Sail

Oft' I have thought I was meant to fly,

Meant to have wings to caress the sky.

Then would I soar in the hawk's domain,

And toss in the wind like a weather vane.

Knowing the freedom of endless flight;

Soaring unchanged as the day turns night.

Wind in my wings, all the world's my own.

I've reached to the heights of some place unknown.

Gravity's bondage no longer holds.

Dreams find a way and my wings unfold.

Here in the sea, I have found my sky,

Where sails, not just wings lend the pow'r to fly.

Breathless, I sail through the wind and sea;

Carried by tempest, I'm finally free.

Floating adrift o'er the storm and gale,

For God gave me wings when he gave me sails.

Treasures in the Attic

I parted heavens glory,

And gold puffed away like dust

Where gossamer ribbons floated

Void of cobwebs, grime, or rust.

I was cleaning Heaven’s attic

In a mansion up the street,

And the memories I uncovered

Were sprawled there at my feet.

I found bits of joy and blessings

And a trunk filled up with hope,

And tied with string, a word of thanks

Tucked in an envelope.

I found albums filled with photographs

Of happy days gone by,

Of smiling faces, laughter,

And the bliss of each July.

I pulled back a big white sheet

That was draped over a chair

The very place I’d talked with God

And come to him in prayer.

And there stacked so neatly to one side,

All my ministries in a line— 

The children’s work, the choir,

Visitation all combined.

Then in the farthest corner,

Behind every happy thought,

I found a box tucked in the back

Some things that I’d forgot.

I opened it up slowly,

Recalling now what was inside,

All my hurts and disappointments

And the things I’d tried to hide.

These don’t belong in heaven

In a place that knows no tears.

I thought to throw the box away,

But paused and drew it near.

I sorted through the contents,

Setting each thing down with care,

And my story then unfolded

With each trifle I found there.

I found a heart once broken

By injustice, hurts and wrongs,

Now mended. Though the scar still showed,

The pulse was beating strong.

There were dreams that I had clung to

Thinking this must be God’s will.

I could see now, had they worked out,

I would be unhappy still.

There were lists of prayers unanswered

When it seemed God wouldn’t speak.

Now reading through the tear stains,

It was I who was too weak.

The times God left me hanging

While He blessed my fellow man,

If only I’d been patient,

I’d have seen His glorious plan.

I looked across the remnants

Of the failures, loss, and pain,

And I wondered at God’s foresight

As I saw His grace so plain.

 All the hurts I’d held so tightly,

Now through heaven-altered eyes,

Were the blessings God had giv’n me,

Were the treasures in disguise.

Lifeguard On Duty

It has been a while, but racing down to the water’s edge for the first time this summer is like greeting an old friend. This is the ocean I had played in nearly every summer as I was growing up. I’ve been in the Pacific and Caribbean as well, even the Mediterranean Sea. But this is the ocean I know. I let the water lap over me feet and I move out deeper, familiarity rising and falling over me with each wave. I brace myself against the strong undertow, gazing out at the wide expanse of sea where distant boats float on blue. A sandbar allows me to stay waist deep until a rising curl whips me off my feet and I feel that sensation of floating midair before I crash back into the white froth. I ride the waves for a while like this, jumping the smaller ones, diving under the larger.

And then the waves changed. The crash of water is more insistent, stronger than before. I barely catch my breath from one before I’m hammered by the next. The thought of moving closer to shore hits me only a moment before the whistle blows. I start swimming hard. The group I had been swimming with is now a wave ahead of me, and then two. The waves are striking me at different angles now, holding me back in a watery grip. With each big wave, I kick for all I’m worth, thinking this is the wave that will carry me all the way to shore, but I make no progress. Each time, I’m pulled back deeper into the ocean. I can’t see anyone else in the water anymore. I look to the shore. The lifeguards are standing now, not breaking eye contact, waving me in. I fight the water again, swimming, but in vain. A feeling of exhaustion washes over me suddenly, and I know I have nothing left. I can’t make it in. Another wave dunks my head under. I don’t fight it. After the crash, I let my body float back to the surface and gasp for another breath. Salt stings my senses. I look again to the life guards poised on the water’s edge. I slowly shake my head and wave an arm. I can’t do it.

Then suddenly, I hear a succession of short fast whistle blows. Two life guards hit the water, swimming at me faster then I thought possible. I have time to think of staying calm. Strong arms, stronger than the clutch of the water pull me from the riptide. I won’t recognize either of my rescuers later. I’m only aware of the arms that hold me on either side, bringing me to safety. In that moment, even before my feet touch the sand, I am at peace. I feel perfectly safe. 

Once the strong arms were there, nothing else mattered. It meant moving beyond the humiliation of asking for help. It meant moving beyond the feeling of insufficiency at not being able to help myself. It meant resting in a strength far greater than my own. And I think I'm learning to do that. Maybe this was all just part of the process. 

Gullible

I laugh at the gullible mind then wonder what it would be like to be so trusting.

"I want to go outside."
"You can't go out it's too hot."
"It's not too hot."
"If you go outside, you will melt and then there will be puddles all over the playground where all the children used to be."
Later when he went outside, I saw him scanning the playground area and realized he was looking for the puddles.

