poetic honesty

I have this problem.  It's hard for me to tell people what my poems mean.  Someone asks me what the poem means and I freeze.  I think, "It says what it means.  It's all there."  

I quickly realize that I have written a poem... and poems are usually a little unintelligble if they didn't spring from your own mind.

Once I see, then I begin to hedge and hem.  "This poem is not really about me, it's a character... a figment of my dark imagination."  This is a lie that I have told one too many times.

So to all of you who have been befuddled by my lines, and more confused by my explanation of them, here is a better explanation for one of my poems that I have been reluctant to own until I admitted that it was, indeed, my child at our show on Saturday night.

I will write out the poem, and explain at the end.

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Chamomile

Lonely with my romance books

From my mirror despising looks

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the days end

Corduroys

Holes in the legs

Coffee cups

Drained to the dregs

Faded books

Lining ledge

All my life

Never had edge

To my room, alone in bed

Things unsaid torment my head

Chamomile, my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

Lavender

On my pillow

Winter wind

At my window

Darkest night

Will slowly grow

Purposes

I hardly know

Long lost dreams will take their toll

Tease my heart and rend my soul

Chamomile my constant friend

Lay me down at the day's end

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I didn't want to own up to this poem at first, because I didn't feel like it accurately described me in the present time.  I am not lonely for love, or purposeless.  I am marrying my best friend, and I know what my purpose is... to serve Christ and seek His kingdom.  Because of these things, I distanced my self from my creation in interpretation, and only conceded that yes, I became a chamomile drinker in 5th grade.

I wondered if I was writing something that was too far outside of myself, something I didn't know, and I continued to tell people that it wasn't about me, it was some of my characteristics projected onto another character.  "Please, don't worry about me."

Then, on Saturday, it clicked.  A month after writing it, I realized that "Chamomile" is adolescent Abby.  When I moved to California from Illinois, I was desperately lonely, and questioned many things about life.  I was an avid reader of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters (romance books) and I fell in love with the calming effects of chamomile tea.  I wanted to be loved, and I watched others date and enjoy popularity in sadness.

Yet, despite all this there was happiness in my life.  I wasn't completely joyless.  But sometimes you can't be happy if you don't confront the grief, madness, and pain in your life.  You can ignore it, but it's still there.  It's part of being fallen.

There is freedom for me in accepting these things and giving them to Christ.  He can heal me from the sickness I inherited at birth.  It is important for me to own up to my own shortcomings even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.  If I don't confess the fact that I came from darkness, and now I am a child of light, of what use am I?  My danger is that I will allow my Christian background to disguise the fact that I died and Christ lives in me.  Knowing my weakness allows me to see the strength of Christ.  There is no other way.

The lonely, crazy Abby is daily dying again to Christ.  My flesh is fallen, but Jesus in His grace is sanctifying me.  This is my story, of my Jesus I will sing.

love's roar

I just wanted to share a poem that recently became the lyrics for a song Tim and I recorded together. The poem came out of a time of weakness a couple weeks ago. I hope you enjoy it.

You said love, You said peace
My eyes saw stains upon my heart
You said there's grace, You said I'm free
And still I stay, and still I grieve

I knocked myself down to the floor
Before You could raise me up
You stretched Yourself, Your tendons tore
And still I lay there, bruised and sore

I draw my lids, and scar my mind
I lose myself, I weep and cry
Why do You care, will I still find?
You thunder, roar, and yet are kind?

I do not know You, I said I did
I claimed Your name and said forgive
I rise and seek my sins to rid
And still I'm weak, and still I live

You said it's finished, I changed your name
Your sins forgot, your sins are gone
Why don't you trust, your life is mine...
I am Love, My roar divine.

If you want to hear the song for these words you can go to our myspace.
http://myspace.com/timothyandabigail

humble love

Last week it felt like my sins and struggles were delivered to me on a platter. A platter with dead carcasses and flies. Dirty flies.

I could hardly bear it. It is much nicer to have makeup on when you look at the mirror to your soul. Unfortunately for pride and ego, that mirror strips past your facades and shows your wretched nakedness. All your glory, all your stains.

My prayers were full of "I need Yous" and "Please." I realized, re-realized that I need God in the most desperate of ways. I was faced with my weakness and I prayed more fervently than I had in a long time.

The amazing thing was, in my weakness, I felt closer to God than I had felt in a while. I realized that He was using my desperate, despairing, dumpiest of days to draw me closer to Him. I was seeking Him hourly, rather than for a fifteen minute debrief once a day. And all the while, I knew that this crazed seeking was not of my own doing... it was God's work. I was humbled, please keep me humble Lord.

God also showed me how easy it is for me to love something other than Him. I love someone on earth so deeply, I am afraid to love God more. I worry that allowing God to take the throne, and knock out my idols, will destroy me. I become enraptured with the things of this earth, and the loves of the present... and I forget that I will never love those dearest to me the way God loves them... if I don't love Him first.

