I have shared that I have two heroes.
I shared Ann with you. She has a sweet, inspiring, moving blog that always gently turns my face back to the Master.
(in no particular order) books, prose, raw fish, old and big trees, old somewhat scratched vinyls, honesty, good photography, good Chianti, big dogs, mud, almonds, hemp lotion, the entire burt’s bees line, hot tea, imported biscotti, latin american coffee, curly hair (yours, mine), hiking, edamame, frequent and loud laughter, flip flops, kissing in the rain, dried fruit, john cleese, carol burnett, mountain ranges, the sea, color, dimples, paint, dew, bonfires, generation-less music, rock climbing, Savannah, Charleston, Oyster Bay, diverse friendships, tuna steak, running, good conversation,Europe, rivers, being read to, the piano, the viola, kayaks, the sky, children who talk incessantly, the symphony, my family, the Word, faith, love, hope and grace.
Though I’ve not gone great distances, left the country, or flown halfway across the world, I’m a traveler.
I’ve seen such things in places you’d never think to look. I’ve seen the light down some old alley way, in the eyes of a child, in the cataracts of the elderly; I’ve read the wrinkles of the homeless, worked for the rich, worked with the poor, and starved with the loveless; I’ve slunk across beaches, sat sullen in county jail houses and slept drugged in a psychiatric hospital; I’ve run wild in the streets, howled at the moon, danced on tables and poles, bedded down in stranger’s homes, lodged between the mattress and the wall. I’ve climbed mountains and broken into buildings and snuck across trestles and yes, I’ve thought of jumping. I’ve seen the deserts, the canyons, the rivers and valleys, the ranges of mountains, the steeples and farmlands and wastelands. I’ve seen loathing and love in a storm, felt grace and wonder at dusk, and been caught up on the sanctuary floor. I’ve left home, been brought back home, and packed up and made a new nest in this city.
Things are always changing. I wish I could bring it in with celebrating instead of mourning.
I have my bags packed and my heart in my throat; I cannot stay here, but I’ve nowhere to go.
Which direction is home?
With my strand of guilty agate, I stumbled to the altar, bidden
by my starving padlocked heart, a young prophet and the brethren.
Where agape cinders in the kiln, wounds rest, by love laid bare;
hands break the leaven with broken men and women;
we sow this ground with hymn and prayer; under grace, we reap, forgiven.
(I serve a wild and tender God.) (1/29/09)
My soul looks back in wonder … at the road I have traveled that has brought me to this place. In every event, in every error, in every sin, in every moment of redemption, God has been at work. If my story is anything, it is proof of His grace and of His love. For I was so very nearly lost, like a bead from a severed necklace that nearly fell into a crack in the world’s floor. And He looked at me, loving me, for no other reason than it brought Him joy and glory to love me and to bring me up from the pit. Imagine that for yourself. The God of the whole earth loved YOU enough to pluck you from certain destruction, just because it would bring a smile to His face, and glory to His name. He did this to confirm the truths of His name, because He is God and He is good. And because it pleases Him, He has saved your heart from death.
… and everything in His temple cries “Glory!”
This is my life; this is all our righteousness.
“For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.” Matthew 25:36-37 (6pm, Tues, 3/4/09)
I will lift up my eyes to the hills – from whence comes my help?
My help comes from the Lord, who made the heavens and the earth.
If you please, sir, come and sit with me awhile, and I’ll sing you a song for tuppence.
There are notes in my fingertips,
Tones of wood, wire and stone.
Songs from the trees,
from the ground.
… gypsy harmony, that vagabond hymn …
songs of foxes, of old houses, of children in pearls and their mothers’ wedding veils;
songs of sparrows and boy shepherds;
songs of fishermen doing miracles;
songs of seeds and potting soil, of red clay shards, of cedars and thorns, and the color sepia;
songs of mourning, songs of morning;
songs of wondering, songs of wandering;
songs that remember the legends, what made them great, and why they fell;
songs of loathing, and loving, and longing, and belonging.
lullabies for the elderly, play music for the infants,
sultry sounds for the frustrated,
and generous portions (and second helpings) for those poor crazed folk who live under the bridges.
I want to tell them of a barefoot Jesus who had no place to lay His head.
journal scribblings, 12-20-08
And so, I share her because she fascinates. Because she draws me in. Because I covet your prayers for her. …. just Because.
(Last night’s closing facebook status entry:)
Sarah douses her signal fire (2:48 am, 3/4/09)