the canvas of faith

My faith is written

in pastel hues,

a globe tilting

to Fall.

Each day we walk

the halls,

a gallery of art.

Pink and purples brush
their mark,
a canvas up on high.

Creation paints a picture

and tells on the heart.

Nature's exhibition

appoints it every day,

an invitation start.

You only need but look,

the hidden made it known,

a signature each one.

Art only is

what the Artist makes,

an Author for all work.

But should you need

faith to believe,

a look is only part.

For sunset plays a glorious tune

and sure melody,

a Composer's manuscript.

And every beat of nature's drum

courses invisible time,

a physical evidence.

But if  you'd peer beyond
the grasses stringy strand,

to plant a lone, small seed,

this mustard of believe
see each green witness
their testimony stand
to grow over
unbelief,
a faith across the land.

"For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers.." Colossians 1:16



where I admit I need a Writer's Retreat

I realized my mistake of entering a writing conference giveaway, earlier this year.

My first entry, read by my Husband, was told to me "You wrote it like you didn't want it. I did not think it was one of your better writings."

Ouch.

It was true.

I was embarrassed to actually say I wanted to write, to acknowledge it's importance in my life.

And since that time, I've regretted how I didn't admit the truth.

Since writing that entry and mulling my insecurity about writing, I've been remembering things I'd forgotten as a child. Things, like my excitement of new colored pens: pink, blue, red, purples with fresh, blank sheets of papers and journals.

I remember being huddled for hours in my room with a poetry book by Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allen Poe as their words touched something inside me. I remember how I'd play instrumental music and mused my own words into songs on paper.

I remember attempting a diary, even though I preferred prose and poetry, instead.

Then recently, a high school best friend contacted me and cemented it. Twenty-five years later, I'm realizing how true it is, my love for writing

She said she used to have a box and in it were some things I'd written for her. Then she tells me how I was always taking pictures, back then. "Really?", I incredulously asked.

Even as a child, drawing and writing was my passion. Many birthday gifts and Christmas presents had some art supplies or fresh writing tools that I couldn't wait to be alone with.

All these year, I've tried to squash my love for writing. I've talked down to it and pegged it as some "doodling" of words because admitting the truth was too risky.

But those things aren't why I need to go to the Laity Lodge Writer's Retreat.

I'm done belittling my passion.

I'm done trying to make sense of the way I get lost for hours writing in my pajamas. I'm done excusing why I'm invigorated to pen a thought, that I'm scratching the words on receipts or napkins so I can remember them until I get home. I'm done with not admitting it because of what people close to me would think.

I'm done with self-preservation which tries to tame this wildness when I see a sunset that I'm compelled to write how it shimmered. I'm done ignoring how the stomach is made to wait hours until my heart is emptied on a page.

I'm done with the bubble of fear which keeps me trapped in my own head, with the minions of failure, frailty, insecurity, and unbelief.

I'm done denying the gift which He placed in me as if it were something I shouldn't accept.

I'm learning the art of the Embrace, of who He created me to be. And as much as I like to encourage others, this idea of being with other writers sets a thrill of excitement on the wings of another kind of encouragement.

My need to go to the Laity Lodge is more than just writing, it's also about community. I need a place of digging below the surface of what I want to say to find the things I didn't know I had to say and doing it with others,  just like me.

It's about being with birds of the same feather daring eachother to fly off the cliff of possibilities.

My need is: to be around this strange flock of folks who are like me. And from there fledge my writing wings in an atmosphere where we're pushed beyond the perch of our comfortable nests, to newer heights.

And soar.




If you're a writer, and deep down you know you are, then enter in with me and give it a whirl. Who knows, it just might work this time. Go here to learn more "Win a Free Trip to Laity Lodge Writer’s Retreat".

and then a high school best-y is found

The years add up and move us further away from youth, but then something happens bringing it all back.

My punk-rock teenage self had an accompliance back then. As a teenager, I was on my own in alot of ways except for a friend of mine. We faced the world like a dare.

