hold

hold
the sand

hold
the gift

hold
the time that slips, the
time we
cannot

hold

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

rebirth (or, the beauty in the perpetuation of weeds)

Spring began
young

and grew
and grew tired
and grew old

so that
a breath
could

begin Spring
new.

...

Poem written in response by L.L. Barkat's HCB prompt: "a sentence with a picture in it." Drop your own into her comment box this week for links and a possible feature at High Calling Blogs.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

short: a poem

a friend
wrote
to me saying she was short
on words.

So am I, I
thought.

I am always short on words, but when
I see, I don't
need words.

Sometimes it is better

this way.

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

please pardon my dust

"Therefore, from now on, we regard no one according to the flesh." (2 Cor. 5:16)

In the beginning, God
created.

He created from dust
in His image, in
His own likeness.

He breathed His Life, putting
Word in empty mouth so that

He could have conversations.

"Even though we have known Christ according to the flesh, yet now we know Him thus no longer." (2 Cor. 5:16)

In the beginning, God
created.

He created from dust
One in His image, in
very nature God.

He breathed His Life, putting
Word on silent Cross so that

He could have conversations.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not imputing their trespasses to them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation." (2 Cor.17-19)

In the beginning, God
created.

He created from stone
a new soft heart, to
fill with His Spirit.

He breathed His Life, pulling
Word from empty tomb so that

He could have conversations.

Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea. Then I, John, saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”

Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” And He said to me, “Write, for these words are true and faithful.” (Rev. 21:1-5)

In the beginning, God
created.

He created new dust for
heaven and earth to
fill with His presence.

He brought His Life, sending
Word to reap the old so that

He could dwell with man and
have conversations.

The air was heavy most of the day here. Thickened with tension, fraught with child cries and voices that I know are not in the air but in my head.

Cries that carried need. Voices that carried shame.

I stepped silent around them, breathing hard, breathing deep, swallowing cries and frustration and the internal screams not meant for air.

I planned and re-planned and worked and re-worked and accomplished absolutely nothing at all because I was too distraught to move beyond necessity today, because my back ached and my head ached and my eyes ached from the unshed tears behind them, tears held back by confused anger. Anger held in, stopped up by fear.

...

"Stand fast therefore in the liberty by which Christ has made us free, and do not be entangled again with a yoke of bondage." (Gal. 5:1)

Stand fast...

The words catch on the fear in my throat, choking me. How dare I think that I should stand fast?

I know this Gospel. I know this grace. I know what redemption is. I know what it means that I am reconciled to God.

Yet I hold Him at arm's length. Close enough to keep an eye on what He is doing, far enough to keep Him from tearing my heart open. I want to give my all to Him - really, I do - but the fear that thickens the air, that holds back the tears, the fear traps me. I utter the words on repeat, "I don't want to..." because I don't know what else to say.

Everything is "Christ, but..." in my head today. I feel that the Cross is not enough. That His coming was nothing, really.

But everything that is not of Him must be stripped away.

Even the good I mean to do.

...

The words spin and scatter and gather and fly now. They come with tears as I begin to pour my heart into the air that is heavy. They spill out and speak desire that is good, fear that is caging, wild hope that is true.

"You ran well. Who hindered you from obeying the truth?" (Gal. 5:7)

Yes. I ran well. I know I have lived this Truth, that in Christ I live and move and have my being.

My being that is too small for this great God. My being that is dying to dress up a little more, deliver a little more, surrender a little more before I come before Him. Oh, I do not want to need His mercy this time! I want to like the me I bring to Him.

So He lets me stew and watches me fall, waiting to catch my frightened heart.

"You ran well..."

"Stand fast."

I gather my courage. More words spill before Him, and before my husband who came early to hold me, to listen to me breathe hard and fast and hurt and scared. Words about prayer, about inviting God into our house, about doing only the things He has set before me now instead of preparing for China and martyrdom in thirty years when I just know He will require it of me.

...

