People admire Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. for a variety of good reasons. He pursued a vital cause and was a virtuous man in many respects.
However, at this time when we remember his birth and honor his life each year, I find it most fitting to focus on the hope he had. His hope stood on the true freedom that we must find for our souls if we are to really grasp and live out his dream with our actions, through eyes now lined with love.
It was in God’s love and light. It was in forgiveness and honesty and openness.
This hope can only live in a heart that’s been touched by Heaven. And it is a hope that lives on long after the one who preached it has flown back home.
For the hope that we would live in peace with each other is bigger than only one person. (We are simply thankful and in awe when we see that hope lived out in a single life so faithfully and fearlessly.)
In Dr. King’s honor, I have written this short poem called FreeatLast:
In my adult years, “Once in Royal David’s City” has become one of my favorite Christmas songs. Ironic, perhaps, since it focuses on how Jesus was a child just like we are/were, and how He can empathize with us so well because He experienced things so common for many of us. Yet, I never remember learning that song in my own childhood.
I have wondered sometimes what types of childhood sadness Jesus personally understood. Did He break an arm or leg? Was He bullied by other children in His village or even by His siblings (perhaps in connection with His parentage)? Did Joseph or Mary yell at Him in exasperation when they were having a bad day? Did He know food insecurity in lean years? Was He troubled by scary dreams?
Jesus would grow up to become a staunch advocate of children, affirming their value and wellbeing, and declaring that anyone who would dare to harm the littlest of people would face horrible future judgement. He drew children close to bless them, and He loved them beautifully.
I have been thinking a lot recently about the power of empathy that springs from shared and similar experiences, or from a deeper motivation to bless another out of an empathetic understanding. “I haven’t been in your shoes,” one might say in such latter cases, “but if I were in your shoes, I would sure be blessed if someone else would do or say this…”
Then, this past week, I heard a story about a deployed soldier who longs to reach out and bless some orphans in his local community, even as he will be missing Christmas with his loved ones back here at home.
(Again the irony, that I should hear about that soldier during the same week when many celebrate the life of St. Nicholas: a boy who was orphaned from a young age. A boy who would grow up to pour out his wealth, love, energy, and time for so many in his region, but especially for the children. Nicholas knew what it was like to be small, helpless, and sad. He wanted to minister to children and protect them at times when they felt the same way.)
All these combined ponderings led me to write a poem in honor of that soldier and the spirit of the Advent season. I will share it here, and I pray it will bless you.
For the Children
Monktar and Mariam sit near the eastward gate,
Drawing bright stars in the dirt with some sticks.
Brother and sister, they walked from two towns away
After their mother had starved to feed them.
Now the home workers scrape up every bit they can,
Making it stretch so that every kid’s fed…
There is so little to cook in the pot tonight.
Stars dim as these two go, hungry, to bed.
~
At least they will sleep in a safer place now,
And dream of eating.
Perhaps tomorrow.
~
The orphanage sits near a camp full of soldiers.
One of them wakes a bit early, next day.
Uniform straightened, he picks up a box of food,
Carries it quietly through that east gate.
Rising sun graces broad shoulders which bear his gift:
Dense with nutrition and hope for less fear.
Same sun lights a worker’s face as she receives it
And thanks him again for blessing them here.
~
So far from home, with so little of his own,
He smiles and wishes her
A merry Christmas.
~
Christmas has never been just about happiness,
Lavish festivities, spending too much.
Christmas has always been carried on angels’ wings:
Spirit of selflessness embraced by love.
So it goes and it grows: this gift for all the year,
This light of sacrifice piercing the night.
Outside of duty, we hunger and thirst for peace.
Bellies full, now we sit, craving the light.
~
On this day and every day, may the heart of a baby
Looking back on themes covered in the first eight months of this year and looking ahead to 2019’s remaining weeks, I want to usher in this final, dual focus of receiving blessings to be a blessing with a new poem. I hope it will encourage you today.
In this final post about shining, I want to share a brief thought and a short, related poem.
The thought:
True shining is born when we are what we are created to be and we do what we are created to do. When those two factors dwell together in a person’s life, genuineness and warm peace are sure to result.
The past couple of nights, a moon like this one has hung, low and brilliant, in the clear evening sky as I have driven home from various tasks. Reflecting on God’s faithfulness in every moment and our struggle to understand what it means to shine in challenging times, I now write and share this short poem.
Mirrors
I thanked the sun for warming my day,
Asked it to never go away.
But it did. Replaced by a circle of stone
Gracing me: cold and alone.
At the night stretching on endlessly
And the rock hanging over me,
I shook a fist. And I railed hard against how
The sun was light years away now.
Then a whisper rode to me upon the wind,
A timeless message sent:
“The sun is shining in a different form
And this light also warms
The heart which trusts a reflection bright
In the darkest of nights.”
So I lifted my face, set down my fears,
And reflected radiance in tears.
“I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34:4-5
There was once a grandfather who worked diligently to make a gorgeous paper lantern to hang in front of his house for a festival, to welcome his family home. Years of experience had taught him how to set the dimensions just right, so the small flame inside would not be near enough to light the vibrant sides on fire. He handled the delicate paper with equal care, fastening it without a wrinkle or tear. And when the happy day came and his lantern was illuminated, his relatives stood near it and remembered happy celebrations of the past.
There was once a glassblowing artisan who decided to attempt a particularly exquisite (and incredibly challenging) design. If successfully completed, it would yield a wonderous top for a wedding gift to his bride: the chimney of an oil lamp for their new chamber. He applied all the skills he possessed, but just as the work in progress was reaching a most critical formation point, he saw a vital part beginning to slip. In a split-second, going on instinct, he knew he could save it if he used his hand…but that using his hand would likely mean a severe burn–or worse. Yet, he didn’t give it a second thought. His hand shot forward to save the piece, a sacrifice which eventually yielded the perfect result. Two months later, when the chamber was softly illuminated and he led his sweet lady into that space for the first time, she spied the lamp and joy radiated from her smile. The artisan’s heart turned over, and he felt the fresh scar at the base of his hand, knowing he would do it again for her.
There was once a potter who made humble lamps of clay and some fine pottery besides. One day, as he was walking to his shop, he came across some boys who were playing in a trash pile. They had picked up a large bowl with a lovely blue and gold pattern on it and were throwing it on the ground repeatedly, smashing the chunks into smaller and smaller pieces. He chided them for the destruction and disruption they were causing and drove them away. When he looked down at the fragments now littering the ground, he recognized the piece; he had made it on commission for a woman in the neighborhood years before. It crushed his heart to know that someone would crush one of his most intricate pieces, for no other reason than just the sake of a temporary thrill. But then, he had a marvelous idea. He gathered up what bits and slivers he could find, and he carried them carefully back to his shop. Then, after forming a new lamp from fresh clay, he pressed the broken pieces into the sides of the lamp to form a mosaic pattern. And later, when that lamp was ready to be used, he decided not to sell it. Instead, he took it home and set it on the dining table. When it was illuminated, the family gathered around to enjoy sweet fellowship. And they all exclaimed over how the dazzling reflection of the light off the gold flecks in the broken pieces made it the most beautiful lamp they had ever seen.
In truth, the grandfather and the artisan-husband and the potter are all the same person. And the work they have made and remade will always bear their mark of beauty when illuminated.
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.”
