My soul is weak
But I am strong
in You
I come before You
Broken
Deaf though I am
I hear You now
Choirs and choruses
Saving me
Singing me home
Wrapped up in a lullaby
And buried in belief
I am wicked
Weakened
Resurrect this spirit
Make me whole
Wreck me
Create me new
These damaged hands
Clinging to Your truth
Falling in love for the first time
Absolute
Unyielding
Boundaries undefined
Wild and reckless
Wings no longer clipped
A promise of the heart
And soul
A taste of immortality
I am only human
But because I have You
That is enough
Friday, July 27, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Aurora, Colorado.
***I've been sitting on this post for a few days...ping ponging back and forth about whether or not I should post this publicly or keep it set to private. I wrote in a state of sleep deprivation and deep sadness. I know I'm long overdue for a blog and I have a poem I wrote in church today that I could post, but these are the thoughts that keep niggling in the back of my head. So here it goes...***
Maybe I shouldn't be blogging about this. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should leave it to those better informed. More judicial. Less emotional. The last thing I would ever want to be is disrespectful of the deceased or those mourning. So maybe I should just go back to sleep. But I can't.
There's a hurricane inside me and it's stirring up broken pieces of things I wish were forgotten.
I remember watching the news in October of 1998 and hearing about a 21 year old named Matthew who was beaten, tortured, robbed, and left for dead. I remember being so sad and confused. I remember asking why anyone would do something like that and being told that at 10 years old, I was too young to understand.
Some months later in April of 1999, I remember hearing on the radio about two high school seniors named Eric and Dylan who killed 12 of their classmates and one of their teachers. I remember being scared to go to school the next day. I remember asking who would do such a thing, and being told again that it isn't something an 11 year old can understand.
A few years later, packed into a classroom with 70 of my peers and 3 teachers, I watched in horror as thousands lost their lives in the middle of lower Manhattan on a September morning. We held each other's hands as silent tears poured down our faces and we asked our teachers what it all meant, what would make people do something as terrible as this. We were 13 and 14 years old, we could do algebra and read Shakespeare, surely we could understand the reasons behind this. But they refused to give us any and told us to speak to our parents about it.
Several years after that, at 19 years old, I read on the internet about an English major in Virginia who took the lives of 32 people on campus. Shocked and heart broken as I was, I didn't ask a single question. Because I knew, finally, I would never understand these acts of malice and it had nothing, nothing at all, to do with my age.
There are always all these analysts and experts and pundits and lobbyists all over the tv after a tragedy. They blame this video game or that mental illness or demand stricter laws. They toss around big words and try to make sense of the situation. They plaster images of the "shooter" or "perpetrator" or "assailant" everywhere. They inundate us with their history of instability or extremist beliefs. They vilify. They make it easy to place blame. Despite all of that, I've come to believe that it would be better placed on the reflection we see in the mirror. Do not misunderstand me, I know that each one of us is responsible for our own actions. I know that the majority of people on this planet find the thought of harming another soul in anyway to be completely abhorrent. I know that. But I also know that most of us are too busy, too wrapped up in our own pain to notice the hurt of others. How often do we walk around with our eyes down, fingers glued to a keypad, earbuds in, oblivious to all but ourselves? There is a brokenness in the world. It is deep and vast and dark. It is also inside each of us. It is the reason why we hate the sinner instead of the sin. I know because I am as guilty of it as anyone else. I am reactionary. I hear about 12 people being murdered and 50 others being injured at a theater and I immediately reach for anger and outrage. But I am learning to fight my nature. Because I have to. Because it is what Jesus has asked of me.
"For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins" Matthew 6:14-15
"And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins. " Mark 11:25
I know that there will be those who criticize me, saying that I have no right to preach about forgiveness in these situations because I am not directly involved. "How would you feel if it was your family member or friend?" I would hurt. I would mourn. But I hope with all that I am that I would still come to the same conclusion: we have more hatred and fear than the world should hold. We are sorely in need of love and acceptance. I will pray for peace over those left behind. I will pray that the Lord take the souls of the departed. Alex Sullivan. Jessica Ghawi. Matthew McQuinn. Micayla Medec. John Larimer. A.J. Boick. Gordon Cowden. Veronica Moser-Sullivan. Jonathon Blunk. Jesse Childress. Alex Teves. Rebecca Wingo. And I will pray that He forgives the shooter, James Holmes.
