Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Sometimes I feel like we are on the brink of a new discovery. Just when I feel the sadness, being just enough sad to make me feel...I get swept away. Meditating on the hummms of music and the lyrics of gold, I am finding a new plane to rest. This rest is nourishment to my culture shocked soul. Bruised and in knots from the apathetic and gross misuse of the mind, it (my soul) hides for salvation, for life,within the rain that is falling from my sadness I feel. My soul grips me to keep the rain beating just long enough to melt within the wetness that is now it's residence. If it drowns, it will find peace, it will find all that it delights in.
Friday, January 29, 2010
I have been doing alot of research of soul lately. I study what it means to truly believe in the old God of Yahshua. I have a thorn in my side. I know it is my cover, my bridge, that will lead me to a closer walk with the almighty in this broken American structure. I have always had a anticipation of death. Not in the fear sort or the seeing it around the corner but just a dull ache that my time is limited. This ache is not a bother until I realize how far from the picture I am and how easy it is to stray from my purpose. I have been reading about people that have met with God in a way that I will probably not understand on this side of heaven. I have had a near death experience where I can strongly say that I know it is divine that I am writing now and taking deep breathes right before I kiss the faces of those I love. I have seen a glimpse of unmistakable death that places me on a certain playing field when I think of heaven and how near it is. I am reading of human tragedy. I imagined last night that a dark form entered my home last night..a faceless man that entered my home and slaughtered my family. I imagined seeing the villain ripe my children in half as if they were not even worthy of a flinch. After I visioned such a dark occurrence I laid in bed wondering how I could reconcile such events with the shortness of my life. How could I move on with forgiveness towards those that could cause such pain. I knew a woman in Natchitoches that witnessed her husband shoot their children in the head and then shot her. Out of all of them she remained. Her hair never grew very long but she remained. She would serve and smile at our little church. She was childless but never seemed bitter or even alone. I often wonder why God would leave me hear on earth. I was 17 when I almost died. Why not take me then. Every day I wonder how I am going to glorify God. When I started out my life, in marriage and children, I felt as if I abandoned the worlds philosophy on how I should be and wanted more than anything to devote, in the realest sense of my human nature, my family to God. As I still see God moving I also see Him standing still before me. Just this stillness that is starting to aggravate. I bow before...praise Him...stand in His presence. I push at Him plead that He will move out the way. I CAN'T SEE God I can't see...get out of the way! My bones are like mush and my fingers are drying up. My mind is mourning for exercise. My faith seems to be turning into a boil of thoughtless remarks. My anticipation for glorification is my thorn...my eagerness to redeem the time in order that I will not waste it, is making me stand still. I see His meaning and I hear His breath. He will not move until He is ready for me to listen. I know that I am nothing when compared to the faithful few. I am lacking and bitter. As all doubt and unbelief threaten to dissolve this image of Him before me, I can do nothing but seek. Seeking to persuade this God that is so much more than my over medicated mind can comprehend. Though the doubts are there because of my path I cannot forget the tragedy of death and the helplessness of man. The screams of the people that desire healing in a way that self help cannot persuade. As I lean on the Almighty, sometimes banging my head, I know that I am grafted in. There is nothing in my body that is mine.
Thanks Be to God
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
So, i want to start a home study...i am always complaining about how i wish someone would come up with a really cool bible study that didn't consist of submission to husband's or baby talk...not that these are not all good but i want one that centers on our individuality in Christ, not so much our gender. I know from being married and having kids that well, i tend to lose myself and what i dig when enjoying Christianity and worship. I am praying that God directs this home study and it will be exactly pleasant when He is hovering over. I am naming it fragile things because the more i think about every moment of peace in our life, i am realizing how fragile things are. i am always having struggles but i just need reconnection in the spiritual realm. i need to call upon the name of the Lord as if He really will be there. I am excited and well, i am also not expecting to much. People don't devote to much and home studies are fragile things as well. I hope God will pick some peeps that belong and I am praying that we can use our individuality and our flaming hearts for Christ to truly go somewheres a little different. but really i have nothing to offer but fragile things.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
In moments in life we begin to realize that existing reality and capturing dreams are very fragile things. I am thinking at these times true love and dreams are only for small amounts of time. Sometimes I wish we would have never experienced them, that way we wouldn't be sad when they leave us. I am feeling lost these days...broken by the reality of world verses idealistic prayers. I don't know how to fix my breaking marriage and I especially don't know how to fix myself. I am beginning to believe that this is just the way things are and the way things work out. Everyone is saying "just believe" and in my heart I am longing for that "just belief" or death. I want to see that the Lord is never shamed by my weakness. I am so tired of saying "Poor God" why are we doing this? Till then....whatever then brings I will keep listening to hannah montanna's "the climb" and "butterfly fly away". I will continue to try to do my best by my kids and my husband. These are some of the most precious moments in my life....I pray I don't make to many mistakes.