But this is painful. But it is good. Open heart surgery. I give God all of my heart, and He allows me to love others the way He does. The way is narrow, and few find it.

Take my weaknesses Lord, use them as You wish. Keep me humble, please don't let me go. Take my heart, my love is Yours.

straitjacket

I am constantly unconciously categorizing things in my own crazy i-think-i'm-an-artist way.  This is beautiful, haunting, moving, repulsive, crazy.  This is do-able, this is impossible.  This is possible for some, out of the question for me, etc., etc.  I place constraints on myself and others based on how well I understand the situation based on my experiences and knowledge.

The most unfortunate of straitjackets is the one that I put on God.

I underestimate His power.

I give out straitjackets based on my comfort level and knowledge of the situation.  I realize that my knowledge and understanding of God is limited and finite... I am always trying to re-box Him when He tears apart the wrapping paper.

But this is not the God I serve.  He is not tame, He cannot be conquered intellectually any more than He can be conquered physically or spiritually.

These mis-understandings cause confusion in my theology, they allow me to both doubt my salvation and think I have done something to earn the salvation I think I have lost.  A funny couple.  Of course I will doubt a salvation I have earned myself, the Lord knows I have done nothing to deserve it.  Filthy rags, filthy rags.

My religious legalism wraps its tentacles around my mind, and tries to put a leash on the power of God.  I think that I must do certain things to be pleasing to Him.

Then it happens... my secret sin knocks on my door, I let it in.  Suddenly, my forgiving Savior becomes a dictator bent on revenge.  I am afraid of Him.  I plead for forgiveness and feel like I cannot be forgiven.  I mentally brow-beat myself, and drag myself through the dirt.  Is this yet another form of pride, a pride that thinks my self-hate will somehow gain forgiveness?

If I feel terrible enough, maybe He will forgive.

This is not Jesus, this is someone created in my own head.  Jesus died on the cross to save me from the sins of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  No amount of confession or self-loathing will bring about my salvation.  He lavishes grace upon my life, and forgets my sins when I ask for forgiveness the first time.

Why is it so hard to accept His love?  I am continually missing the God who is there, who walks beside me, carries me, the Savior who never lets me go.  

Lord, let me know Your love.  Let me feel Your presence.  Give me grace, help me give grace to others.  Please open my blind eyes, and let me see Your lovely face.  I love You.

does it sink in?

Good Friday.  A day we specifically remember Jesus' death on the cross.  It is strange to think of what it would have felt like to be there on the first Good Friday... a day that was anything but good living in the midst of it.

The perfect Man, the Healer, the Teacher... the Innocent is falsely tried and hanged on a tree.  The darkness of that injustice, the darkness in the hearts of His followers.  They had dropped everything for the last 3 years, to follow Jesus, the Son of God.  Now this?

I wish I better understood the cost, the price that Jesus paid for my life.  Sometimes I get a glimpse of it. when I realize the depth of my own sins... I make a terrible mistake, an error that seems irremedial...  He paid for even this?  The weight of that sin was lifted by His sacrifice two-thousand years ago... what pain did it cost Him to bear the sins of the world?

If you have trouble imagining His suffering, I encourage you to look at a painting of Christ crucified.  It gets me everytime.  My Jesus, Lover of my soul... tortured for my sins.

Dwell on His sacrifice, marvel at His love.  The Prince of Peace, broken for you.  Lord, help us remember.

kingdom of heaven

"Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

my tiny culture

Today I had class. History and Structure of the English Language. If it sounds difficult, you're on to something.

My professor was talking about how we interact with other cultures linguistically, and how we often judge each other's intelligence and other things based on dialects.

This got me to thinking about my own culture. You know, the white Midwestern, I-Don't-Have-A-Culture culture. Like my previous blog about stereotypes, my culture is a lens through which I see the world, cracked as it may be. I am constantly trying to temper this lens and others lens I have acquired with the ultimate worldview, the Gospel.

I am amazed at my cultural smallness, and my inability to easily connect with other cultures because of the strong ties I have to the things of my own upbringing. My tiny, tiny brain starts to ache with all the -isms of this world, cultural customs, and callings. This realization has given me a new-found awe for the infiniteness of God. A God who knows every heart, every person, every tribe, every city, every culture. A God who knows everything, but is bound by nothing.

I will never be able to see things from God's viewpoint of my own volition. I wish there was a mountain tall enough to stand on and see the world accurately. I would climb it and wait for the clouds to part, and watch the sun shine upon the world's idiosyncracies, glories, and sins. Unfortunately, greats heights don't discern the heart of man or the mind of God.

Fortunately God has given me His Word, something I continue to study and wrestle with. He has also given me Himself through the sacrifice of His Son, and now I am His.

When I start from Scripture, rather than my culture... scales fall off my eyes. Things that I was fearful of before, whether death, people who are different than me, or even my own ignorance are declawed in the presence of an Almighty God. I'm amazed by His glory.