marvelling

last night standing on hot pavement i watched the world walk by. a woman with hair as long as a horse's mane; another as large as a helium balloon with tiny hands eating a waffle cone. a stuffy man in a black suit pacing, racing against time (unaware that it was standing still). five asian girls in brand name clothes, laughing. a car rattling afar with ghetto beats. two young girls whose asthmatic mother died at 30 from sniffing paint thinner and smoking anything that would make her choke. another whose mother pretends to be dead so her own daughter won't contact her. two middle aged women with pants too-tight begging the world to notice them before they sink into wrinkles.

this morning running on cool pavement i saw a group of jaybirds gathered 'mongst flowers in a garden jibber-jabbering with one another and i thought, how different are we from they? all clamouring for attention, no one listening to the other, everyone begging to be heard.

an ideal world

forgive me if i come across as cynical. perhaps it's the grey clouds smudging the early morning sky. or my anxious thoughts. or the empty canvas at home begging to be filled. or my filled up calendar begging to be emptied.

i find ideals tiresome. yet, by desiring a world without ideals, i am, in a sense, being idealistic.

lately it seems my husband and i have a lot more 'admirers' now that we're going to korea. standing in line at a bank to exchange canadian dollars for korean wons, i am suddenly thrust into conversation with an over zealous teller, soon to be joined by other tellers who look jealously upon this 'adventurous woman' daring to cross the seas.

my sister tells me she wishes she could say she was going to teach english in korea. and i ask, why? to satisfy strangers' quota for excitement?

when my husband and i enlisted in youth work three years ago, the reactions were "oh, that's nice." "that must be challenging." "when are you going to get a real job?"

meanwhile, the last three years have been stocked as high as a 20-floor apartment with adventure. it's people who breathe life into us, not places. it's quality, not distance. it's about charity, love, and faith -- not culture or tourism.

the funny thing is, those tellers won't remember me from a hole in the ground when i return. but our youth will.

finding ourselves

we're all looking for ourselves. God must laugh, as his people turn inside-out trying to uncover the 'real me'.

when all it takes is one step away from the mirror, and one step closer to the dirt.

because that is what we are. dirt.

we were made from it, and to it, we shall return.

instead of looking for ourselves, look for the creator who makes such inquisitive creatures from ... dirt.

he continues his role as potter. taking this piece of dirt, making it into seeds of kindness; taking that piece and making it a particle of 'peace.' implanting both in our hearts.

for we are nothing, without him who made us.
and in finding we are nothing, we find him -- and ultimately,
ourselves.

portrait of a lady

i didn't find her in a gilded picture frame or perched upon a throne. i didn't find her on a magazine cover or squeezed into a dress size.

i found her in the sandbox with her children, in the kitchen basted in flour, in the garden dusted with dirt.
in a soup kitchen laughing perseveringly, in her bedroom weeping over something she's said to offend, in a coffee shop reading to restore herself.

"i can choose to rejoice in my life and its everyday moments, or be constantly disappointed," she told me, pouring me some water.

"every day i take advantage of every second, and see its potentnial. i lower my expectations and raise my hopes. i rest completely in knowing i have the power to choose how i respond. and i choose to celebrate."

in that particular moment, i found myself face to face with the portrait of a lady.

my last week

traffic trickles by while Bono sings about love on my stereo. it's my last week of work. my last week of driving past the big man on the tiny bench reading his book. my last week of roaring silently at the crawling pace of the cars, or the impenetrable presence of a slow-plodding train. my last week of laughing with co-workers, marveling over their ideosyncracies, fuming at the low-grade technology or my low-paid salary. my last week of staring out this window onto pavement, watching the sun paint rings on the grey slabs and dreaming of a day when i no longer have to work. my last week of gluing together words, sentences, paragraphs, of breathing new life into God's old story. traffic trickles by and my tears trickle down at the thought of my last week.

sister

giggles erupt
the room recycles
paint-fumes and the
art of conversation.
brush strokes across canvas,
thick colours,
blending like the
blood we share.
relating on
paper and in life.
sister, youthful semblence
of me
yet completely her own.
sipping cups of tea we
simmer and steep,
deep, confiding,
letting the paint dry.
a picture-perfect hour.

ice-cube moments

i want to give up! my screams electrify the night air. rustle my husband's hair. i run barefoot into blackness gasping daring life to stop me.

the little girl yelled at me, hung up the phone. for trying to excavate my heart. for spending three years on my knees saying pretty please love God.

she spat in my face, turned on her heel. denies love is real, demands to be steel in the face of human kindness.

i've always believed people can change. for the first time, i felt someone was beyond hope.

shake the dust off your sandels, keep walking, my lover told me. wrapped arms around me, a soft blanket in that ice-cube moment.

reminding me i am but a sower in a long stretch of field. keep sowing. don't look back. someone else will come along to water, and another, to harvest.

she's but a seed, fighting against warm Sonlight. dare i believe she'll one day flower?

