The Art Of The Blindside

Physical pain

that hits you deep

in the gut

caused not by a blow

to the stomach

but a stab

to the heart.

An innocent scene

that ignites a memory

which in turn invokes

such a strong immediate

emotion

it takes you by surprise -

the art of the blindside.

Some Words

There are some words
that you never imagine
you'll hear, words you
never hope to hear,
words you fear to hear.
And no matter how
dark the outlook is,
no matter how many
ominous signs there are,
hope holds tightly by the
thinnest thread, until you hear
those damning words.

And then time slows.
And you can't believe it.
Something won't let you believe it.
You know you've just
been dealt the biggest
blow of your life -
but you can't feel it.
Something akin to pain
hits every few minutes
and the new reality
washes all over you again -
taking you by surprise each and every time.

I think I cried that night
more for the pain I knew
was coming and less for
what we were feeling then.
I cried for the anguish
of my brother,
for fear and worry over him.
This road that he now travels,
it's a road he goes alone.
It's a road of raw emotions,
a road where he'll wrestle with God.
And there's no way to protect him.

Hating Hope

Sometimes
I hate
hope.
It's fleeting
and flighty,
teasing
and shadowy.
It's absence
angers me.

Don't talk
to me
about hope,
unless once
you've lost it.
Don't sing
to me
about hope,
unless once
it's disappointed
you too.

God's looking
over
at me.
He reaches
for my hand.
Quietly
he's telling
me,
"The Story's
not finished
yet."

Holding On

My grip is slipping.
I'm letting go.
I turn my face
and look away.

You grip my wrist.
You won't let go.
Intently gazing.
Intensely praying.

And you wait
for me
to hold onto
you again.

Pain And Promise

Will my heart break -
when I finally sink into it?
How long will it take -
till I finally emerge from it?
How much will it cost -
And where must I go?
To realize what was lost
and the horror and sorrow.

Don't make me go there,
don't let me go through.
The journey's too harsh -
I don't want to lose you.
Don't make me go down
the dark alleyway.
Can't you heal me right here
without all the pain?

You promise your grip,
your hand in my hand.
You won't let it slip
whether I fall or I stand.
Your arms wrapped around me
as we take the first step,
sharing the weight
of the pain I can't feel yet.

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, --

The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

~ Emily Dickinson

This has always been my most favorite Emily Dickinson poem.

A New Beginning

Suppose the circumstances of your life led you figuratively to the edge of a high cliff. Before you is void, below you is death, and above you is life. And imagine the circumstances of your life tossed high in the air like a child tosses armfuls of airy leaves over his head into the breeze. All your financial security, health, and comfort has flown out of your hands, out of your control. And you hold your breath. And you wait. Will those cares and concerns glide smoothly and effortlessly through the air? Or will they plummet like heavy bricks to the dark hard earth below? The angst is in the waiting. Our human minds imagine the deep dark fall into obscurity. For our circumstances dictate nothing else. How can bricks fly? But what if it is not so much circumstance that dictate flying or falling? What if it's more about perspective? Perhaps the only difference in soaring high above and plummeting to the depths is the way we view our circumstance? Perhaps the cement bricks are airy leaves all along? And what we thought were weights tied to bring us down were wings given to lift us up? What if the dead end was in fact a new beginning? And the only way to begin was to jump off the cliff and trust our Creator to bring us high?

~ from the January 15th post in Rantings and Ramblings ...

Connecting

I feel so close to you
as we praise our King
together.
My heart is filled with
graditude,
knowing we can connect
in this way.

Eternal

Our bodies
are fragile.
Our spirits
eternal.

On The Brink

The distance
between
heaven and earth
is closer
than we think.
It's just a
heartstop
away.
And we can't
conceive it -
but we all
live on the brink,
rarely thinking
heaven can
beckon
any day.