My testimony is this: Jesus Christ and Him crucified. This is the grace, the Gospel, the mercy, the Redemption I own.

Here, I am not trapped. Jesus despised the shame He bore - MY shame - and He does not impute it to me.

I am not what I want to be. I am what I am, by the grace of God.

And what I am is a mess. What I am does not take the photos I want to take. What I am does not (and cannot most times) do the housework I want to do. What I am is too often afraid to love. What I am does not stop the words when they should be stopped, does not speak them when they should be spoken.

What I am is dust. Dust, and a broken heart.

...

"For we know that if our earthly house, this tent, is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed with our habitation which is from heaven, if indeed, having been clothed, we shall not be found naked. For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life. Now He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who also has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.

So we are always confident, knowing that while we are at home in the body we are absent from the Lord. For we walk by faith, not by sight. (2 Cor. 5:1-7)

If you read my blog and think I am something, know this the truth: I am nothing.

I have spent much of the past weeks soul-searching - as much as one can soul-search beneath the constant hue and cry of my two - and I know that what I give and what I do and what I write will not be what I am hoping to give and do and write.

Because you see, I have been patterning my nothing after others who have done what I wish to do, and in the end it comes to nothing without Jesus for me, and my yoke of bondage is my own misplaced desire to be like them and not like me who God created and re-created and called good. If we all say the same thing, we become shadows of one another, and the best and brightest shadow is still a shadow - when we are really earthen vessels filled with the weight of a glory that is not meant to be earthbound.

He is so much There, and does not seem to be here at all. Yet the things that my heart knows call me to walk into what my eyes do not see, and my mess is propelled forward by faith into a Life I dare not seek in my own strength - who am I to know what Holy and Righteous is?

"For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him." (2 Cor. 5:21)

...

I cannot live the future now.

God asks this of me today (and I have been afraid to listen): to draw near to Him. To look at Him. To open my heart to an intimacy to take me beyond the limits of my imagination so that I will know that whether I live or die, I will be in Him.

There is a question that has been niggling at me recently, an inane question that offers more direction than I thought I needed: "Am I a blogger who writes or a writer who blogs?"

Tonight, as the words come, I know the answer.

I am a writer who blogs, and it is time for me to step back into my place - MY place - and write again, instead of trying the "blogging" thing.

Several months ago, I went searching for a community who knows God - and I found it. I found you. And you and you and you. And I have been deepened and encouraged, and I hope it will continue.

But I may not be commenting so much on other blogs as I have. I may not reply to every email or track my stats or link up elsewhere or follow too many prompts or Tweet endless links as I have.

I suspect the nature of my posts will change a bit too - when I write, I write for me; I write what is deep; I write what is Him in my dust. I have nothing else.

The voices tell me that is "self-centered," but I am feeling stronger this evening, more ready to stand, more ready to claim the free that is mine in Jesus so I may bow at the throne of Grace - instead of ducking my head, anticipating the blow.

...

What does it mean, that God destroyed the gap between Heaven and earth when Jesus became man and died and rose again?

Death, where is your victory?

I breathe out slow now. Long, and slow. A sigh, but not a sigh. An acknowledgment. That God created me the way He meant. That He does not mean to crush me, but to guard me, to hold me safe in His love. That the being I have in Christ is so much glory and not so much dust.

My flesh and my heart fail.

The groaning is a given.

My spirit is waiting for that face-to-face conversation. The one where I see Him. The one where I become like Him.

God, that's gonna be so good...





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

resurrection - the waiting

sometimes dying is
more beautiful than
living

and sometimes it hurts.

especially because we all die
alone

until we live full in Jesus
until we are raised together with Him
until we see God.

so we die
and we live

in this hope.

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God.

For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now.

Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body.

For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one still hope for what he sees?

{ Rom. 8:18-24 }

...


This post linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

march on june st.

All week she called to me,
but I was too afraid
I'd be intruding if I
stepped across our new street
with my camera in hand to
take her color home with me.