Sonrise serenade

orange flames rise in the east
backed by a canopy of blue
morning doves pull up yellow rays with their beaks
with their wings they scatter the clouds
it's a sunrise serenade

i sit absorbing, praying
send doves of peace to lift up
my soul, pull up yellow rays of joy
scatter my fears to the east and west
make my life a Sonrise serenade

hope

emily dickinson says hope is a thing with feathers.

i say hope is intangible. featherless, weightless, formless. completely spirit.

hope arrives in rain-drenched days through a bow of colours striped across the sky.
in the face of a chubby baby chuckling.
in the eyes of a hungry man who's been given a free meal.
in my heart when my husband whispers, 'it's all going to be okay.'

whether i am a published writer, an accomplished artist, or an unknown soul, i find hope in the spirit.
in knowing i was created, i will be looked after, and that moments of rainbows and chubby babies will follow me forever...

like a thing with feathers, only better.

signed, Jesus

i've poured myself out, puddles on the pavement, tears of blood pooling around your feet. i've signed my name in red ... can you see redemption's handwriting? crimson inkdrops from heaven; the thorns still crush my brow ... i am yours if you'll read my love letter. but hurry, before the writing is washed away and you're left standing alone on grey pavement.

simple prayer

sustain me
propane my fire
contain me
restrain my desire
to run away
help me stay
close to you today
hem my frays
curb my ways
sweet Jesus
i pray, amen

worlds apart

i've often wondered how God can hear each of our prayers, and answer accordingly, balancing out pleas with petitions and praise?

how can he say yes to the farmer needing rain, and yes to the farmer needing sunshine -- both of whom are merely miles apart?

then the thought occurred... in our finite understanding, we see one world. in his infinite genius, he sees millions of worlds. so in the 7 days of creation, he may have created the earth... and yet for him, that implied one world per person.

which would mean that when he sent his son to die for "the world," he sent his son to die for me in particular. Jesus died to save my world. and yours.

Him and us alone, bumping into other people's planets. He is the creator of millions of little worlds, orchestrating an intimate connection with every single one. praise Him.

God's footprints

his footprints are sketched across the sky
God's water-coloured feet leave a path
my eyes follow
circling the earth i seek their destination
only to find
the footprints end inside my heart
i could have stood still the entire journey
and found what he was looking for

farm-boy angel

angel of mine in farm-boy garb
you grip my hand so gently
lead me through the dark
bring me flowers wild and free
make me happy sing to me
in a voice so kind and deep
it lulls me right to sleep
just let me stay with you
my love forever true
till heaven's gates swing wide
and we're loving God inside
His perfect home

liquid sorrow

she laughs
my little girl with bruises on her face
she squirms and talks
unaware of the fairytale horror
she's living
i want to skip to the ending
reading the final sentences of her life
will heaven await this girl
whose days are hell?
living water
wash away her liquid sorrow
give her
the strength to fly away from
this glass bowl of empty promises

when time stands still

i refuse to wear high heels. i refuse to wear shoes that make me feel grown-up. velcro for me please.
i refuse to wear lip stick. i refuse to look older than i am. age is a wrinkly worm whom i don't have to coax.
i refuse to stop laughing. to stop hiccouphing in public. to stop skipping along the streets past the grown-up teenagers smoking in the alleys.
maybe they'll join me. this carefree child who refuses to acknowledge her age. we'll make a long string of silly children playing in the sun challenging time to stand still.
we can only pray.

blanketed in stories

our lives are patchwork quilts. some squares are dark and torn. others are splashed with bright colours. some people wrap themselves up in their blankets of woe. others wrap up their friends in the warmth of their tales.
"i've had a hard life but i wouldn't want it any other way" a teenager tells me.
stiched together by time and the gentle fingers of our heavenly seamstress, our quilts envelop and develop. they assure us that, in the end, this too shall pass -- becoming just another square to share with others.

bike rides and popsicles

summertime is delicious. stretching late with amber hues rising early to bathe the garden in yellow rays, its brilliant blue eyeball smiling down, warm. summertime is bike rides with no hands, smoky fires, digging into the sand making castles digging up dandelions growing flowers digging deep into daytime finding joy. summertime is water fights popsicles sweat and suntan lotion. summertime is poolside conversation splashing like children making waves finding ways to stay up just a little bit longer. summertime is here.