I have a confession to make. Sometimes, even though I know the last steps of the way back to my own place at the end of a drive, I leave my GPS app running until the very end…because I love to hear someone’s voice (even if it is automated) say, “Welcome home.”
In fact, when I think about all the different words and phrases I would label as nice or even wonderful to hear, those two words together have to be near the top of my list.
But as with other aspects of the human experience, hearing those words in this life, body, and house are only a reflection of a deeper longing. The longing to hear my final and more glorious “Welcome home” in Heaven.
To that end, I’d like to share words to a song I wrote many months ago. (I also wrote a melody, but today I will not sing it for you. Will simply let you hear the beautiful promise in the words and anticipate with me.)
Promise of Heaven
You slip again, I see your struggle and how you long to be free You look away, too ashamed to lift your eyes to Me Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest Close your eyes, come away To envision the place and the promise of days An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters Here on the banks of these crystal waters Claim with joy your prize Your new name, your new song Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
Your hurt runs deep, all of the pain caused by others you didn’t deserve Your soul can see all these injustices roaming the face of the earth Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest Close your eyes, come away To envision the place and the promise of days An eternity yet to come
Gather close, all My sons and My daughters Here on the banks of these crystal waters Claim with joy your prize Your new name, your new song Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and listening: listening to Jesus, listening to other people, and listening to my own heart. My brain has synthesized the things I’ve heard into three poems written over the past few days. I’d like to share them with you here and hope that they will bless you in some way.
One: “That Seed Persevered”
Sweet sixteen and summer breezes Blow where Leslie walks the road from Grandma’s house To a well-worn wooden church, A preacher to hear, new thoughts to Know. Later, she is pondering The message when Hunter draws her near And whispers, “Trust me.” Why shouldn’t she, Even if she’s only known him For a month? Certainly he knows best, Being 10 years older And promising beautiful things… Morning comes — but he is gone — Leaving behind a broken girl who will now carry and Bear his son. And seeds are snatched from soil.
Twenty-two and autumn rains Skitter where Leslie walks the road from Bus 19’s stop To a giant, thriving factory, A friend to work beside, old thoughts to Remember. Later, she is digesting The message when a voice draws her near And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does — Like she’s never trusted anyone before (because She sees she didn’t really know what it was To know someone trustworthy — Besides Grandma, that is)… And she is overjoyed — until her son is stripped away — Given by the court to his long-absent, Only-when-convenient father. And sprouted seeds wither.
Thirty-one and winter storms Descend where Leslie walks the road from Ricker Bar To a dank, notorious motel, A stranger to meet, former thoughts to Ignore. Later, she can no longer silence The message when distant memories draw her near And whisper, “Trust Me.” How can she — Girl turned into woman of desperate means, Trapped in a place-body-world she hates But does not have a way — or the strength — To escape? But she tries — truly she does — to believe And she lasts a whole week until The maddening craving returns. And thorns choke her soul.
Thirty-eight and spring blossoms Accessorize where Leslie walks the road from Bee’s Therapy Office To a tiny white house of her own, A quiet meal to prepare, amazing thoughts to Recall. Later, she again welcomes The message when her Heart’s Love draws her near And whispers, “Trust Me.” And she does — Yet she also pleads again for the only thing She still desires — though she feels she has no right To ask for more than has already Been restored to her. Then… The doorbell sounds. And a boy-turned-man in uniform, So long lost to her, steps back into Her home, her arms, her life. And vibrant green stalks thrive.
Two: Miss Camille (the Spinster) Reflects on Life with Lists
1) Things that Look Fragile but are Really Strong Trust Tested love Carbon as diamonds A soldier’s tent Fiberglass A silkworm’s thread My heart
2) Things that Look Strong but are Really Fragile Lines of Communication First love Carbon as coal A soldier’s soul Annealed glass A spider’s web My heart
Three: Entrusted
Of all the pieces in my shop, My favorite is a howlite vase. It’s asymmetric at the top, And wears a pattern so distinct. Displayed for years – for decades – here, It’s never seemed to show its age To viewers, through the glass so clear, Who come seeking a gift “unique.” (It has been stolen more than once – Each thief left scratches deep inside – But, in each instance, I gave much To track it down and bring it back. I washed it out and took great pains To flush the fissures full of lies, Then set it on display again: A perfect buyer to attract.) They walk along and fix their eyes Upon its graceful, curving form, And I cannot disguise my pride When they request to test its weight. For when they do, they always find Its density is not the norm: A craftsmanship of wondrous kind, A worth beyond its outer face. But they are puzzled to behold No price tag hanging on the case. Nor do they like it when they’re told It will be sold once and for all On very special, certain terms: That they must hold it every day Close to their heart so they can learn To treasure gems in vessels small. One day he comes – for whom I’ve watched – He sees, and thinks while lifting it – Then whispers, “This is what I’ve sought. And your terms shall not burden me, For I can tell, already, how I will be blessed to care for this. Its goodness will be harnessed now To craft the man I’m meant to be.”
“Listen to your life and what’s on the inside. All the other sound, turn it down, and listen to your life. Let the Spirit flow, and let the Spirit show you all that He was meant to only when you learn to listen to your life.” ~NicholeNordeman
“Mr. Wallace had us read some poems in school. I liked them. They are like songs with no music.” ~Anniein The Voice of Melody
What was I thinking, offering to host a couple of friends overnight while teaching an intensive course? Didn’t I know how exhausted I would be? Yes and no. I knew I’d be tired. But I didn’t realize how tired I actually was until Jayne and Christina arrived. But I also know what I was thinking beforehand: they would need a good, safe place to stay before their very early flight. And I had the heart and space to bless them with exactly that.