They'll buy anything.With little effort, they believe in beanstalks and Santa Clause, field cows and hill cows, monsters and aliens.

We torment the gullible, both the child and the blond. We feed them lies and laugh when they believe, but become jealous of their unquestioning faith. We pride ourselves on being above the gullible trap and begin to question not only the lie, but also the truth.

Salvation by faith?
A strength made perfect in weakness?
Forgiveness?
Love for enemies?
Sovereignty?

Camping

I just got back from a camping trip, not the roughing it kind by any stretch. Not that I'm opposed to roughing it camping. That's just not what we did. I haven't camped in a long time. We did it a lot growing up, but it's been a while. And this particular campground was only about ten minutes from home. But it was camping just the same. I was excited enough to buy my own tent. Or maybe I just didn't relish the thought of sharing a tent with certain individuals who snore insistently. The tent I got was advertised as a 2 man tent, so naturally it sleeps one. If I ever get married, he'll just have to get his own tent. My new miniature abode has a base measuring 7 feet by 5 feet, but it isn't really. It's more like 7 feet by 3 feet and is rather like sleeping in a coffin.

Lot's of experience camping teaches you certain skills. I can now get changed inconspicuously in the backseat of a car (though that may have less to do with camping and more to do with three years of deputation and being required to arrive at churches in a skirt). I can roast marshmallows to perfection. And I generally don't forget the basic essentials anymore. The only things forgotten this trip that were deemed worth going back for was salt, aspirin, and the second bag of marshmallows.

The best part of camping:
Cooking "gourmet" over a wood fire.
Snuggled up in a sleeping bag reading by flashlight late into the night.
Walking along various campsites and watching people who have no idea how to set up a tent.
Guitar and psaltery by firelight.
Telling funny/scary stories--recalling the story Mom told me when I was eight that gave me nightmares for the entire rest of my childhood.

Lost...in books

I was introduced to Lost at the end of its first season. My parents (who never watch TV shows) set up the computer with the TV because the parents (who never download anything) had downloaded every Lost episode off of iTunes. And they proceeded to watch me watch Lost. I watched the first episode with an eyebrow raised. By the fifth episode I was hooked.

And for the next 6 years, like everyone else, I kept coming back to it--because of the questions, because of the numbers, because of the name calling, because of the flashbacks, because of imaginary peanut butter and songs about the sea, because Sayid is really hot.

I almost gave up on the show a couple of times. Like after the first flash forward when I knew they got off the island, when we got gypped half our episodes in season four, when Charlie died, when in season five, I had more questions than in season one, when we pulled out an atlas and based on the flight plan of 815 and the size of the small plane carrying drugs, tried to locate the island and found it impossible, when the logic just plain didn't work, when they completely ignored and left Walt's character unfinished, unanswered.

But I stuck with it through the finale. Yeah--about the finally. I loved it and I hated it. The Jack/Locke fight on the cliffs in the rain on a shaking, sinking island simultaneous with Locke's operation was very cool. The quality of love being the very thing that triggered everyone's memories of the island was an interesting concept.  Hurley had some great scenes, love the spectrum of his character. There were lots of edge of the seat moments and lots of questions answered--finally. Basically everything the finale needed to be...until the last 10 minutes. They presented the whole dead thing and I was silently screaming No, no no!! That was the conclusion I had reached somewhere mid 3rd season. What if they're all dead, if they all died in the crash. And I spent the rest of the show hoping they would find a different way to end it. My biggest problem in the theory: You can't kill someone who is already dead. It makes every death we've mourned for nothing. Shepherd Sr.'s statement some died before and some after was key, but still, dead?

So Lost is over. Some people have written ballads of mourning and posted them on YouTube. I'll closing out these six years of "obsession?" a different way--with a reading challenge. I'm working my way through all the books Sawyer read during his six years on the island. Might give me an interesting perspective.

Books Read in April

I meant to post this a while ago, but the time got away from. Oh well. I suppose better late than never. I only read two books in April, not the norm. April was a busy month, although I honestly cannot remember why.

Diamond of Darkhold by Jeanne DuPrau
This is the forth in the City of Ember Series. I enjoyed the books, especially the first. City of Ember was made into a movie, terrible disappointment. Don't watch the movie first or you might not enjoy the book, and that would just be unfortunate. The series is a work of speculative fiction, a sort of primitive futuristic concept. Book four picks up where book two leaves off. Book three takes leave of the story line and gives a prequel view of the events that led the City of Ember to be built. Though I enjoyed it, I was ready for the series to end. For her to write another book would just draw it out too much and spoil it for me. This was a quick read and a satisfying conclusion to the Ember Saga.

The Host by Stephenie Meyer
Stephenie Meyer describes this book as science fiction for people who hate science fiction. I don't know if I hate science fiction. I haven't read enough of it to form an opinion. I roll my eyes at Star Wars and can't get past the corniness of Star Trek, so from that viewpoint, I guess I've always found alien stories a little silly. But, something in this story connected with me. Odd as it was to identify with a main character that isn't even human, I was intrigued and read for many late hours into the night. I like the idea of a reality outside the realm of possibility. I recognize that this is not what would be considered hard sf, but I think I might be opening up to a new genre. We'll see. Thanks Marilyn for the suggestion.