Friendship

Thoughts after Byron and Lisa's visit...some cliches...

A precious thing

Deep friendship

far below bottomless oceans

above highest heavens

beyond the farthest reaches of the earth.

Heart relationship,

beyond any barriers,

uncluttered loving,

rooted and established full-grown trust.

(almost)

'no conditions' love

warts and all

completely accepting

a tiny glimpse of heaven here on earth. 

Keeping safe

I have given my heart to my friend.

She has nurtured and kept it safe

for nearly thirty years.

She is trustworthy. She reflects Jesus.

I have opened my heart to my friend.

She has poured love into it and helped fill it up

for nearly thirty years.

She is loving. She shows me Jesus.

I have trusted my heart to my friend.

She has protected and nourished it

for nearly thirty years.

She graciously helps me follow Jesus.

A pieced-together patchwork life

A life: a rich tapestry.
more than
a fabric or cloth.
a woven
intermingling
of warp and weft.

A life: pieces
of perfection: beauty
tightly woven.
constantly even
in purpose and effect.
threads intertwine
in harmony.

A life: patches
of sorrow, ugliness
tacked over holes
of loss, and bereavement,
and sadnessess too many to count.
threads strain
to hold it all together.

A life: threads
loosening in uncertainty.
the cloth disintegrating.
job loss, sickness,
change too
difficult to bear.
holes appear.

A life: hues
with far-off distance
merged into
an impression
of beauty
or pity
or admiration.

A life: black
threads of sorrow; the
gold of joy;
happiness rainbows
and earthen moss-green
everyday life.

My life: more than
a tapestry.
stitched onto
the firm canvas
whose name
is Jesus.

On the 25th birthday of my children

No one ever told me
how hard it would be
to have children.

No not the discomfort of pregnancy
nor the pain of childbirth.

The sleepless nights
or chasing after toddlers
seems a dream.

Worries over friends, or school,
or teenage angsts
are but a brief gasp in memory.

No, now is the hard part.
A quarter century of life.
Too far away

no longer part of
my everyday laughter life
but grown and gone.

No one ever told me
how hard it would be
to have children.

Blizzard

The wind howls. Trees,
storm-lashed,
whip towards the unyielding ground.
Snow
drives past my window
seeking victims
to embrace.

I am warm. Safe.

I gaze anxiously outside.
I think of those at sea,
far from sheltering harbours.

I am comfortable. Secure.

I listen for returning footsteps.
I think of those far away,
whose children cry themselves to sleep from hunger.

My fire is a cosy luxury.

I long to gather my loved ones.
I think of the lonely, the refugee, the one
who has no home.

My heart howls. Thoughts,
storm-lashed,
whip towards an unyielding world.
Cold injustice
drives me onward,
seeking courage
to embrace change.

Written on March 11th 2013, as a snow-laden storm lashes Guernsey, shops and services close, and people struggle to get home.

Hearts

Hearts do not always break
(and even then, rarely cleanly.
rather, into ugly scattered shards,
impossible, it seems,
to gather together).

No, hearts are torn, ripped
to shreds, fibres straining
to stay together,
screaming in pain.

Such hearts cannot be mended.
cannot be pieced back together
like precious porcelain. even time
cannot wreak miracles.

Rather, shredded hearts have to rest.
eventually fibres grow back
into sorrow-created spaces.
the scars remain.

Wedding

A day of gladness,
of crystallized relationship shouted to their world.
of eager exclamation, snapped photos,
excited babble, rippling laughter.
of funny stories, gentle glances,
graceful dances, whispered secrets.
smiles. and flowers and frills and fancy food.
a day
of celebration.

Yet underneath, behind
polite faces
I sense the flowing sorrows.
the widow, remembering happier married years.
the betrayed husband, smarting from the pain of divorce.
the single girl, longing for love and fulfilment.
the bachelor, flitting, endlessly unfulfilled, between relationships.
the bereaved parents, mourning the lost future of a beloved son,
the father, suddenly now an outsider.
the mother, longing for a return to child parenting, baby loving times.


Bitter. Sweet.
And I too am sad, on what should be a joyous day, because
sadness shouts louder than joy.
undercurrents
cut icy at my heart.
my spirit celebrates only with an absorbed heaviness.

A battle won

An attempt at a poem, on Mary de Muth's blog:

We wage a hidden, unseen war

in life.  While deep enmeshed in strife

of everyday living, we store

thoughts, unthought, still lying

 before  our eyes, while  time

rushes on.

We dare not stop to look.

Yet,

lost in noise and turmoil sore

we need to pause: tune

deafened ears towards that song

from our Commander’s voice.

‘See the Enemy’ he calls

‘and do not weep. Such as he

Is long defeated. This battle

Is Mine. I joy journey with

utter gladness that you are with

Me.

This is a beautiful time.

Rejoice. The battle

is won.’