my hero

a song for my husband - the strong, silent type. after our first natural disaster (tornado) together, i find i have a lot to learn about him...

i see you wincing through the pain

i would wipe the tears away

i feel you trembling in the rain

only i see you this way

i watch you as the days unfold

your patience, wearing thin

i wait to hear you speak to me,

oh baby, let me in 

the wind may blow our shelter down

the calm may never come

the hail may tear our world apart

and lead us far from home

still, in this storm i see you

i see you standing tall

your posture is sky-reaching

though the sky may truly fall

and fall and fall

i see you and i feel you

i would wipe the tears away

i know you and i love you

only i see you this way

i watch you as the days unfold 

your patience, wearing thin

i wait to hear you speak to me,

oh baby, let me in 

my hero

you’re reaching out to me

i’m the only one you hold like this

i feel you pull me in

my hero

When the Saints

Three weeks and two days ago, I was sitting in my pjs at my computer, listening to my sister’s Sara Groves cd. I was playing and replaying the song, When the Saints, and I had looked up the lyrics online so I could read along as the words so powerfully sang out:

(Click to listen)

I was interrupted part-way through the song, at one point, by a tornado that ripped through my town and took my home from my husband and me. Chaos and trauma ensued, filling our lives for the next three weeks, threatening to do so even now as I type, and into the days ahead.

A few minutes ago, I was sitting in my parents’ camping chair in my new home, with my stuff surrounding me and emotions running wild. My heart was bursting as I ate my scrambled eggs in front of the computer, listening to When the Saints once again. Only then did I recall exactly what I had been doing when the storm came crashing into our lives those weeks ago: my heart had been bursting then, too, and I had been yearning for something deeper in my soul - a spiritual experience with my Heavenly Father. Something that would change me and make me more real, more charitable, more understanding and more productive in this life for eternity.

I think back again to the devastation caused by the wind, water and hail that afternoon. The memories and news of broken homes and lives cause great heartache. And in my own little life today, I see something. Deduce what you will, but I say this thing is good for me. Maybe the cry of my heart was heard and answered. Maybe something here is happening for eternity and maybe it’s going to be okay.

monday

pouty, irritated, not so motivated;

take it out on husband and friend.

overworked, annoyed, feel a little void,

wanting and not wanting day to end.

this must be a monday,

ridiculous, unfun,

this must be a girl in her own brain.

step outside apartment,

underneath the sun,

close the eyes and let the mercy rain.


cLiCk hEre

i got sucked in.

i'm sitting here in my pjs, teeth unbrushed, breakfast uneaten. ??!!? perfect for a mock-blog.

i got sucked in, how ‘bout you?

facebook, blogspot and youtube,

ebay, etsy, google, yahoo,

twitter and kijiji and a little gmail, too.  

brain fried, hands tied, cold, dark room.

dunno if i might’ve had things to do...

i got sucked in, how ‘bout you?

i am the missionary

sitting with a friend,

“when will the heartache end?”

tear-stained, worn and trembled;

strengthened while assembled.

broken in the darkness,

“please, somebody help us”

friend from ‘cross the street

wash the other’s feet.

kitchen pantry bare,

“i pray someone will share”.

neighbour, pockets spilled;

giving, cupboards filled.

no need for flights and ferries,

no need to travel ‘round -

i am the missionary; 

i am the mission ground.

wait - no need to hurry;

pray the harvest yield.

you are the missionary;

you are the mission field.

burdens to be carried,

Saviour to be found.

we are the missionary;

we are the mission ground.

join us on thursdays for a little bit o' somethin' somethin'...

Mother Goose

the smell of an old book - 
might’ve been my mom’s...

spots of dirt and candy 
over my son John.

Hey diddle, diddle 
in the middle of the page,

Little Boy Blue 
looking twice his age.

Colours fading, maybe, 
from the girls of Georgie Porgie,

and the Muffet 
on the tuffet’s gone away.

pages thin and tearing 
‘cross the mitts 
the kitts were wearing...

Mary’s garden 
surely knew a better day.

open up and pour 
o’er the joys of childhood ‘lore, 

tap the door at three and four 
until it opens.

it’s been good 
to know you, book,

to step inside 
and take a look...

reminding of the 
good and fun of hopin’.

spots of dirt and candy.

colours fading, maybe.

pages thin and torn.

joys of childhood ‘lore.

the smell of an old book - 
might’ve been my mom’s.

trail to freedom

Christ offers incredible liberty that often conflicts with our traditions, thinking, behaviour, etc. 

this can make the path to freedom more painful than the enslavement itself. i felt the urge to get off that path and remain mediocre, in bonds. but at the end of the day, i still found myself wanting more. so i move forward, however slowly or alone.

fallen off the wagon

on the trail to freedom,

trodden under feet with balls and chains.

wave ‘so long’ to liberty

let it cast away to sea

slap the cuffs on - 

this is how we came.

we’ve gone this road before,

it’s simple: you and i want more,

it’s painful: opening our eyes

in this light.

fallen off the wagon

on the trail to freedom

trodden under feet with balls and chains

wave ‘so long’ to liberty

let it cast away to sea

slap the cuffs on - 

drag us through the rain.

we’ve gone this road before,

it’s simple: you and i want more,

it’s painful: opening our eyes

in this light.

let’s go there one more time,

we need to show them how and why

they need to open up their eyes

in this light.