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I have never in my short time expected that life, in general, can be such a challenge in staying clean. The world is filled with shit, for lack of better words, shit that stains and eats away at the center of our flesh. I live my life in constant want to be stronger than the bacteria that lives in my lap. Sometimes when I have really lost my way and the beauty that I once had is out of sight, I resolve to go back to the beginning of my relationship with Christ. I resolve to live for my children with the conflict of heart on the back burner, trying to please all the people in my house, especially the Pink Elephant that lives in the middle of my living room. Sometimes I scream so loudly to Christ. The air is thin and crisp and my voice resonates so loudly that I can almost hear Him screaming back. I fumble and panic with the load of keeping myself clean before Him, husband and myself. I rip and scrape my flesh to show that I can do it. I can stand up to defilement and the beast. In truth, in the moments of shout and pleading, I tremble to see the face of evil--secretly I plead with him not to eat me and my family. I pay homage to his logical conclusion that He nor he exists. I feed him with doubt and insecurity, hoping that he will go away, satisfied that I have nothing left. The closer I get to death the more understanding I have that this is all that we truly have. Death is a constant and humble reminder that I must scream louder. I conclude that the Father in Heaven knows how to be here without us dreaming Him up into existence. I exist because He allows and I still love Him for it. I need to tell, though, that I do not know how to live my life in glory and praise to Him. I have lost my best friend and Father in this sea of doubt. When I was a child and at my dad's house, they would put me in the spare room on a cot. My dad would turn the lights off and I would pull the covers over my head because I knew that the darkness was coming to get me. I could barely breath for fear that I would not make it through the night. I squeezed my eyes shut and wrapped my fingers inbetween the sheets like my fingers would interlace with Christ himself. I pleaded that the Lord would sleep there in my space with me until the darkness and fear would leave and I could see light through the window. I would cry in prayer and thought of His presence with me. I pray now, just the same, that I will have a morning and that I will have light once again before it is to late.
ColdPlay-The Scientist (For Jason)
Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are
I had to find you
Tell you I need you
Tell you I've set you apart
Tell me your secrets
And nurse me your questions
Oh, let's go back to the start
Running in circles
Coming up tails
Heads on the science apart
Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh take me back to the start
I was just guessing
At numbers and figures
Pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science
Science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart
Oh tell me you love me
Come back and haunt me
Oh and I rush to the start
Running in circles
Chasing our tails
Coming back as we are
Nobody said it was easy
Oh, it's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so hard
I’m going back to the start
Being One in Spirit and Purpose
Friday, January 30, 2009
Remove your evil deeds from My sight.
Stop doing evil.
Learn to do what is good.
Correct the oppressor.
Defend the rights of the fatherless.
Plead the widow's cause.
"COME LET US DISCUSS THIS,"
says The LORD."
Toil toil bid me my way...say again what is a man's worth
a party in the town and a bastard child being born in the stable
what is this sense of humanity that one should live for the reconciliation of a wide chasm
a dark and deep search for the surface "goodness" of a man's heart
a heart that is an artistic mystery in how it beats and a heart that is given over to injustice on a downscale step of one thoughtless deter.
what are the words of a man's heart if they are not able to turn a man's head towards good.
toil toil all i am waiting for-what-
raising children to seek truth only to be given over to a blissful decay of knowledge and ideal chat.
the stolen sanity of a peaceful conclusion, tore down by a memory of broken confusion
oh great scholars what is it about the action of your pen that seeps in to steal the resolution of my attitude toward the movement of my hand.
toil toil, i forgot to write it down
if in the forgetfulness of my actions, are my actions void of justice and reprobate
are the memoir's of God, man, saviors and rejected human wastefulness lost on a displaced pen and an untamed hand.
toil toil what would you delight
if i push you aside and turn my head toward the sun?
will you redeem yourself or would you just find a new heart to be at your dispose
rid you, oh meaningless weight,
forget you, son of echo, find your place in the part of the heart that is reformable by fire
waste your time on someone else
call a discussion of a different kind--oh heart of man--
discuss to bring what is bought and paid for
you are a beautiful word
you are a glorious sound
beat..beat...past my years of broken language and tattered words....beat for you are the cause of words
you are the cause of man
Thursday, January 22, 2009
On Thoughtless Remarks
From The Illustrated London News, October 22, 1932
It is doubtless disrespectful both to the reader, nor indeed does it tend greatly to the aggrandisement or dignity of the writer, to say that my occupation in life is catching flies. And when I recently referred to a certain type of Feminist as a wasp, I received remonstrances from one who doubtless considered her to have all the highest and most royal attributes of a queen bee. Nevertheless, this unfortunate metaphor frequently returns to my mind, and I am conscious of a truth that I could not easily express without it. What I mean is this: that one of the chief nuisances of our time is a swarm of little things, in the form of little thoughts, or little sayings largely divorced from thoughts, which pervade the whole atmosphere in a manner only comparable to that of the most minute insects: insignificant and almost invisible, but innumerable and almost omnipresent. I am not thinking of real thought: even of false or destructive thought. I am not referring to the real bodies of moral and philosophical opinion, based on principles I think wrong, or producing results I think mischievous. The views of this kind, with which I have sometimes dealt on this page, differ very much in their power or promise or capacity for doing harm. I disagree with Communism as I disagree with Calvinism; but nobody would say this is the hour of Calvinism and I admit, in a sense, it is the hour of Communism. There is a very strong intellectual temptation to the Bolshevist implification because of the unquestionable collapse of the old commercial complexity. On the other hand, other theories I have quarreled with in my time are less and less prominent in the modern quarrel. Many men of science have abandoned Darwinism. All men of science have abandoned Materialism. but Materialism and Darwinism were none the less thorough systems supported by thinking men, with arguments to be answered as well as assumptions to be questioned. The kind of thing of which I am speaking now is something at once atmospheric and microscopic, like a cloud of midges, and not like the serious scientific theories and philosophies of the nineteenth century, which may rather be compared, according to taste, to lions, elephants, tigers, cultures, vipers, or scorpions.
