iambic pentameter

This morning I untangled bedsheets wrapped
around my restless body. Only home
pulls back the blankets, the alarm alarms.
While walking back, tall rows of trees surround
my path. Their bending stature leans to glean
attention, branches finger through my hair.
Brunette-hued earth perfumes and paves in waves,
his easing breeze inhaled within my lungs.
The handsome sky above me tells of rain
so sweet seducing buds to bloom--persuades
determined hearts from logic to desire--
decays my will to keep from arms I left.

Healing

I would like to say a word about healing because God has been speaking to me about this. There is nothing easy about letting the God of the universe take all my/your physical, emotional, spiritual pain away from me/you. I like to pretend that if I have pain then I can use it as a sort of covering from others. That, if they know I am emotionally scarred, they won't hurt me as much. But this is not the way of the Lord. The God of the universe tears down the walls of pain. The God of the universe removes my self-protecting-umbrella of pain I carry with me, in order for me to receive the fullness of his love. The fullness of his Blood. Does this make any sense to anyone? Am I the only one in the world that wraps myself in pain for people to know that I do or don't have problems of my own I struggle with daily? I know I am not alone. But it feels like it some days. I am like Adam and Eve who cover themselves in the bushes to hide their sin against God. Yesterday I wrote a poem about a young girl with an abusive parent who tries to cover herself with things that are so close to Jesus, but are not Jesus. I think that is what I do with my old scars. In a way, Jesus and my past scars have a lot in common. But they are IN NO WAY the same. Yet, they both have protected me from bad choices. They both have led to my salvation in some way. But my past sins and hurts are from this world, and the blood of Jesus is not. I'll share the poem because I think it better relates to what I am talking about.

Red ribbons wrapped in her young hair
Tied up anger in his tight fists
Sinking tears on her cherry cheeks
One fatherless father

Hiding behind closed closets
His alcohol stumbling search
Covered by the crimson, hanging dress
Her tiny feet seen by clouded eyes

Her swollen face and hands
Reaching toward the sky
Heaven’s red rain cleanses
Nothing left uncovered

Although, I have never endured the pain of an abusive father, like this young girl I have tried to protect myself with objects that resemble the blood of Jesus, but are NOT THE BLOOD. I believe the enemy puts worldly things in our way to resemble THE WAY THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE. Such a masquerade. God is the only protector. God is the one true father. God is. God is. God is the ultimate provider. God is. God is. When I speak this out it reminds me of the truth in the old testament when God says his name is 'I AM'. He is. He is. He is. He is my healer. He is changing me so I stop hiding my sin from everyone. If you are reading this, and you know me, you know I do this. I am humbly stepping in front of the Lord and receiving the fullness of His Grace and forgiveness through the blood.

Recently, this is what God has been pouring into me. The grace and forgiveness offered. Even though I have long since accepted this, it wasn't until recently that I am knowing the full extent of his forgiveness of my sin. And I feel like this is the first time in my life that I can offer this grace to others. And what a WONDERFUL feeling -- that through God, I can offer a little piece of radical grace and forgiveness and lack of judgement. and WHAT A WONDERFUL PLACE TO BE. What freedom comes with our Father in heaven. Amazing Grace. I remember when I was probably five or six years old, I was on my mom's lap and she asked me what my favorite song in church was; and I told her it was the one about being blind and then seeing again. And she told me she loved that one too. Amazing Grace. Children are beings full of grace -- they do not care about your past, they just want to receive and give love. This is the heart of Jesus.

This may be too vivid of a picture but I am going to use it anyway because I feel like it best portrays how I am right now. When there is an infection on or in the body, in order to remove and cleanse the wound, you have to cut it open and replace the infection with the something that will fight against it. (I am no science person but I know but I know that you can't let wounds just fester because they will spread) This is going to sound so creepy but just bear with me. Well, for the longest time when I worshipped I would get this vision of being cut open. It wasn't gross or gruesome but it was like I was being opened up from toes to head, and then from my arms spread wide from hand to hand. And then I would feel like the cross being put into these cut marks. And I always just thought that this was God showing me what it was like to hang on the cross. But it wasn't until now that I realized that this vision was something completely different. God has been opening me up for me to release my sin so he can replace it with his forgiveness. Me holding in my sin was infecting the rest of my body, so during worship God was cutting open my wounds to put in the fighter of evil in: the Cross.

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see
'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed

My chains are gone
I've been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy reigns
Unending love, Amazing grace

The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow
The sun forbear to shine
But God, Who called me here below
Will be forever mine
Will be forever mine
You are forever mine

James 5:16 Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be HEALED. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.