But Saturday morning won, and
I walked over with zoom
and trepidation,
and I captured her.

and I met a new neighbor who knew
stories of our street
once-lined with live oaks -
before Hugo pillaged them
twenty years ago. His shed
used to be in the middle
of his yard; Hugo moved
it to the fence, and his wife
had left him, but
it was amicable. a-MIC-able.
AM-ic-able. He didn't know, but
it was "okay."

The color belonged to
another neighbor, who couldn't
come to her door because she
was diabetic and had
only one leg.

And our other neighbors were quiet - except
the bigger little one, who
asks lots of questions and
scares me a little because
I don't know all the answers, and
I used to think

it didn't hurt to ask

but now I know better, so
I wish him away.

She offered me beauty
and stories
and a spring breeze I would have missed if

I had stayed inside.

My friend Emily at Chatting at the Sky hosts a weekly "noticing" party - giving us a chance to unwrap and share the little gifts (and the big ones!) God gives to us in the midst of our dailiness.

...

Poem written in response by L.L. Barkat's HCB prompt: "Streetwise." Drop your own into her comment box this week for links and a possible feature at High Calling Blogs.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Poetry Lesson

Shall I teach
you the way
of a blossom,
the way of a cherry
twisting beneath
her stem,
shall I.

- L.L. Barkat, Inside Out, p. 69.

She let me borrow her poetry here. I let her have my picture there.

When I grow up and
know how to write
poetry
(for real),
I'd love to own her delightful
talent, her
pacing, her
gift for observation, for
making my heart dance, for
bringing tears where
there haven't been tears in years.

She takes my breath away.

You must absolutely read her book.

Yes, L.L., teach me the way of your blossom. I want to learn what it is you know about her.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Drive-By Shooting

a rather battered white,
our once-replaced CRV begs replacement again,
chattering,
chugging,
chirping.
the chirping, I think, cannot be a good thing.

but away we go,
chirping along to pick up fresh vegetables,
babies in back,
camera in hand,
limping along
in our tired CRV, and we watch
out the window to see a good thing.

and we find it - we do, but
we're going so fast as to almost miss it, the
light on glass,
silver on green,
sky on ground-water.
but we don't quite; camera shutter is fast
and the good thing chirps home with us.

long after the car stops its chirping, I think
I hear it still in my soul, perched
with feathers
and yellow
and hope
to open my eyes to grace-captured good things.

my fast-paced two months gone,
life spinning on and passing my eye-lens
too fast
too slow
too something
and now I feel older than I was, older than I have been,
and sometimes I forget the good things

but for the chirping drive-by.

-----------------------------

Written for L.L. Barkat's Random Acts of Poetry prompt at High Calling Blogs. Leave your own poem in a comment at her blog, for a link and possible feature at HCB.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Haiku for (in)Courage

I know I missed the deadline. I missed the post, to be honest. But I can't resist the invitation from Robin at (in)Courage.

...

sunlit silver streaks
old woman tossing her hair
caressing crystal

...

And that is all she wrote.






(Image © SXC)

southern frost

winter here is
gray
shot through with color
except
on some sunny mornings
(and on some cloudy mornings)
when cold is
white,

an unsoft white
pinching color.

then winter here is
gray
except for brittle,
scattering-light-and-melting
white
that isn't snow

like childhood without
wonder

...

I miss winter, real winter that comes from brown and gray and barren trees etched black against a rose-gold sky, the kind that paints every color of the rainbow into white down coverlets and transforms night-black into silver-blue.

But that is just me. I'm getting over it. This year, winter is incidental, except for its intrusion into my home with the cold that is colder because I've lost 25 pounds of baby and insulative water weight. Christmas was almost incidental. Our tree is still up because we've not had time to take it down, because I like its position in our living room, because the Christmas lights are just so comforting.

Yesterday, Pete and I braved our southern frost for a foray into Charleston, a photography trip for freezing and finding the sun on freezing flowers that were still blooming in a cemetery (thanks to a God seeing to it that the even lilies are clothed - in splendor that belies the finger-numbing, nose-encasing cold). It was hard not to get swept up into it. Pete had to drag me away, and then we ran back to the car.