My family life was separated by the chasm of angst in those days, that not even my own sister and I could be friends, then. She was only two years younger and dealing with her own hormonal change.

So we both had best friends, like the sisters we didn't have in eachother.

Hers was named Sandra and mine was named Xalli.

Technology can be both a curse and a blessing. At times a total time vacuum, but other times, a way of connecting people too.

And so it is, I traveled back in time this week. Xalli found me and we've been laughing, so hard, at our innocent-but-punk-rock-trying-to-be-hardcore ways.

I was in Sonic and couldn't even talk when the speaker buzzed to life and THE VOICE wanted my order. A quick text from my old friend had sent me shaking with laughter and it was all I could to maintain what little composure I had to squeak out something. I'm sure I looked cuckoo with a delirious grin that was managing a guffaw rising up on the inside, although not so successful on that front.

I could barely talk once the order was delivered.

Instantly I was back in Dallas and 16 all over again.

Being "off my rocker" is a perk with age and older years.  It's a lovely advantage, in which we don't take ourselves too seriously, that can keep us young.


  with Lisa-Jo, on "older"

when your long, lost daughter calls...today

It was the fourth time in one day and the silence sat between us. We'd talked long and covered much in comfortable cadence during phone calls one, two and three that same day.

But now, number four comes and I'm afraid of saying it wrong, of spoiling the whole day, of inserting too much eagerness by saying too much.

My daughter, the one estranged from me for so many years, was talking to me. We had one of those rare and long conversations and for a moment I remembered what if felt like. The ease of a mother-daughter sharing life as if we had always done this, even though we hadn't since she was a little girl.

When call number one came, I was surprised by the spiritual questions she had. The way she's able to discern so much and how the enemy has kept her bound in lies. She's known the darkness, the paranormal, the attempts on her life, the degrading names spoken over her, the partying, the abuse of boyfriends, for the last several years and all I wanted to do was point to the Light.

And say "Run! Run! See your strong Tower?"

But I didn't.

Not that I didn't try, at first. It was cut short with, "Mom, this is why I didn't want to call you. Because you don't listen to me?"

"You're right. I don't. Go ahead and I promise to listen", I tell her.

And so I do.

There's a purpose for her and she's yet to know the true depth of God's beautiful way with her. She sees the world from a darkened veil and I am only a clay creature too clumsy to remove it.

She talks and shares and I'm amazed at the hidden work of God. When all seemed silent and passive, as if the enemy's grip was too much, the Spirit reveals He's alive and active. Oh, how I marvel at the mystery of this secret ministering!

The surface isn't where a seed dies to give birth to it's plant, but underneath our soiled soul. Sometimes life plows it up, ripping the surface with lines dug by heartaches and disappointment, before they become loamy in sprouting the eternal Seed.

So here I am, listening and trying not to interrupt. Quiet and marveling.

Then she quiets too and I wait in case there's more, but nothing. So I share and we begin sharing back and forth. I tell her what God's shown me, like her, those paranormal evidences of darkness. She knows there's a spirit realm for she touches it's blackness most nights and this I know too.

And I tell her there is a way out through a Relationship and by the Blood.

But I don't know if she wants out.

I can only share how I did and I wanted answers.

I wanted to know, once for all, for Him to be real to me. 

I needed Him to be really, real to me. And I made the decision to chase Him, full on, from that day on, giving all of myself to Him, alone.  My restored relationship with the Holy Spirit meant all his power had free acces to all of me.

Only then, did I begin to unravel it all.

Only then did I begin to understand the darkness with clarity by the Spirit. All my years of confusion were finally arighted by righteousness. All my years of turbulence smoothed by Peace. All my mistakes concealed in Love. All my wrongs cast to the sea of Grace. All my pain covered in Forgiveness.

Only when I knew Him, really knew Him, could I forgive myself.

