with a robe dipped in blood, and His name is called The Word of God." Revelations 19:12 and 13

I shared this with Emily at "Imperfect Prose" and there's more where I left it,
beautiful hearts sharing life in prose.
All written, published and I thought of the other Emily
 and her 31 days of grace which excatly read between my lines today.
So I dropped this off there and with a click you can follow me back.

I shared this at Elizabeth Esther's "Saturday Evening Post".

Fickle Love--Monday And Technology Muse

Words to themselves are things silly, serious

complicated and so many things from the wealth of them,

but spoken with life or death.

And I ponder our many words

found these many places

facebook, twitter, blogs, Internet

email, books, news and on

and wonder how does one keep from

losing their self in it?

The fickle world of cyberspace,

found in comments or "like"

have nothing to do with Love

and would either be friend or abuser

depending the day's end of many

mouse clicks or it's lack.

How true the mirror reflects,

where I place time to those

words and Word which truly

have power and way in my life.

And 'though I contribute voice

to these many words in cyber world

there is only One Word I ever seek

and hope it's returned to you the same.

It's this I write to convey,

express, try to touch you with the stroke of His letter.

Should I look long in the mirror of cyberspace

it's a place I'd lose myself and forget who I am

or Who's I am and so it is I look longer in the

face of great "I AM".

It's the conversation of friends from Sunday

which I savor these looks

of words speaking life and establishing His people

from the Cornerstone of words.

Yet these also yours, available in all abundance

the freedom from bondage,

and how I long for yours should it be far from you.

Even if clinging to Life by a nail and clawing the way upward.

Technology only a tool in hand,

not our master.

 The hidden Life in Christ is the wattage supply

of needed strength and power 

to establish, anchor on sure Word

allowing His mirror ever before you,

so when you do turn "off"

remembering in whom's Love you are...

And not forgetting.

 ^"For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man observing his natural face in a mirror; for he observes himself, goes away, and immediately forgets what kind of man he was." James 1:23 and 24

"...That He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might through His Spirit in the inner man, that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love...to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God." Ephesians 3:16,17 and 19

I shared this over "On, in, around Mondays" at L.L.Barkat's place and also with "Technology: Do You Give It A Rest?" at The High Calling blog network. Click over to read others journey

this Monday or on how others may or may not give

technology a rest.