Deep In The Garden

Jesus,

Holy One,

Key to life.

You open gates to freedom.

You give full joy,

Our hallelujah song.

Into our hands you offer the key,

We simply must be willing to turn it.

Into the garden you are there.

In the wilderness you have not left us.

Kneeling on the hill outside our cities of influence do we gain a clearer perspective of what is before us;

The need of a Holy God to set the city free.

Kneeling on the hill do we prostrate our head,

Humbling our knowledge below our heart in surrender to a God who directs us to the heavens,

Who fills hearts and minds with wonder,

Who places the sun in the morning and stars ablaze in the evening.

Yes, the gates have flung open wide.

The garden is open to us,

Filled with olive trees open to our anointing.

The oil drips down our prostrate head,

Oil that runs down our chin,

Our chest,

Drips onto thighs.

And here we are made new;

Heart shift back to that of a strong God.

Peace comes as we step into the garden,

Laying our head low and accepting the anointing,

The pouting of oil,

Life-giving oil over us.

There is hope,

There is strength in the act of surrender.

Maybe the next step is turning the key,

Turning the key,

Opening the door and stepping into the wonder of the garden;

The sacred space where confession is real,

Condemnation is NONE,

Beauty abounds,

Fields of wildflowers sway amongst feet,

Trees cover,

Dripping with the anointing oil as an overflow of the goodness of God.

Yes, let’s take hold of this key of life.

The garden awaits in all it’s wonder and healing.

Come Matter Here

Come Matter Here

I am wandering through a forest,

Limbs hiding me from complexities of life;

I am safe here.

I am broken out there.

Why is it always back to this space in my mind?

This space of not seeming to belong?

I have felt this since childhood.

I wanted to read when others wanted to play.

I wanted to write and watch waves as others wanted to scream and experience vibrancy of life.

Maybe I have always been this way.

Just a bit other than,

Somewhat of an almost, but not quite.

And always, always I have been “too much” in my emotions for spaces outside the wilderness.

I take things too personal,

I cry too much,

I feel words as others feel bones.

I am overwhelmed where others seemingly function quite well.

And I wonder,

Why am I so seemingly broken for this world?

And yet, in the gift of the stillness of solitude I hear it whispered through the wind,

Carried in the crunch of leaves beneath my feet,

Brought by the flow of stream alongside me,

This is the journey of humanity:

To be flawed,

Shattered,

Crumbled,

Left out,

Proud,

I hear it sung by the birds,

Held by the roots of oak,

Embodied by flower,

This too is the journey of humanity:

To be Healed,

Loved,

Nurtured,

Pursued,

Wanted.

I see it in the sunshine breaking through the canopy,

I feel it within the moss between my toes,

I taste it like cool rainwater to my tongue,

This likewise is the journey of humanity:

To listen for understanding,

To give out of compassion,

To delight in presence,

To rest in the belovedness of God,

To serve in remembrance of One who sacrificed all for love.

And so, I am safe here in these woods,

And I am broken here.

For I am undone by my need to be both inward and outward,

In my solitude I am reminded that my almost, not quite is exactly what brings light to another.

For I cannot be that to which I am not.

And I must accept my need for more than I am.

I am broken and I am made whole by God.

I wish so deeply to stay, to remain here in this hallowed space, this sacred ground,

Yet here I cannot remain,

For I hear the heartbeat of lives in the beyond,

Come matter here.

It is not location that defines significance and value, it is the knowing of our innermost self,

It is stepping into community vulnerably with that self that breaths flame to fire of soul purpose.

I walk the path back towards the chaos of my life with others,

And I remind myself,

Perfection is only an illusion,

Humanity is the tension of safe and broken.

So come matter here.

The Flavor of Hope

Bitterness is quite easy to taste.

It requires no extra work; straight from ground to tongue.

But delicacy, savoring, comes after the intentionality of nurture.

A touch of fresh butter simmering in a pan with a sprinkling of salt,

Attentively watching as the softening comes by the beckoning of fire.

There, within the tenderness of time and flame, comes extraordinary bursts of flavor.

Sweet.

Savory.

Well intentioned.

Purposeful.

Filled with the loving hand of grace,

Ushering forth a plate of compassion.

This is the flavor of Hope.