Windows

Many a beautiful stained-glass church window has somehow spoken to my heart and lifted my mind from considering ordinary thoughts to being aware of God's presence. I never stopped to analyze why this is so, until I was discussing with a friend some lovely old church windows that, regretfully, had to be left behind when our congregation moved to a new site. I was not present then, but I empathized with the sense of loss this must have created. He pointed out that there was nothing sacred about those old Victorian floral windows. Happily, the new site was outfitted with lovely, newly created stained-glass windows that tell the stories of the Bible.

I remember driving along one night and thinking, praying, "Why do those windows touch us so?" And then this thought came to me...

Church Windows


What is it about church windows
That speaks to us of God?
There is nothing sacred in them,
Just glass and lead,
Dark and cold,
'Til God-made sunbeams
Flow through
Dazzling witnesses below
With purpose and meaning,
With radiant color,
And streams of light.

Why do human spirits sense the Presence
In a light-flooded, jewel-toned spectacle
Arranged in Gothic portrayals of saints
Or Victorian florals
Or modern undulating, geometric shapes?

Unspoken intuition or soft-spoken Spirit
Bathes us in hope-filled affinity...
In our kinship to the glass.
We, too, are cold and dark,
We, too, need God's Christ-Light
Flowing in and through
Before we come to Life,
We, too.


Sometimes one poem leads to another... this time about the windows of the very first church I attended as a small child.


Jesus Windows


Jesus windows:

The royal baby sleeping in the manger.

The good Shepherd
Carrying the errant lamb.

The Savior standing on water,
Pulling Peter
From the waves.

Jesus praying in the garden.
Jesus dying on the cross.
"Father, forgive them,"
Unfurled below.

The once-doubting Thomas
Touching Jesus' wounds,
Worshiping at His nail-pierced feet.

The living Lord
Knocking softly
At heart's door,
Waiting to come in.

The durable story rendered in fragile glass---
Silently singing.
Simple representation,
Pictorial telling,
In lush detail
For all to grasp
At will.

Translucent panes,
Brittle, liquid, temporal,
Splendid by sun
And firelight,
Flooding darkness with
Color, story-glory
And all this---
Merely a shimmer
Of the Christ-love reality


God reaching out through
Artful hands,
Scientific minds,
Generous hearts,
Faithful voices,
The church combined,

An invitation

I love you.
Come, come to Me.
Come hear the Word.
Come read the Story.
Come find the Way.
Come see.
Come live for Me.
My instrument
Illumined
Be.

All About Jesus...

Once, a good friend of mine asked if I felt God spoke to me. I said, "Yes," which was true. Then he asked, "How do you know it is God talking to you and not your own thoughts?" Sadly, I had not at the time considered this question and I had no clear answer. I am glad he asked, however, because I have been thinking about it often since, with mind and ears open to answers from within my own experiences and those of other people.


I think most of the time God speaks to us through the Bible and the quiet, internal whispers of the His Holy Spirit. Because we hear His voice from within, we can sometimes be confused if it is our own thinking or His message to us. Sometimes we need to compare those new thoughts to the whole message of the Bible and look for agreement with the fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.) Very often His thoughts are so surprising, so very good, so new, so persistent, and/or so opposite of our own will or natural tendency in a matter, that we really feel little doubt He is nudging us in a new direction. Sometimes He speaks to us through other people and /or circumstances. Sometimes,  more rarely, He speaks in surprising ways like visions or otherwise inexplicable experiences.

Ultimately, hearing the voice of God is something one has to experience to grasp fully. Thankfully, Jesus offers everyone that opportunity. He loves everyone.  He promises to be found by us, if we seek Him earnestly, and the best place to begin looking for Him is in the Holy Bible. If you haven't met Jesus yet, you can. Ask Him simply in prayer to show Himself to you as you read His word. The book of John in the New Testament is a good starting place. Pray and read a little every day (30 minutes is a good goal) and before long He will meet you there, I'm sure. I dare say He is waiting for you.