Even with company in town, our days are shorter, lived up in little practical things: a clogged toilet, finding some delicata squash to replace the potatoes in that recipe (who replaces potatoes??? Oh, the things I have given up for my husband...), changing diapers, sorting maternity clothes/nursing clothes/work clothes/everyday clothes (I have four wardrobes, did you know?), waking and sleeping and waking and trying to wake, and planning meals and grocery shopping and using paper places so there aren't so many dishes, getting my computer repaired... It is a good time, a frustrated time, a fast time, a slow time. Ecclesiastes never explains that the times for everything can be all at the same time, and to live this without trying to control the times or change the times or legislate yourself to keep up with them means that nearly every moment is full of something, and isn't it beautiful when you realize what is happening?

It is so good. Seeing my husband with new patience for Piper, finding another ounce of strength to give I didn't know I owned, the triumph of beds made and dishes done, the laughter of my daughter with her grandparents, the soft, warm cuddling that comes between the crying, the trying that I haven't tried, precious gems of conversation and I love you and I love you too... It is so hard, but it is so good.

In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free. The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?
- Psalm 118:5-6

Indeed, what can man do? Or toddler or baby or time itself - or the lack of it?

There are so many words in my head, in my heart, courage offered and received, prayers given and heard, comments from friends who know and from friends who are glad that I know, praises for pondering and proffering and sharing in another day when time is not so expensive as it is now. I am taking it all in, pouring it out here where you can't see and I can't write, and there is color and there is wonder in this frost-pinched cold world of mine, color and rescue and patience and learning to trust and live when I don't have a prayer for a plan.

I am so glad for winter mornings, even here...





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

RAP Poetry Response: Un-Conversation

"I can never forget those first deep pangs of birth pains. It was like nothing I had ever felt...nothing I could explain. The hurt came from deep inside. From change."

- Laura Boggess, from a comment on my blog

Un-Conversation

The "first deep pangs"
left me shaking aware
I wasn't who I had been or
who I had become or
who I would be

she spoke
the first deep words
that defined the feeling

and I answer back,
"yes, it is change, it is
this inside-hurt
so many have felt

and shared

with me." There is

no conversation required
among us who have been
changed, just
pensive waiting in
community
communion as we ache for

joy

grown from
tears, and
strength in trembling labor when
who we are

emerges into Life that makes us
who we are meant to be.

-----------------------------

Written for L.L. Barkat's Random Acts of Poetry prompt at High Calling Blogs. Leave your own poem for "In Conversation" at her blog today, for a link and possible feature at HCB!

Oh, and that 12 Days of Community thing she mentions at the bottom of her post today? Check it out - or try it out! There are some pretty cool peoples involved in it recently. Wish I had energy to participate!





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Tabulations

Fourth day gray and
craving space
between medicine runs and
doctor visits,
sleepless nights,
and a few last important finishings

A few days strong, I'm
tired already
embarrassed by short-term
cheerful care,
I am
too tired to pretend otherwise

Three-day tree lit up
to warm
with color
gray songs on repeat
embracing gloom
blurring stark in hopeful soft

Thirty-seventh week
of forty
gathering prayers
from those looking in and
looking on,
waiting for tomorrow's photos

Daily grace measured out
to raise head from hand-rest and
clear blurry eyes
unexpected prayers
and mail-gifts
because baby is coming with Christmas

One safe Place for falling back
staring up
through questioned-gray to
sufficient strength and
answering "Who do you say I am?" with
God-certainty -

"Thou art the Christ, the Son of the Living God."

Uncounted years for learning
could not supply
this answer
breathed long ago into this
doubting heart
easing now with relief at His incredible care

24-34 of 1,000 Gifts

------------------------


This post is linked at Holy Experience for One Thousand Gifts.

