Of Trinkets and Treasure

And we collect trinkets our whole lives,

this’s and that’s—so much useless stuff,

scraps of memory designed to hold the moment now long gone,

and it doesn’t matter in the end, when others sift through the detritus of a life, not valuing what you valued,

only seeing your treasures as burdens.

The literary wealth of a Dickinson stuffed in an overlooked drawer is an anomaly at best, when most treasured things will have been treasured by us alone.

So maybe the time, money, and affection was misspent after all.  And maybe these carnal things are, and have always been, the chains that bind us to this decaying corpse when we were made to

fly. If

I could go back, would I live differently?  . . . Perhaps,

but maybe not,

because the closer you reach the end, the clearer the vision, and

the nearer the transition to realized eternity, the more open the hands.

I guess it’s just the way of things.

Spent--Too Much

I think too much.

My wonder causes me to wander to rocky, unsettled paths

where questions grow like weeds,

poking holes in my confidence,

crowding out joy.

I stink too much.

This old, carnal rag I drag around,

attached to my will by threads of world,

holds me back and blinds weary eyes to what is

truly true.

I sink too much.

This seeking first and worrying not

is swallowed up by circumstance,

and my energy is spent struggling for air in dark deep,

till I remember . . .

that

grace is enough;

death will be swallowed up;

flesh will be made new;

and every darkness even now is overshadowed by unfailing Love.

Open my eyes.

——————————-

Proverbs 13:12

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

Selfies by Allen

Posted on March 10, 2014by apronheadlilly

Actually, it might not be an Allen’s Hummingbird; it might be a female Rufous.  The more I search, the more confused I get.  Even some of the male Rufous are red-brown.  So I figure if I sound really convinced, maybe I’ll be right by default. 

Lives Interrupted

It makes me feel like crying, this suffering we do.

The rain pelts the earth; the stratus overlay presses down—and

the burdens within and without are heavy

with rain,

with tears.

It doesn’t make sense—all this brokenness.

Well, maybe on one side of the brain, the prickly side.  But

the heart knows when redemption seems still far off—and

the earth groans, and

the weak and infirmed groan, and

I groan with all this groaning.

Grey drifts by the waiting room window, the room where loved ones sit and sigh and pray while the infirmed wait, and the world cries for all to be made right.

And the sky rushes earthward, and it weeps the tears of atmosphere and groans for redemption.

Little matchbox cars and trucks off in the distance do what they do and go where they go,

while 6 floors up and 8 miles down, the grey-black troposphere pushes the weight of the world on these lives.

And our time stops as our watches march on, and what matters changes consultation by consultation.

The fog drifts in—in and around cars, buildings, trees, light poles—mundane silhouettes against this pressing vapor,

the rolling something that looks more like an ominous nothing.

And it shadows the fog in my brain in these tenuous times

when what was

can

in a moment change to the dark that is.

And faith looks for perspective, and faith looks to the sun above these wafting mists

to find grace,

the face of God in lives interrupted.

Me in My Hoodie

On the Wing

On the Wing

Posted on February 5, 2014by apronheadlilly

The Song is Still There

Time has been hard on some things, soft on others.

Hands that planted, hoed, kneaded, washed, spanked, played, and praised

are soft with disuse—

in many parts the feeling gone.

.

Where once fingers crunched numbers,

curled hair, cooked, crocheted, and quilted—

precise and prodding—

they are now in some ways unresponsive, lap-sitting, waiting.

.

And the wrinkles have come,

sagged sage,

leaking out time after time—

and it seems unfair for one so capable to be so dependent, lonely,

planted among babbling others who are reliving horrors and wonders,

imagined and real.

.

The vibrato is elastic and uncontrolled,

but the song is still there—

words carried along on the memory and soul imprint

from days and months and faithful years of

worship.

.

And the miles walked and fires stoked and kids raised

are etched in lines across your face.

Much of the meaning is tweaked or gone,

but the heart is still loving.

The dreams are misplaced,

but the mind is still dreaming

of a forever

when weakness and age is swallowed up in pure

kingdom.