That is my very long introduction to the following poems about my best friend, Jesus.




Easter

Underneath the marshmallow chicks,
And colored eggs, and jelly beans,
Nestled down in the green grass
Is a small jewel box,
Bearing a silver chain and pendant,
A tiny cross within a heart,
The best gift of the day.

Thirty years later,
Underneath the schedules, and lists, and jobs,
And needs, and wants
Is a real cross
Within a beating heart,
The best of hope,
The Truth, the Life, the Way.



As A Child At Play

As a child at play
I used to say,
"I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me.
I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me."
I didn't know it then,
We were playing a game He made up
Called gravity.



Visitors for Jesus

They were Kings of the East
Who, in spite of wealth and power,
Perceived they were not
The Beginning and the End.

So they became wise men
Searching the scriptures for One
Who could be all they were not.
They found Him promised
And His time declared by Isaiah,
Themselves described in Psalms,
And in Numbers, their sign to watch for,
A brilliant new star.

So they became astrologers
Searching the skies
For a bright new herald,
The sign.
Diligent, they did not miss
His awesome and heavenly light.

Then they became travelers
Packing camels with provisions
To last the long journey,
Food and fine clothing for servants and kings,
Tents and utensils
And other necessary things,
And valuable gifts carefully chosen
For the new Servant King.

Leaving Tarshish and Sheba and Seba
They came
Resting by day,
Traveling by night,
Driven by faith,
Led by the star.


When the light halted over the place,
They came close,
Inside,
And fell to their knees,
Mere men
Worshiping.

Then solemnly, joyfully
They brought out their gifts
To honor the babe,
Bright gold for the King,
Sweet frankincense for the God,
And pungent, precious myrrh for the Savior.


They were kings
Who waited and watched
And journeyed long
To find Him
And make Him their King.

And now,
Because He loved us so,
We no longer have to go
Or travel far
To find Him.
But only search
And He is there
Everywhere
Within.

Some  little drawings I made one Christmas while staying at my parents house. My Mom always makes everything warm and cozy there.

In the beginning, there was a very inexperienced poet/blogger...

I don't really know where to start, but I thought you might like to know how this blog came by the name One More Voice. Those three words are from lines I wrote, contained in the piece below. I climbed out of bed at midnight to write this down, in early Feb. 2008.


Silent Conversation
(With Christ)


In this age 
Today
So many voices
Toss words on to the page
And through the air
It seems so nearly futile
To join the clamor
Just one more voice
In so much noise
Lost


Why write
Why isolate
Why wake
Why add my voice 
To the clatter,
I breath


Then You whisper,
So I can hear
At my feet
It is a privilege
To be one more voice
To join the throng


I created you
Sing my song




Back in late 2001, my sister, Joyce, challenged me to start "writing all the poems from this time in my life." I'm afraid I had pretty much stopped writing poetry. To please Joyce, my mother (who also thought I ought to be writing,) and as a challenge to myself, I decided to spend the year doing just that. At the end of 2002, I was able to put together a slim volume of poems for family and friends; there were only ever 15 copies . The following are some of those poems.



Right Now


I have Christmas to clean up after,
An anniversary party to plan,
Grocery shopping to do,
And laundry waiting in piles,
But right now
I am holding my son,
Warm, weighty, and soft.
Right now,
His blondish hair stands straight up from his head.
His lashes are long, darker and curving.
His cheeks are full and flushed rosy from nursing.
His lips are neither thin, nor wide, but pink always.
His chin is pronounced and round.
His dimpled hand rests on my breast
And there, too, I feel the gentle touch of his even, sleepy breathing.
Right now,
I am holding my son,
He is all that matters.




Sunday Praise


Sunday is your day, Oh Lord
And we should be in your house
But instead, You are in ours
With us.
Thank You for this house, Lord.
For its sheltering.
For clean and dry
And warm and fed.
For its past and its present.
For Your presence.
Praise to You from whom our blessing Flow.