Shared too at Chatting at the Sky for Tuesdays Unwrapped.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

When I Grow Old

I want to grow old
as October eases into November into
December and back again into Spring,
gracious in gray, clad in winter's first

white

as a bride wears a dream on her wedding day.

....

I want to find beauty
in windswept snow-ridges
on hands that were smooth and smile
at mirror-face
with unchanged eyes
the same soul peering out,

a little wise
a little joyful
a little seasoned with
some Christmas spice and a bit of blizzard passion

invigorated

like peppermint meeting brisk winter wind in the new year.

....

I want not to die
before breath slows - and stops,
leaving flesh wrapped in allspice,
red earth-petals peeled, hibiscus layer of
fallen dust lingering sweet as kisses for
those I have loved alive, while in death

I live anew in
April fullness, in
summer glory, in
autumn memory, my spirit rising on spring

life-breezes

like a kite in a scented wind embraces the whole sky.

....

I want finally to dwell full alive
in I AM who is

Beginning
and
End
and
Eternal,

passing like the seasons at winter's end
from shade-limitation into full exposure,
bathed in new God-glory,

beginning

as a wizened babe breathes first breath on its birth-day.

....

for this I was born, for this
I live.

-------------------------------

Written in response to L.L. Barkat's poetry prompt - Fruits, Herbs & Spices (and the occasional snap pea & golden beet). A bit of a play on words took this from spices to seasonings to seasons, but I thought I would submit it anyway. Just something I've been thinking about.






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Dry

the clothes were dry and put away
days ago;
now afternoon will have its way,
making clean,
making bright,

drying wood after rain.

Repost from the photography blog (Jan. 16, 2009)





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

eve's regret

I knew.

I knew You.

I knew what it was to be with You
to be taken by You
to hope I could be

so beautiful as You were
always so beautiful as I was
when You were

with me.

he played me for a fool
serpent writhing round the tree
round my imagination
round my soul

and squeezing
doubt from wonder

offering more than I had, more
than evening walks
than waiting for You
than listening.

he painted Love
etching on sea-washed sand
slipping

through my fingers

and I couldn't lose You
who were so beautiful to me



I ate.

I ate it and I shared.

I ate it hoping to capture You for me
to grasp knowledge You were holding out on me
You must have been...

so innocence died
my being destined now to strive with Yours

my child-birth travail
screaming with tree and earth and universe
against him

groaning lonely for Your once-known Presence
learning to wait
trying to listen

even when You speak no words.

And always hoping Love will be more, more
than he said it was
than I had experienced
than I suspected

when I ate.

I am never full now.

Return to me

Redeemer

-------------------------------

Written in response to L.L. Barkat's poetry prompt - Writing a Love Poem, in Character.





(Image © SXC)

tension

A friend whose heart I love asked recently if I am ever torn between writing and photography.

I answer that sometimes I am one, sometimes I am the other - I feel so much, so deeply. I write to express feeling I have that seeks words, write to discover what it is I am thinking. As I write, I become.

It is when I do not feel at all that I go looking for the pictures, stretched like a string on a violin, waiting taut for the stroke of the Master's bow, the touch of His fingers creating melody for the lyric of me. This is when I simply am.

These last few weeks have been picture times, woven in color and gray and white, in glorious simplicity and straightforward complexity that offers no words for becoming, just moments for living.

And I am human, seeming to focus too much here, too little there, on a pendulum swing I can't resist because this is what being means. This is what it is to have a soul that is alive, a Spirit teaching God-acknowledgment and thought-captivity, always searching for evidence of Him placed around me so my glory may be in knowing God, that He is the Lord, exercising lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness on the earth.

I feel nothing and everything at once, and there is too much for me to grasp, so I rest and putter and pause and ponder and wish there were something at once more and less profound so I could define it, me, Him - and get back to what I want to do tomorrow. Yet I am aware there is much I don't know, much I don't understand, much for me to wonder at about His Holy - what do I really know?

