Old skin.

Am I the same person I was 5 years ago? 2 years ago? 3 months ago?

My answer: I hope not.

13 years ago, the Holy Spirit pierced my black heart for the first time: I believed. I repented, pleading God's mercy and forgiveness. Immediately, He washed me in the pure flood of His Son's blood. I became a new creation. Leaving the old skin behind, I was robed in Christ's righteousness.

But I was still very much human.

In the moment of becoming a new creation, I didn't become a saint.

With Christ inside me, my heart was now a battle-ground of war between the flesh and the Spirit. The old and the new. The human and the holy.

As I ask myself if I'm the same person I once was, my desire is that I can honestly answer no.

Because, I believe God desires us to become new creations every day. He wants us me to shed the old skin with each morning. He desires me to become less of myself, so that He might fill me more fully. He desires His spirit to grow so huge and all-encompassing that the fibres of my wicked nature burst apart. He wants me to daily walk away from my old skin; the carcass of my self.

Like a spider who out-grows his skin, God's spirit inside me needs to out-grow my fleshly desires and wants.
I believe every day, I need to let this shell of myself die, so that Christ Jesus in me, may fully live.

It's a constant war inside of me. My old self raises its ugly, leering head, desperately trying to live. The hardest battles fought, are the ones we can't see. In the midst of the 'everday' can be the hardest time to put to death the 'flesh' inside of me.

Only, with God's strength and mercy can I learn to daily cast off this old skin, so that I can live fully alive in Him!

today.

today.
is one of those days
where the 'to do' lists
loom long.
and the wind blows cold
and hard.
the sky hangs still
and grey.

today.
I chased my golden-colored dog
down the street.
I cleaned.
I folded laundry.
I put on an argyle sweater.
I made mounds of sparkly,
red and pink
valentines.

today.
I want to crawl inside
a book store,
and I may not come out.
I will take french roast coffee with me.
a thick cable-knit sweater.
notebooks.
red pens.
I will find a small little nook
deep inside the bookshelves,
on the top floor
and I will read,
and wonder,
and ask,
and answer,
and watch.

But today.
I still need to make piles of
pastry dough.
cookies with pink
m+m’s in them.
bags of plum tarts
for a party tomorrow.
Spaghetti for dinner.
I still need to add words
to my paper hearts,
and words to white paper
for a blogpost.

the bookstore,
I suppose,
must wait
for another cold,
blustery day…

 

6 July 2012

Imagine a world where time is churning, constant motion. It stops for no one. It waits for nothing. In this world where times moves constant and loud, people are frantic to grab hold of it.

Like a train chugging by, time huffs and puffs down the tracks stopping for no one. Some people clutch their belongings in one hand; with the other they reach out to grasp the time that is moving past them. Like the pink rays of the sinking sun, time slips through the fingers that don't hold it tight.

Some people stand in a constant state of readiness. They jump at a chance. Grasping it tight because they know time won't wait. A man is offered a job as a newspaper editor. He accepts the hour of his offer. A tall boy with dark glasses asks a girl to marry him. She accepts immediately. Her train is here; she figures she better get on. She knows it won't slow down and wait. If she refuses him, he will ask someone else tomorrow.

A girl steps out into the cool of evening air. A field adjacent to her property is filled with the lights of hay trucks. Their metal arms clank and churn as they pluck the hay bales from the ground. Their headlights are steady beams in the glowing dusk. The sound of the machines is constant and echoing in the small valley. The girl realizes that this is the way time is. The churning metal groans louder in her ears. Time won't wait. It's on the move. She walks back inside with determination. She will write her book. She will write it now.

To some, this constant motion of time is terrifying. They stand at the station frozen, watching time steam by them. But they can't gather enough courage to reach out and step aboard. They're paralyzed by fear. By questions.

A man in a checkered bow-tie, clutches his small suitcase. The trains whiz by. They blow his hair in his face. People walk by him. Close by. They brush against him. He doesn't move. Very soon he realizes that the hair he's brushing away from his eyes is grey. He feels weak and sits down on the concrete. Time is closing in. But he hasn't done anything! He stares into the face of a train engine nearing him. He feels his life has been empty.

He perceives the train is not going faster or slower then it ever has. It chugs along. Constant. Moving. Grinding metal gears. It waits for no one. For nothing.

A page with words.

When I don't write. It's not because I have nothing to say. When I don't write, it's because I have too much to say. Thoughts crowd my mind like so many books weighing on old shelves. Thoughts. Fragments. They float mid-air. If I don't write, I don't give shape and form to these floating things. I feel that I fail.

Lately the thoughts come thick and fast. They fill the shelves of my mind so full they tumble off into a cahotic heap. When I lay down at night my head is heavy as lead because it's so full of thoughts.

I know very well my thoughts are not always, if ever, original. My small mind contains questions that have been asked by millions of minds before me.

But there's something satisfying in expressing something in your own words even if it isn't your original idea.

What is the good of having thoughts, opinions; ideas, if you can't give them flesh and bones in clear words? Thoughts without words are faceless clocks that can't tell time, croissants without butter, books with empty pages.

I feel as though I could lock myself away for a long time and just write. The words would spill reckless over the pages. In the end, I wouldn't have an incredible manuscript, something brimming with oringinal ideas. I wouldn't have a New York Times Bestseller. But what I would have, would be mine. It would be my thoughts and ideas made flesh.

A truth, I think we all know...

Life is a gift.

I think deep down this truth is written on the cavernous walls of our hearts. We know that life is a gift, but do we live like it is?
Truthful, I don't always live like this.

This morning I was walking into the pale sunrise of morning, out to the white barn, to milk the goats. The air cold, but not freezing. All around me the world, dressed in white, gleamed in the yellow light. The light touches the folds of the mountains with soft hands. Snow and ice crunch beneath my feet. Above me, the blue sky is dappled in silver clouds like the spots on a faun's back. They shimmer in the sunlight. In the west, dark blue storm clouds roll and churn as they climb over the mountain's peak, spilling into the sky above our valley. Though the clouds still hover far away, I can feel their energy.

I walked into this beauty with a mind full of our mortality.

We know a man, our neighbor. His body is wracked with the incurable Lou Gerick's disease. The disease seeps into every part of him. He can't walk. Now he can barely speak. We each have a number for our days, but his number grows smaller. We pray for him every day. God is reaching his heart. I don't think this man has every let God reach into his heart.

With my eyes full of light, I was hit with the truth in a new way.

Life is a gift.

It is a gift to be alive. To draw breath. laugh. cry. talk. write. love.

I've always known life is a gift, but I don't simply want to know.

I want to wake to each sunrise and breathe deep this gift.

I want thankfulness for life to spill out of me every day.

I want to live keenly aware of the number of my days.
I want to live keenly aware of the gift each one contains.

New.

New.

fresh

distinct

unused

change

bright

clean

New Year.

unknown

questions

answers

familiar

hope

fear

dreams

different

full

empty

prayers

projects

failure

success

friendships

seasons

time

2013

is a gift.

a gift of time.

a gift of life.

 

Thank you God,

for this

New
Year.

 

 

 

 



questions.

 

He is a boy. He is a man.

 He is a boy man.

Teetering on the edge of boyhood,

looking into the vast unknown of manhood.

 

 

His lips are pursed, wondering.

 

His eyes are open questioning.

 

 

 

He is a man who looks,

sometimes unsure, sometimes with questions into his future.

 

We all have questions.

In each season of life,

we ask.

we wonder

...