In this month’s series on being heard, I would like to draw from my own thoughts and those I have heard other writers share, giving us a chance to be heard by the world. So to all of the readers of every genre out there, and to all of the people who have a writing loved one in their life: an open letter.

Dear Reader,

I am an ever-turning brain that never completely shuts down (unless I can manage a deep, exhausted sleep). This is my amazing place of procreation. And it is my torture chamber. I wish I could turn it off at will. And I wish I could make it produce at other speeds sometimes. This brain does what it will irrespective of life circumstances–and sometimes in response to them. If I need to reschedule an appointment with you or I don’t respond to you, or I dash madly from the room while scribbling on a notepad or speaking nonsensical statements into a voice recorder, I have not lost my mind. I have simply had an idea I can’t let my mind lose.

I am an introvert. Even though I have learned to set aside my shyness for the sake of society’s expectations, I would really rather be by myself at least 89.4% of the time. (And if I have to communicate with someone, I would much rather write out my message.) This is in part due to the aforementioned brain. A chunk of my energy must be reserved for keeping up with it and all of its ideas as I absorb the details flying at me from a dozen directions, almost constantly thinking of how I can capture those details in accurate and beautiful words. And when I do dare to share any of my ideas, whether or not related to my writing, I am terribly afraid they will be rejected or mocked because…

I am an extremely sensitive soul. A creative person cannot create without feeling, experiencing, dreaming, absorbing, noticing, sensing, and embracing. This is how writers, artists, musicians, and other such types create works that captivate, move, transport, and inspire: we open our souls to see, hear, and feel all we possibly can, and then we translate what we sense into words, angles, colors, and notes. But no matter how much the world may force us to thicken our skin, we can never truly deaden this sensitivity…not if we want to be real and keep doing what we were born to do in the world.

I am a word-womb for children yet unborn, children I am protective of because, just like human children, they are an extension of myself, and they are at once imperfect, wonderful, fragile, and heavenly. And when I reveal them to the world, the results can be encouraging, affirming, non-acknowledging, constructively critical…or brutal. That’s the hardest part–holding my breath as the blanket is pulled back and the moments tick by. Will my created child be kissed, ignored, photoshopped, or bashed on the head? It shouldn’t matter. Because I live and breathe to create, no matter what. But it does matter. Because I share my creations to share my joy, to entertain and uplift and teach and change. And because the created work is so often somehow incomplete without another soul to receive the gift in it. The gift I was destined to share. The gift someone in the world needs today or tomorrow or a year from now, at just the right moment in their life.

I am a gratitude storehouse. Each time another person gives me a kind or edifying word, it helps me keep creating what’s good. Each time a venue gives me a chance to extend my introverted self and share about my creations, it boosts my confidence that what I have to offer the world is indeed worthwhile. Each time a friend offers me space to feel safe and speak from my deepest heart, it keeps me open to expressing the goodness God puts there. And each time you give me a chance, dear reader, by actually reading what I have written–and even recommending it to others–that is an echoing gift that means more than this wordsmith can say.

Thank you, now, for reading this, for understanding me a little more deeply. And thank you for seeing past the above quirks, even embracing them as you embrace me through my writing, whether or not we have ever met.

I could not do this without you.

With appreciation,

The Writer

This Father’s Day, I want to focus on my Heavenly Father. He is the one who has truly done everything for me. More than I can ever fathom or repay. And all He wants in return from me is time with Him, to see His grace and goodness, and to let loose the gratitude in my heart.

On the Eve of Father’s Day, when I was driving home, I was distracted by a special cloud bank to the side. The cloud itself was seamless and unbroken, perfectly and symmetrically white. It was a silent display, and yet it exploded with the sound of the song of His love.

The sight of that sky along with the song of love it played for me inspired this poem. May it bless your heart as it has blessed mine.

A Sign For You

See how I love you, child of My hands and heart.

I have from the start, before you were consciously aware.

And when My care leaves you speechless, doubting worthiness,

I send my kindness in light, in gifts, and wait for you to see it.

Today, you raised your eyes from introspection to soak in

Sight of the heavens singing, fortissimo, over you at My command

Spread by My hand: a comforter, snowy, tucked into the blue,

Both sky and cloud — hues of perfection. And your gaze drank beauty.

So your soul was quieted to hear My voice:

“See now, My child,

There is no hint of gray,

For I’ve washed fear away

And wrapped you in the blanket of

My holiness, in the robe of

My kindness, in the covering of

My love.”

Who is it hardest to truly be seen by? God? Other people? Or our own heart, when reality is faced?

Perhaps all of the above, each in its own way. These were the thoughts that moved me to create this artistic piece and to write a poem afterward. The poem below, entitled Ashes Sprout Beauty, is a collection of eight stanzas, each written as a haiku.

I will leave you to ponder it, dear reader. Be seen, and embrace the beauty that can spring forth.

Shadows hide poorly
Because eyes adjust to find
What’s been all along.

Yet I grasp shadows:
Imaginary blankets
Of security,

Until my fingers
Find they are grasping only
Dense smoke and mirrors.

So, now, you ask me
“Whose eyes were opened to see:
Yours, mine, or the Lord’s?”

Not the Lord’s, for He
Has always shone, bright and clear,
Seeing…and loving still.

Perhaps yours now glimpse
The fragile outlines beneath
Gray veils too long worn.

But it is I who
Must, truly and fully, name
That seen by my heart:

Light shines through fractures
To nourish petals—hidden
Treasure of beauty.