Sometimes I confuse settling for rest and put passion away. The daily tired begs for smaller vision; Jesus felt this too, walking dusty through one crowd of expectations into crucified obedience - into which I am called. His Spirit in me seeks that oneness with the Father which He knew, which He prayed for me.

Oh how I begin to understand the unsettled ache of His desire...

God.

Today I am stretched among worlds
I dangle here with my arms between beauty
and capture
and life and art.
The colors of life You have given me
and a world who does not see
and a world who does see.
To left or to right
or to upward or downward,
I decide where to turn
And I don't.
I am stretched out and frozen
And hoping my reach won't exceed
The boundaries of Your dream
for me.
I discover and revel
In glories here
But I don't wish to trade
Your Life
for these that I hold in my hands.

So if You have a purpose
In stretching this heart to claim
All the world for Your own
In words
or in pictures;
In colors to frame
All I can of Your love here in time;
Or in touching a small hand,
And sharing a moment
Uncaptured
But full and alive -
I need grace and elastic
And You to sustain
And seconds and seconds and seconds.
I open my hands
And stretch out these arms
I hold all I can see up to You
to capture
So I can be free

And stretch out my life to hold You.

- A Repost from Dec. 20, 2008

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

escape

still eludes
in crashing
crushing
purge of rolling wave upon sand
upon shore,
in breaking stone and silver bone and wood to salted grain

breath floats away
with bird-wings
on wind mounting cool and warm
beneath wings
leaving earth behind, leaving me to

stand wishing,
hoping
believing i could
fly

if i wanted to.

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

new

The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light.

- Genesis 1:2-3

--------------------------

somewhere between sunlight and
cool morning water-shadow
feeling skitters past write-words
past melody
into swirling color and
into time that molds and makes

i listen in the still gray for

something to capture
eluding me in
my saturated silent waiting as
points of light release
blue and green
and bright without words for glory

i have not lived here before - i have
no reference
but desire
Desire
bathed in joy-color pealing sound and
story without words
in
holy
Quietness

--------------------------

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland... I provide water in the desert and streams in the wasteland, to give drink to my people, my chosen, the people I formed for myself that they may proclaim my praise."

- Is. 43:18-21





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Real Time

The clock is ticking sixty seconds in a minute,
Sixty minutes to an hour
Time is faster, time drags on
The days are long, they go too fast

The sun is moving, casting shadows
Day and night Time journeys on
Breathe in and out,
I am, I feel eternity
I am real.

Time stops; we hold our breath
Time flies; we hold our breath
Tomorrow comes too soon
And yesterday is gone.

The seconds turn to minutes turn to hours
The clock is winding down
Frozen hands and silence sing
Time’s march is done

The sun is setting, casting shadows
Night comes tumbling, day is dead
Breathe in and out,
I am, I feel eternity
I am real.

When time is gone, Life won’t pass me by
I can’t hold onto seconds,
Stars fall from the sky
Breathe in and out,
I AM, He is eternity
I AM real.

-------------------------------

Shared in response to a High Calling Blogs R.A.P. prompt - filling in the blank to describe "The Real...?"






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

The Last Day

Thirty days hath September...

I need thirty-one, or thirty-two.
Or thirty-five
in this ninth month of a busy year. But
the days slip by, easing
almost unnoticed
from summer into fall,
except for the changing light creeping
different
across my walls and floors.

Is there always too much to do,
more than I can accomplish
in the time I have?

I think it must be so; this
is the same song I'm singing again,
umpteenth verse.

Still I find grateful in
today, another day
when self-imposed deadlines loom
and doom
and remind of eternal time

outside of time

It is the last day, and
a first day too for someone
who is not me,
and for me too if I should
notice
and rest

in spite of the ticking clock.

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Check out my third post in my authentic relationship series, Nothing Hidden - The Breaking, continuing my story of the reality of God's grace for relationship. "If I’d known how hard it would be for us, I would never have married Pete..."


And speaking of time passing, read about getting back in the game with your kids over at High Calling Blogs today. This one made me cry...






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)