And in forgiving myself, I can admit to my daughter, my wrongs, the ways I had inflicted pain, the faults I have, the mistakes I've made. I can admit them without flinching, now.

We must not stop at the pillar of Forgiven but forge ahead to forgiving ourselves. Our children need us to hear them, to understand them, and not to hear us defending our parenting ways from way back then.

When we put ourselves on trial, nobody wins the court of guilt and shame. We only turn like defense lawyers pleading our case because truly the guilt hangs like a noose and we demand a reason, an answer, for how the parenting went awry. We turn our relationship from parent and child to something of plaintiffs and defendants.

It's better to go ahead and plead away.

Guilty.

Guilty. As charged, I am, on all counts, guilty.

Then get about the business of Forgiveness both Upwards and inwards.

Our children need us to acknowledge their pain, without trying to explain it away. We must seek the Balm which soothes the ache, in the way only He can. And by that crucible of guilt, this repenting, can we be about Forgiveness of so many things but especially of ourselves.

Only then, may we stop pleading our "innocence" and drop the gavel. Only then are we able to face the darkness and only see the Light. Only then can we look at all our ugliness and only see Beauty. Only then, is He able to take our death grip, this strangling clutch, and unclench our works to redeem the ruins of a family's past.

With Ann on forgivness....

when the words don't come.....

I've been absent from here and from finding words.

I feel like a blank slate looking for it's chalk.

No one thought or idea seems to come to mind. Just this awareness of living by the Spirit, how I'm always amazed by the depth of it, and how I need more of it with a new and fresh pouring, daily.

No deep theological words.

Stuck here, I've been pondering "new" for 24 hours. And wondering why, I'm having a hard time with it, when so many new things are happening in the physical aspect of my life.

Aren't all new things dormant before Spring calls them out to life? And that's how I've felt in the spirit, in the soul-part of me-- dormant, in a good, but silent, way.

Today, on the heels of "new" thoughts, I remembered John the Baptist like an undercurrent of something churning below the surface.

I've been reading trail-blazers who've gone before us and some who are still with us. I see a wild abandon of a select few, who forsake their appearance to proclaim the Way through the worldly wilderness.

I see some who speak words needing to be spoken, regardless of who's in the audience or the ears which beg their itching.

I see those who digest a strange diet of the Spirit which nourishes them to speak, plainly and bold, as if the very strangeness of their spiritual food produces strange, life-giving speech.

I see this and wonder the palate of honey and locusts, to look bizarre for the sake of a Kingdom.

Though words may continue to not come over the next days, or sparingly over the weeks, there's a photosynthesis of Light seeping nourishment below the surface. Until the spiritual buds pop their heads from my dark, loamy soul, my spirit lays dormant for the new sprouts.




 At Lisa-Jos', "new" word prompt

S&P downgrades? they can't give credit ratings for Hope

The economy looks bleak. Or so they say.

I realized, I had relied on it always being good. And somehow, in the dire and alarmist news, I'm learning that recessions are good for faith.

Or maybe it's good to have faith in recession.

I've been in the faith gym, building muscles and training for the race in a Hope, unseen. I'm in it to win it as a Hope Olympian.

Over the last few years, I've known friends and family affected by lost jobs, dried up markets, rising food and gas prices. There's a day-to-day struggle of saving dollars here, gas there, canceling luxury items, and at times, rearranging a whole life to downgrade, downsize, and give up homes to start over. Smaller and smarter, hopefully.

We have some laid-off dairy workers, on our farm dismantling one of our chicken houses on days reaching over 105 degrees. They're helping us (by doing the work) and we're helping them as they sell the scrap metal for money as an income. I'm grateful for them, admiring their grit and determination.

We have families combining living spaces and sharing their homes, sometimes long-term, maybe indefinitely.

And with the bottom falling out of this bucket of prosperity, we're caught by faith or fall into despair's pit.

We realize, we were never in control all those years we thought we were, buying houses, or selling them, or borrowing so easily, running up credit cards, living on maxed out debt and joy riding any ol' day of the week.