Hearts (A Poem)

Completely knowing is a string

Of gold running

From head to chest, tying

Intellect to soul, bringing

A heart to its knees.

In the bursting of the

Strongest heart,

We know, undoubtedly, God is

Good.

In the resuscitation of the

Purest heart,

We know, wondrously, God is

Great.

Let us thank Him

For that Heart

That died and lives again,

That we may also.

Listen (An Acrostic)

Little stars stand out

In tangable-boundless inky

Skies. Is this

To remind us no whisper is too small to

Escape His notice? Or to show how others

Notice when we choose the supernatural?

****NOTE: Lenten days are traditionally not counted on Sundays during the season. But I have chosen to include a piece of word art every day. Therefore, my series will continue through Easter Sunday and include more than 40 days. Stay tuned.

🙂

Only (An Acrostic)

Open wide my soul and bring

Now to light what only You,

Love, have always known — and

Yet, You have embraced me still. I dance.

Distant Until (A poem based on Exodus 20:18-21)

The Law ferrets me out

In pain, in aching insufficiency, in fear,

Until the panic in my body is worse than the clamor before me,

Around me:

Heartbeats pounding in my ears, syncopated against thunder rumbles

From a great Judge I can’t see

Because my eyes are closed against the flashing that would blind me.

But what if He desires

That I see Him heartfully? What if He wants

Me to fear Him

Yet not be afraid?

What if He wants me

Near

For a moment,

For a lifetime,

And forever?

If I, too, would climb up,

Entering smoke and mist, what would

Await me

On the mountain?

Perhaps the understanding that I am

Known, patiently,

By the One Who has more chapters yet to write.

A Poem: Known and Free

I AM the One who knows:

Each vice that holds you in its grip,

Each lie that strikes you like a whip,

Each weakness of your foe.

I AM the One who knows:

Each time your heart seeks better things,

Each moment you turn back to Me,

Each higher place you’ll go.

So I have been,

So I will be:

The Knowing One

Who sets you free.

I recently heard a very challenging sermon given at my church, by guest speaker Caleb Kaltenbach, entitled: From “Grace OR Truth” to “Grace AND Truth.” (You can find the file to watch/download at calvary.ch if you are interested.) After listening and reflecting on some of my own life experiences, I was inspired to write a poem.

And I think sharing it today would be a great way to wrap up this month of posts about loving others. For Jesus showed by example that anyone who would follow Him must love as He loved (and still loves).

That’s relatively easy to do when we’re loving someone who we trust or who shares our interests or who is nice or who puts/keeps us in a good mood or who will do something wonderful for us. But it’s pretty stinkin’ hard to love someone who doesn’t like us or who has views opposite our own or who knows how to push our buttons or who hurts us with their words/actions or who always brings some inconvenience into our lives.

Yet the second group, those are the ones we are especially called to love, and who arguably need love the most. In fact, if we are honest, we’ll admit we have certainly been in that second group for someone else–and perhaps we still are.

As Caleb said, it’s not easy, but real “love is the tension of grace and truth.” So the next time you’re having a hard time loving someone, perhaps you can join me in this practice: envision yourself inviting them to meet you on a bridge where the tension of those two all-important virtues spans a chasm of hate and divisiveness.

The Bridge

(John 1:4, John 10:10, Psalm 36:9, 2 Corinthians 5:20-21, Psalm 2:11-12, 1 Timothy 6:18-19)

Hello, it’s me, the one who refuses to give up,
the one reaching out an imperfect hand,
who wants to forgive and start speaking again.

I love you enough to want your best
even when your best is the harder choice.
I pray you’ll hear that love shine through
where truth and grace meet in my voice.

You were meant for something far greater than this.
Please meet me on the bridge.

Hello, it’s me, one who didn’t make the laws,
one who has no right to play the Judge,
but one who can tell how His pardon comes.

I love you enough to want your best
even when your best is the harder choice.
I pray you’ll hear that love shine through
where truth and grace meet in my voice.

You were meant to be renewed and cleansed.
Please meet me on the bridge.

Hello, it’s me, the one who weeps at beauty’s kiss,
one who found light, light to shatter the dark,
who now holds up that beacon from my heart.

I love you enough to want your best
even when your best is the harder choice.
I pray you’ll hear that love shine through
where truth and grace meet in my voice.

You were meant to grasp life and truly live.
Please meet me on the bridge.

Some winters feel more brutal than others. This one seems to be hitting many in my acquaintance quite hard. Between unusually long stretches of deep cold, wave after wave of substantial snow, and a bunch of really tough life circumstances, our hearts cry for a reprieve.

We are hoping for spring to arrive sooner than later. And we are looking for reminders that hoping for what we do not yet have is still a worthy pursuit.

In that light, I took time last night to finish painting this piece. And I wrote a poem to go with it.

This breaks up my series on “love” a bit, but I sensed there might be a few people who needed to see/read it now. (And, after all, isn’t it true that sometimes our ability to keep loving is fueled primarily by the hope that it’s simply our soul’s winter and things will eventually be resolved?)

Poem: Branch, Bud, Blossom

While I have sight,

let me appreciate

each fragile-vibrant blossom

reaching up

and out

in communion

with her neighbors

and the Giver of her

woven, cherished beauty.

And if these eyes

should ever dim,

let me recall solemnly

breathtaking snows,

so silent

and heavy,

to mute

Earth’s collective cry

of hope for a season…

only a season.