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.

Creation Speaks

God uses nature to speak to us in so many ways. Sometimes it is the beauty of color, line, and texture. Sometimes it is the awesome power of wind or rushing water. And sometimes the message comes through what isn't said, drought, for instance. The poems that follow all have to do with nature speaking to the soul. Summer Sunday was written in the midst of the drought of 1988 (makes me feel  a tad old to think how long ago that was now), and Rain was written during the storm that ended that drought and brought such welcome relief and much rejoicing and thanksgiving.

In Harmony

Your voice, it moans and moves and soars
In low and hallowed tones,
While I, your captive audience,
Find happiness in hearing,
Drowning in a harmony
Of song, and sound, and thought.

Crashing on the shore,
Gentle---falling leaves,
The trickle of the rain...
Your voice, my soul,
The music.


Summer Sunday

It was a summer Sunday,
Hot and dry as too many before had been.

The choir sang.
Announcements were made.
We turned to the Word.
With each reference came
The turning of pages---
Rustling...Ruffling...Tapping...
Tapping...Rustling...Ruffling...
The gentle shower
Of whispered impression
"I have food of which you do not know."
"Ask Me for living water."
And then we prayed.



Rain

A maze of tiny trenches carved by sunbeam heat
Fill and fall and flatten.
Roots rise to meet their sustenance.
Roses droop as tiny weights collect.
Rain.
So quiet falling my ears ache.
Suddenly the sound BREAKS and CRACKS,
Startling, gratifying,
And then resumes the quiet,
Drenching the land drop by drop,
Low, constant, cool, soothing mercy.

Mixing It Up With Some Oldies

I hope your New Year is going well. I am jump-starting mine today by looking back at some of my older poems---ones I really like. I think it is wonderful the way looking back on good moments can fill us with energy and sometimes inspire new projects.

He Helps Me

Kneeling now before You
Surrounded yet by color, with closed eyes,
I offer up to You---by spoken word, by silent thought
What small portion You have given to be mine.
Conscious now of You---and then the color 'round,
Some memory, some shame,
Then again to You with speed and gravity and hope---
You will surely meet me with Your wholeness
And with Your Word, forgiving,
Present my portion full.


Watch the Comet

Watch the Comet
Burning through the dark, it seems,
Passing by her friends, the stars,
As seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is an icey one,
Covering her core with a coat of light
She borrows from the sun.

Watch the woman
Moving only for the day light,
Too cool and too composed for nites,
Un seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is a burning fire
Covering her core with a cloak of modesty
Which was a gift to her.


Passages

Blue porc'lain and tea,
Author's bridge of blackened leaves;
Far away at home.
Magic silk screen images,
Never real, nor ever fade.

Merry Christmas

At the church's 2010 Christmas Eve service, I shared the following poem as a reflection on Jesus' birth. Writing and sharing it was a sweet experience that I will always treasure. I hope you may be blessed by it too.

Mary Pondering

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Dear Joseph sees my eyes in Him,
I see my mama's brows,
My papa's nose and chin,
My brother's long and sturdy fingers
In His small and dimpled hands.
I wonder, Father God,
How will I see You in Him?

How will this baby born to me
Become a king?
How will He reign forever,
What can that mean?
The Angel said He is your Son,
The Holy One;
Surely He will be good in every way,
How then will He bring me sadness,
A sword to "pierce my soul"
As Simeon said?
How can a lowly maid like me
Rear God's Son, so great a king?
Oh, please, don't take Him away from me.
How shall I sleep; how shall I rest?
I love my Son,
Your Son,
My Lord,
This little one,
My baby, soft and warm.

How will a Jewish king
Mean joy and peace, good will to all?
That's what the shepherds say the angels sang.
They said a host of angels sang.
They visited my little one the very night He came.
They knew just where we'd be,
They found us easily.
In the stable
There was room for them
And no one to bar their coming in.
They spread wide the word,
My little Jesus is the Christ, a king.
Now many people come to see.
They come and go.
We welcome them;
He is their king,
My baby, soft and warm.

Some wise men came,
These wealthy men, richly robed,
From far away,
To our humble house today.
They said a star had led their way.
They offered gifts of splendor,
Their like I'd never seen,
Surely gifts chosen for a king.
They worshiped Him
On bended knees,
My little one,
My Jesus,
My Lord,
Your Son.

Father God, we worship only You,
And here you brought these foreigners of means
To worship at our little Jesus' feet.

Lowly shepherds, wealthy foreigners,
All men worshiping a Savior King,
All full of joy and peace, good will You send.