It's time for healing.

Okay, I've decided.

It's official; we as humans are strange. Sitting in the furthest corner, on the second floor of Iowa State's library, I just decided this. I am in a cubby; I believe every college student knows where I am. Not me personally of course, but the general space in which I am currently inhabiting.

At first, I searched for a quiet, empty table on the ground level as a matter of geographic convenience to the door. But alas, little knowledge-filled study-ers crowd the public facility's tables--how dare they exercise their free rights.

Next, I thought I would snag one of the chairs in front of the back windows of the library. You can watch as destination-focused young adults walk back home, or to class. Also, being on second floor, each moving student is midget-sized and you feel far superior to them and embrace a king of the hill moment whilst you attempt to study.

But these chairs were filled as well.

Thus, all this resulted in my whereabouts in the furthest corner cubby. Back here people are not watched or judged by others correctly or falsely. In fact, if you sit positioned carefully no one can see you at all. Amidst this disappearance, you feel the necessity to lash out and to be heard, a longing to be comforted with the fact that someone somewhere at sometime will be aware of your existence within your invisibility. Thus, vandalism is a common reaction. Vandalism is described as "an action involving the deliberate destruction of or damage to public or private property." Although this is the depiction of the solitary individual in a place like this, I believe the intention of their action is better described as graffiti: writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place. The definition of graffiti removes the connotation of planning to destroy public property. When in fact, no one enters the library with the premeditated thoughts to write their thoughts on the desk or walls. It just happens. Instead of studying, you sit and read what others have posted, and then, before you know it, you are reaching for your pen to comment on a post or to start your own discussion. To see what the reaction would be to the thought currently at my eye level: "God hates haters." or to "As far as animal treatment goes, HUMANS ARE NAZIS!" One person responded with "as far as plants go, cows are nazis too." Another strange one: "Death you are my bi*ch lover." The F word is a very common one among this graffiti, probably a product of that same desire to be known.

Yet, I can't help but be drawn to the Kurt Vonnegut quote engraved separately from everyone else's emotional discharging: "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are 'It might have been.'"

This individual thought of all these words of men inscribed publicly, the worst would be ones of regret and discontent. What an interesting response contrasted with the crude comments. This person thought 'well, I can't judge them for trying to be heard, at least they are not holding it all in and regretting writing their opinion.'

I write this graffiti-entry because I want to be heard within my invisibility. And because I don't want to imagine "It might have been different" without this entry. It might have been different without my blog. It might have been different without writing. It might have been different without perseverance through the fire. I might have been different without the comfort that: "All things work together for good for those who love God."

God draws us into contentment with him. God calls us to live a life without regrets. God puts forth his opinion in our lives so that we may also be active like him and through him.

I just stopped typing and picked up my pen to decorate this corner cubby with small words with a big impact: God is love.

"...Because the saddest are 'It might have been.'"

Juxtapositional Pulling.

While one hand is holding a too-small

mugful of darkly soothing coffee,

the other is waving in circular motions to grasp

the concept of Time’s relevance.

The left foot is chaotically

pacing behind punctuality,

And, ironically, the right foot is upon a rock,

A steady landing of morality and holistic ideals.

His eyes are lurking towards the polar walls.

One wall is graced with engravings of forgiveness,

the opposing eye observes a vandalized

graffiti-version of justice.

Can I deny the dichotomy between

His heart and his mind?

The first, races at any source of light.

And the latter, rests under an umbrella to

Deliberate the necessity of romantic love.

Well, okay.

I laugh because in my mind there is always hope, so that is my normal attitude towards a brand new fresh year. It is a fresh new start. Everything is fresh. Like newly fallen snow. It is incredibly tempting to not to go to bed at all. That would be magically delicious, wouldn’t it?

God, it’s so clear now that you are all that I have. I have no fear now you are all that I have. Snow Patrol’s Eyes Open has been such a sweet, warm hugging friend. Like a good cup of tea. Not coffee, a good cup of coffee is far too sacred (no offense Snow Patrol). I wouldn’t mind owning another Snow Patrol album. This entry reminds me of 'media streaming' we learned in seventh grade--it was a new technology back then. I remember everything about that day--having to share computers because they had an insufficient amount at at Walcott Middle School. Mrs. Toppler, who was so stereotypical librarian, and I remember a severe dislike for her for it. Because, if anyone has had a share of stereotypical librarians, it would be a me. A year in that beautiful cage. A cage is too harsh a word. A year in that... Library, what can I say I call them how I see them. Anyways, that is besides the point, I have gotten distracted. Media Streaming. Mrs. Toppler. Seventh grade. This entry reminds me of media streaming because it is a constant flow of thoughts exploded without thinking. And because it is such a thin streaming of light from inside out, it is everything. When there is only a pinprick of light streaming from lack of internet connection at a rural middle school, it was and always will be everything. Therefore, everything I am right now is upon this pages program of Mac’s iWork. With sole-y 348 words.