Recessions allow us to know God is still in control when it seems out of control.

And that's our greatest Hope. Because no matter how it all seems to tank, we're never empty in Him.

His economy never bankrupts, His promises never suffer a recession, His resources are not weakened by a S & P credit rating, His influence isn't dependent on what MSNBC, ABC, Foxnews or another agency, says about prayer. His control isn't threatened by government shutdowns, His healing doesn't depend on a Healthcare Plan, and His long-range provisions aren't determined by a Social Security program.

He doesn't panic and sell off stocks, His futures do not tumble, droughts don't fluster His ability to produce rains, and His finances do not belong to the U.S. treasury.

All of it is His, the whole earth and all that's in it. Recessions just remind us, He still reigns.

Just in case we forgot.

Our greatest commodity is Hope, and by faith, this is the jewel with which we are rich in everyway. His life is our gold standard. For nothing has changed in His kingdom, only in how we see ours.



....at Laura's

....also, at Ann's

pulling the cord on the world

I don't know if it's the heat, this Texas drought which has shriveled up dirt and sucked water out of ponds, which has me thinking about all the ways to unplug.

The world seems noisy.

And I never thought I'd want solitude from it all, as much of a people person that I am.

But there's this line of being connected, too much, of being scattered like little pieces of ourselves so thinly sliced to only have small portions of time to any one person. It's those closest to us who suffer, getting only a sliver of us, relegated to living with our harried minds which can't keep a thought long enough to have our whole person, present.

I want to come to a screeching halt, with the exception of blogging words now and again. Because I have relief here, so long as here is liberty and not expectation of some requirement to word something.

We twitter, facebook, blog, receive email by phone, text, read headlines on the internet, research books, buy products through Amazon, to the point of, where are the people? Face to face interactions? Where's the family fit in, and even more, where's room for God? Customer service desks have been replaced with phone numbers. We're constantly barraged with information, bings and bleeps and rings, until no place is sacred anymore.

And all this time-"saving" doesn't seem safe at all, anymore.

Maybe the drought has affected more than the brown grass and rain-less clouds over me.

Maybe I'm seeing the world, in information overload.

I'm one of the first to buy on the internet. It saves time and money and gas rather than traveling to the city but the internet has the potential of a vacuum. A global library at the fingertips makes it difficult to just stop at the one thing you went to do there.

It's like evaporated pond water dissapaiting into the atomsphere, I'm lured by words and trinkets of information until precious time has slipped away and I'm left with a dried up hour or two.

There are so many things which have the potential to tug in different directions as to make a person stand still, but not be still. I may be in one place and not truly be there, in mind or thought.

How do I love well, when I can't even think well?

And this isn't how God designed us, to be full of stuff and not of Him.

We need Providential quiet.

The solitude which allows us to be fully aware, present with others, instead of constantly cluttered, takes time. Time away, time together, time talking, time playing games, times to turn "off" and times to turn "on".

We need a reprieve, an old-world life which treasures life connecting and inter-connecting yet balanced between technology and the flesh. Our loved ones shouldn't be a nuisance to our thoughts, as if they are rude interruptions nor is the screen and keyboard more important than little people (or friends and family) demanding our attention or time.

In order to love well, we must dis-connect to re-connect.

We must learn how to wean ourselves from the world.

We must turn our eyes toward our first Love, who loved us first, mindful of this blessing which we rely our life on, Christ. We must commune with Holy Spirit, the Man which came in His place to make peace in our hearts, despite the world. "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives...." John 14:27

If I'm to love well at all, there's a connection which must take place outside the world, a reliance of His faithfulness and an unfailing mind turned to it.

"..For I have always been mindful of your unfailing love and have lived in reliance on your faithfulness." Psalm 26:3

"But I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content. Israel, Put your hope in the LORD both now and forevermore." Psalm 131:2,3

With Ann....