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Joseph sees my eyes in Yours,
I see my Papa's nose and chin,
I see, I see Your Father, God,
I see You have His...identity.
They worship Him,
They worship You,
You are His only Son,
His little Holy One.

Father God,
We will trust,
We will sleep,
We will rest,
We will keep
In You.

Oh, thank You, Father God.

Years ago, my mother gave each of her three daughters an ornament of Mary and Jesus. We have enjoyed them. I like to put ornaments on the tree that keep the true meaning of Christmas ever before us.

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.

Time for a Little Romance

The next four poems all have something to do with my wonderful husband.

A Better Answer

You are too good a blessing
To be put into words.
What words could carry
Enough meaning
To say how dear you are,
How much an answer to my prayers you are
And so much more?

With you
I am convinced
God listens to our smallish prayers
And answers
From the depth
Of His greater
Knowing.



The Love Letter

Your family had spent a century here
And you were much attached,
But for me the little house grew smaller
As time  passed
And Building seemed a monumental task.
I wandered, restless,
To the garden.
I touched the rough trunks
Of Osage Orange trees
That form our pergola.
"These will be standing as long as we,"
You said to me.
My eyes traced the path
Of twining tendrils of Wisteria,
That scourge to your farmer mentality,
And yet, you planted them here anyway
To please me and provide our shade.
Down the path
In the night garden,
Sweet Autumn stars,
Pure and white and true,
Shone in the sun
As brightly as they
Glisten by the moon.
These were your gift too.
And then I came to the roses
Whose thorns you braved
To put them into place
According to our plan.
All this you wrote upon the land
To say, "This is your home."
And sighing contentment, resigned,
I knew we'd never roam.

My little drawing of some of our Wisteria, fading but still lovely to see.

Love Everyday

Let me kiss you at least one kiss everyday,
And touch you somehow as we fall asleep,
Maybe you will spoon with me,
Or just our legs will tangle like two vines.
Or maybe just our feet will touch
To say, "I love you so,"
But let us say it everyday.
Love's little luxuries these are
I waited for like someone parched and thirsting.
But now I live beside the brook,
I shall not neglect to fill my cup
And drink and drink and drink you up.



Security

In your nightmares,
I  sometimes walk away.
In mine, you disappear.
We are so much one now
We share our common fears.
Even when dark nightmares
Toss us to and fro
The worst we can imagine
Is to see the other go.

From the Stuff of Life

Some summer reflections...


Composite


Water blue,
Sky too,
Greens true,
Sun bright,
Waves white
Splashing on the rocks
And Forget-Me-Nots
Along the shore,
The tiny signature.

Seems like being at the lake in the summer gets creative juices flowing somehow. One year my sister, Joyce, and I read a book called Twenty Wishes, by Debbie Macomber.  We decided to make 20 crazy wishes of our own and then make art tags to illustrate each one. It was a lot of fun. Back at home, I turned my tags into a little art installation in my study. It makes me smile.

Weaning Us

You cry because you want something
I can't give you
And I feel sad because
I want to give you something
I should not.

I kiss you and hug you,
Distract you with toys
And milk from a cup.
You smile.

We'll get through this weaning process
And we'll share other joys,
I promise.




The Path

A path is comforting,
A sure thing.
When you're on one
You know you're going somewhere,
And even if you don't know its destination,
You feel sure you'll know when you've reached it.
The path will open up
And there you'll be,
Not lost.

Our path leads from the waterfront
To the backyard clothesline.


I remember when my sister first read this last poem, she didn't get it. "What was that?" she asked. So if you didn't get it, you are not alone, but I include it because I still like it. It reminds me of  our family's place on a lake in Michigan where we spend a good part of our summers. It is supposed to be a little humorous---such a short, rather insignificant path, following all that truthful musing.

When September rolled around, I had something much more serious on my mind...


9/11/02 or A Year Later

What will happen
To the firemen,

Who led people to safety,
Who lost people,
Who lost safety,
Who lost brothers, and fathers, and sons,

Who wept,

Who returned,
Who dug for survivors,
Who found too few,
Who returned again and again,
Who sifted through dust and ash for remains,
Who found too little,
Who accepted dust and ash for the remains of many.

Pray God, forbid
Nightmares of human rain,
Flashbacks of fear, of pain,
Of roaring motion,
Of chaos,
Of pieces, and powder, and ash,
Of fallen friends, and funerals, and mourning.

God save the firemen.

Please, God,
Save the firemen.