Instead of asking questions about the whys and hows, I am working on letting go of my bitterness and anger. Because I believe that God has a plan more infinite than any one of us can comprehend. And to those that question what I would do if it was my loved one murdered...I ask you, what would you do if James Holmes was yours?
Maybe I shouldn't be blogging about this. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should leave it to those better informed. More judicial. Less emotional. The last thing I would ever want to be is disrespectful of the deceased or those mourning. So maybe I should just go back to sleep. But I can't.
There's a hurricane inside me and it's stirring up broken pieces of things I wish were forgotten.
I remember watching the news in October of 1998 and hearing about a 21 year old named Matthew who was beaten, tortured, robbed, and left for dead. I remember being so sad and confused. I remember asking why anyone would do something like that and being told that at 10 years old, I was too young to understand.
Some months later in April of 1999, I remember hearing on the radio about two high school seniors named Eric and Dylan who killed 12 of their classmates and one of their teachers. I remember being scared to go to school the next day. I remember asking who would do such a thing, and being told again that it isn't something an 11 year old can understand.
A few years later, packed into a classroom with 70 of my peers and 3 teachers, I watched in horror as thousands lost their lives in the middle of lower Manhattan on a September morning. We held each other's hands as silent tears poured down our faces and we asked our teachers what it all meant, what would make people do something as terrible as this. We were 13 and 14 years old, we could do algebra and read Shakespeare, surely we could understand the reasons behind this. But they refused to give us any and told us to speak to our parents about it.
Several years after that, at 19 years old, I read on the internet about an English major in Virginia who took the lives of 32 people on campus. Shocked and heart broken as I was, I didn't ask a single question. Because I knew, finally, I would never understand these acts of malice and it had nothing, nothing at all, to do with my age.
There are always all these analysts and experts and pundits and lobbyists all over the tv after a tragedy. They blame this video game or that mental illness or demand stricter laws. They toss around big words and try to make sense of the situation. They plaster images of the "shooter" or "perpetrator" or "assailant" everywhere. They inundate us with their history of instability or extremist beliefs. They vilify. They make it easy to place blame. Despite all of that, I've come to believe that it would be better placed on the reflection we see in the mirror. Do not misunderstand me, I know that each one of us is responsible for our own actions. I know that the majority of people on this planet find the thought of harming another soul in anyway to be completely abhorrent. I know that. But I also know that most of us are too busy, too wrapped up in our own pain to notice the hurt of others. How often do we walk around with our eyes down, fingers glued to a keypad, earbuds in, oblivious to all but ourselves? There is a brokenness in the world. It is deep and vast and dark. It is also inside each of us. It is the reason why we hate the sinner instead of the sin. I know because I am as guilty of it as anyone else. I am reactionary. I hear about 12 people being murdered and 50 others being injured at a theater and I immediately reach for anger and outrage. But I am learning to fight my nature. Because I have to. Because it is what Jesus has asked of me.
"For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins" Matthew 6:14-15
"And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins. " Mark 11:25
I know that there will be those who criticize me, saying that I have no right to preach about forgiveness in these situations because I am not directly involved. "How would you feel if it was your family member or friend?" I would hurt. I would mourn. But I hope with all that I am that I would still come to the same conclusion: we have more hatred and fear than the world should hold. We are sorely in need of love and acceptance. I will pray for peace over those left behind. I will pray that the Lord take the souls of the departed. Alex Sullivan. Jessica Ghawi. Matthew McQuinn. Micayla Medec. John Larimer. A.J. Boick. Gordon Cowden. Veronica Moser-Sullivan. Jonathon Blunk. Jesse Childress. Alex Teves. Rebecca Wingo. And I will pray that He forgives the shooter, James Holmes.
Instead of asking questions about the whys and hows, I am working on letting go of my bitterness and anger. Because I believe that God has a plan more infinite than any one of us can comprehend. And to those that question what I would do if it was my loved one murdered...I ask you, what would you do if James Holmes was yours?