My one consoling thought that evening was, “Well, I don’t have to get up and take them to the airport. I can give my weary self a break there and schedule a pick up by Uber.” I did just that before falling into a blissfully deep sleep.
I peeled myself out of bed at 4:10 am to be courteous and say goodbye. About to walk down the steps with horrible bed hair and bleary eyes, I squinted at my phone only to realize that there were no Uber drivers in sight. Ugh. I threw on a beloved old hockey jersey over my pjs and grabbed my shoes. After greeting them at the bottom of the stairs, I summarized the situation and ended with, “I’ll take you.”
Jayne kindly offered to at least drive there, since we were taking her car. But I knew she’d much prefer if I handled the city driving. And I knew that I might go back to sleep if I was just a passenger.
So off we went, cruising through lights still on overnight timers, feeling thankful that an apparently heavy rain had by then pretty much passed. Jayne, who can be incredibly positive and sunny, even at 4:30 in the morning, tried to cheer me up with a little imagining. “I know what will happen,” she declared with a grin I could still hear clearly, though I kept my eyes fixed on the onyx pavement. “We are going walk into the airport after you drop us off and meet a really wonderful, nice looking man who’s just come off of a redeye. He will have [XYZ fitting characteristics] for you, and we will be able to introduce him to you later. He will turn out to be your perfect match! It will be God’s gift to you, and this will all have been worth it!” I laughed loudly (and may have rolled my eyes). “Ok, I am more awake now,” I muttered. “Now you want me to go back home and try to sleep again after THAT prediction??”
She giggled and proceeded to tell me about her cousin’s new writing project for a good chunk of the remaining drive. “Cousin Carrie,” as we always lovingly refer to her, is an amazingly gifted poet who lives many states away. Though I have not met her, I have been deeply moved by her work.
As Jayne brought up the topic, I withdrew a bit inside myself with painful pangs charging through my heart. I thought of the half-completed poetry manuscript sitting on my hard drive, a document I have not touched for several years.
How could I ever dream of finishing and publishing it? Ithought. I don’t have a quarter of the talent that Cousin Carrie has. And when I tried to get feedback on some of the first pieces, they were never good enough. Someone always had a critical remark here and there. Just enough to make me completely doubt my ability to bless others with my attempts.
I came back to the present as Jayne was, ironically, describing a new poem Carrie had developed about the seasons of hope and despair in life: how a cycle between them is normal for us in our humanity, but how the only way to really work through the cycle each time in a healthy way is to turn eyes, ears, and hearts back to God.
The conversation between us continued. At the same time, however, I could clearly hear God whispering, “This, daughter, is my gift to you. This is why you needed to host them and get up so early this morning.” I sighed and whispered back in my heart, “Yes. I receive it.”
I dropped them off at the designated curbside and swung back out into the slightly heavier traffic. As I turned to head back through the one-way streets of downtown, I thought about Jayne’s earlier prediction and smiled. I smiled at the ridiculous odds that such a thing might actually happen. And then I smiled a little sadly to remember all the times that others have tried to feed me variations on a line of lopsided theology. The wording is always a little different, but the thought remains the same…
If I will just have enough faith and self-love to silence my quiet inner desire (to be rightfully pursued by a decent, God-fearing man), then I will somehow be mature enough to actually deserve said man’s attention. And God will magically plant him right in my path so that we can live a perfect life, happily ever after. (Sounds like Joel Osteen and Michael Eisner meeting to plan an epic movie production.)
That’s bologna. There is nothing wrong, immature, or pathetic with a single Christian person, who lives a perfectly responsible and full life of their own, still completely longing to meet and marry a good person. Years of waiting don’t have to be depressing, but a growing desire to marry is not a sign that one is sinfully discontent.
That’s because God’s love and human love are not the same. And while God’s love fills us like nothing else can, there is still a part of our human wiring that was designed for a special connection no other human relationship can quite fill.
I also realized on that surprisingly lucid and mentally productive ride home why presenting my poetry to the world more formally is such a daunting task. It’s because poetry is the song of my soul.
And who would want to present the song of their soul to the world so it could be torn down as cliche, poorly developed, and lacking in proper form?
Likewise, who’s to say when a poem is completely formed and finished? Shouldn’t that be up to the poet and not to those giving critiques?
And, in all honestly, is a poem or song ever really completely finished? I don’t know that it is, because I know the way I write a poem one day will not be the way I would write or revise it another day.
That is the cycle. The cycle of hope and despair. The poem or song of our lives which is actually the song of our soul coming out in whatever we produce or create but are terrified to show to the world.
Because we are not perfect yet. And we hear the criticisms of others far more readily than the voice of our own life.
But we should listen to that life voice when it says, “Look up. Acknowledge that in your humanity which is completely fine and reasonable. And hope for the good things God has yet to give.”
I got home and sleepily spoke some of these musings into my voice recorder before embracing another hour of sleep.
Later, I checked in with Jayne. At the end of her text reply, she added: “That guy we were talking about may have eluded us yet again…rats!”