I know what you learn-- which senses you remember and in which order. They say smell is your longest memory companion. But I don’t care what the hell those experts say, they have no idea the pain I feel when I hear the song “if I saw you in heaven” because of memories of too young people dying too young. And I don’t care what the mother those experts say, because they have no idea the inspiration the song “christmas tv” gives me to dance and hold hands with someone. And I honestly could not care less what those monkey experts say, because every time I hear Tom Brokraw's voice, I am back in the front room of my house, eating homemade macaroni and cheese with unfrozen frozen vegetables mingled within, watching the Nightly News with my brother and my sister.

I could not tell you why.

Except that the best advice I was ever given, is to trust that core emotion within you. Not the fleeting ones of anger, or lust, or superficial sadness. No no no no no no. NOT that emotion. If you feel like you can hardly characterize those nonsensical butterflies emotions. No.

I am talking about GUTfeeling. The one deep insides you that stirs when something is right. That is how I always knew God was real before I even had ANY encounter with Him. He was there because in my deepest GUT, he HAD to be there because nothing made sense if he wasn’t. NOTHING. So when I hear the middle-aged Tom Brokaw deliver any sort of news about foreign affairs, or bombs in a car in a land not my own, I am eating hot, cheese-covered food.

And that in itself, is perfect isn’t? The knowledge that anything MAY happen but it MAY not happen. That truth is everything and it is nothing. What can you get from black and white, right? Wrong--you can get lots from black and white but you can’t get EVERYTHING. Maybe gray, but only if you play your hand with a straight face while doing a cartwheel with synchronized swimmers.

I feel cloud-light. Like every limb is perfect and at one with my Father, the most high king.

Good night, Moon.

Envelop

My feet are stagnant on the manicured square of land, the tips of my muddy toes are facing the edge of the twisted, gnarled forest. The dividing line between this artificial perfect and the wild, untrustworthy woods, curves with the hills for miles on either side of me. The thickening air is descending and replacing this summer morning’s fabricated calm; with each breath, my lungs intake water within the humidity. To the right, far above the horizon, the sky is a blur gray as the clouds expand within themselves.

My right foot begins the trespassing within the savage, moving timber. The trees’ local birds squawk as they circle overhead; further past them, the sky begins to wheel around tinges of ashen greens and grays.
A thorn bush clasps hold of my arm, I free my bleeding limb and quicken my pace. The ground in front of me thrashes with movement, I swerve to the left and begin running.

Minutes pass of splintered bare feet pressing into the woods’ harsh earth and various tree limbs strike my face as I hurtle myself further into the grasping nature.

Without warning, a small rectangular clearing appears in the center of the dense jungle-like woods. I enter it and spiral around to discover that there is no trace of where I came, just a hemming of wild, dark growth.

The heavy air stoops again, I sit in the bed-sized, moss-covered glade. Fatigue fills my muscles, so I relax to my side on the velvety canopy.

Horizontally, looking at the surrounding weeds, twigs, and grass, I imagine them growing supernaturally fast and enveloping my body within this hedge. Dead, broken leaves would thrust their way into my mouth and soaked dirt would fill my eye sockets.

If I stayed here, this would happen.
If I stayed here, we would both be in the ground.

While we are on the topic...

Love hits you on the forehead.

All the while frantically shouting: "I'm RIGHT here! and I've always been RIGHT here!"

While quickly scampering up some retro, neon arrows that point in every direction.

They flicker and blink on, a buzz of electricity sounds and continues ringing. They are scattered.

Because "RIGHT here" can be found just about anywhere.

Love hits you on the forehead.

With the hammer-stamp reading: "Good GOD, finally!"

While arranging the mixed emotions in your cranium,

so they are in a chaotic order,

a mechanical system which-only-makes-sense-to Love.

Love hits you on the forehead.

While setting an alarm, the fickle machine explodes off

"BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEP!"

So Love grabs the thing, hits you with it,

and slam dunks the time-teller in the nearest waste bin.

Love hit her on the forehead.

She's still standing there surrounded by the inorganic source of energy humming,

with the permanent indication blaring: "Good GOD, finally!"

I might be "RIGHT here" rubbing my bruised brow.