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. Ferociously.
I'm pausing.
I used to be so sure about love. Knew that I had been in love and knew exactly what it was. What it feels like to love. Most of the time, I still think I do. What I have become unsure of is whether or not I've ever been loved. Really loved. Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. I've never felt loved like that, not by anyone outside of my immediate family, but I believe I could. I believe it exists. It's what all the poets write about, and what every musician sings about, and it is what a soldier fights for. It's why we breathe. And it is the reason we associate our most vital organ, the very core of our being, our hearts, with it. Because our love defines us. It is not something you settle for.
I am always settling.
I settle for no credit (even though credit isn't the point...) for the things that I do. I settle for selfish, inconsiderate friends (not all of them...) who consistently put me last. I settle for being told I am inadequate (sometimes, by myself...) and I settle for believing it. I deserve more. But I settle. Over and over again. So I suppose this is a promise to myself; I won't settle when it comes to things I love. Not anymore. I deserve to chase my passions. I'm going to throw everything I have into doing this whole writing thing, because I love it. Ferociously, I love it. And instead of accepting the love I convince myself I deserve, I'm going to work on believing I deserve better. Because I do. I deserve to be loved. Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. Ferociously. And so do you.
We deserve to be loved.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
She
She's a teal haired beauty
Gypsy soul
Carries leaving in her bones
Friday night scene-stealer
Rolling Stone
Always somewhere new to roam
So she runs
Like heaven itself is chasing her
Jesus, hot on her heels
And she steals
Mostly kisses
Sometimes hearts
She leaves them broken on the side of the road
She knows the devil loves to dance
And she'll gladly take her turn
Gives lessons on things she refuses to learn
Blazes trails through cities
Just to watch as they burn
And in turn
She'll plant a field full of wild flowers
Rebellion blood boils in her veins
A free spirit, chained
And oceans roil in her womb
Filled by fists
Friendships
Final words
She tastes of chaos and serenity
And whole worlds are present
In her battlefield eyes
Enough space to swim for eternity
In those midnight skies
Californian by way of Neverland
Citizen of nowhere
Chew you up, spit you out
Leave you discarded
She had it decided before you even started
Skinned knees
Tanned skin
And a rhythm in her toes
She was made for the places no else knows
Special thanks to my muse, the ever-stunning Miss Melissa-Anne de Obaldia. And to Jesialex Photography for the use of her AMAZING photo. Be sure to check out her page; she's doing a series this summer of girls with out-of-the-ordinary hair coloring and every shot is beautiful!
I am still...
Feeling so unbelievably inspired right now, but the words won't stick. They're rushing through my brain a million miles a second and I can't grasp them. I think I'm sleep deprived. I'm stutter stuck. The air outside is the kind that tastes of stories and whirs with life. It is as heavy as electricity and as light as forever. It dances. I smell victories in the breeze and I am reminded of what it felt like to be young. I am still young. But there is added gravity with each passing year and I'm struck by the distinct feeling that 24 is a 10,000 years from 23. And 25 is only 20 million heartbeats away (give or take...). I miss being carefree. Top down, driving way too fast down a dirt road, hands up, hair loose, heart open. I pay too much attention to stop signs now. When did I discover speed limits? I am still racing towards nothing. Staring into darkness, I know the barren fields are there, behind this house. Knee high by the fourth of July, and I am always running wild through them. Daffodil pollen coats the inside of my nostrils and I am home. Bold enough to grow wherever there are roots. I want this. I am still wanting him. Bonfire smoke is in the wind. I am blazing like the embers, dying while I'm trying not to burn out. Trees with fingers like corpse hands gloved with green reaching up and out and away. I know the feeling all too well. We were children here. When did we grow so far apart? I am still finding out where I fit. So much more than mere memory, cotton candy sticky sweet somethings. Stumbling through the alley in the dark. Baseball diamond strip tag. Sleeping bags on top of the school. Rolling down a hill in a green plastic tube, singing "I WILL SURVIVE" at the top of our lungs. The air is restless. I am still.
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