The matter in question is the prevalence of a sort of casual and even conversational scepticism, making even the idle thoughts of an idle fellow busy in the interests of doubt and despair. I mean that a man, without thinking at all, will throw off some flippant phrase which is always (by a strange fatality) a sort of feeble revolt against all traditional truth. It may be anything, an aside on the stage or a joke on the political platform; it may be a mere flourish at the start of a magazine story or a mere word dropped into an inconvenient silence; something said for the sake of saying something. The whole point of it is that it is, in this sense, pointless. The philosophy is not expressed when people are talking about philosophy, but when they are talking about anything else. I have just this moment started reading an ordinary modern story, quite well written considered as a story; and it begins by saying that there is not much difference between stupidity and courage, and, in fact, that courage is really only a form of stupidity.
That is exactly typical of the thing I mean. It is merely a casual remark; it is only very casually meant to be a clever remark; it is actually rather a silly remark; but the point is that a fatality of fashion causes a myriad such remarks to be made, always on the side
of cowardice and never on the side of courage. In point of fact, of course, it would be easy to demonstrate its falsehood. History is full of examples of intellectual men who have been courageous, even of highly subtle and penetrating intellectuals who have accepted death courageously. It even contains any number of cases of thoughtful men
who have thought a great deal about the act of accepting death; who have thought about it for a long time, and with complete composure, and then deliberately accepted it. Socrates is an obvious example. Sir Thomas More is a still more obvious example. Boëthius and many other philosophers; St. Paul and many other saints; all kinds of mystics, missionaries, religious founders and social reformers have proved the point over and over again. But I am interested here, not so much in the point, as in the pointless remark. What is that itch of intellectual irritation which makes a modern man, even in a moment
of indolence, say the cynical thing even when it is obviously false; of kick against the heroic thing, even when it is self-evidently true? Why do we find to-day this fast and vague mass of trivialities, which have nothing in common except that they are
worthless sort of scepticism got into such universal circulation? In other words, I am not now thinking of the Gold Standard of the highest truth, or the Bimetallism of the higher scepticism, which discusses whether there can be a rivalry in truth; or any of the more
or less precious metals which may bear the image and superscription of this or that moral authority. I am puzzled by the circulation of tall these millions of brass farthings, hardly more valuable than bad pennies; I am wondering where they all come from, and why the can be produced in such handfuls; and whether there is not something wrong with the mint of the mind. I am wondering what has debased the currency of current thought and speech, and why every normal ideal of man is now pelted with handfuls of such valueless pebbles, and assailed everywhere, not by free thought, but by frank thoughtlessness.
There seems to be no normal motive for a human being feeling a hostility to the human virtue of courage. He may disapprove of this or that excuse or reason for calling it forth, but surely not of the thing itself. If the writer had said that the bravery of brave men is used by the stupidity of stupid men, he would have said something perfectly tenable, and, indeed, frequently true. When he says that a brave man must be a stupid man, he wantonly says something that can instantly be disproved and dismissed as impudent and idiotic. Why does he say it, except to relieve his feelings; and in that case what are his
feelings? We only know that they have never yet been the normal feelings of men, yet they seem just now to be the almost involuntary feelings of a vast number of men. That is the problem that I find practically pestering us on every side to-day, and that is what I mean by comparing the buzz of dull flippancy to the screaming of gnats or flies. It is all concerned with the same paradox, with what may be called the omnipresence of the insignificant. A fly is a small thing, but flies can be a very big thing. In some tropical countries, I am told, they can appear like great clouds on the remote horizon or vast thunderstorms filling the whole sky. The plague of locusts which afflicts many lands is something much more destructive than the passage of a pack of wolves or the ruin wrought by a stampede of wild bulls or wild elephants. So the seemingly insignificant individual irritation produced by these insignificant individual perversities may be, in its cumulative effect, more corrupting to a whole culture than the great heresies that have been hardened and hammered into a certain intellectual solidity. The spirit of anarchy does not work only by monsters. Even the sages and visionaries of the East have seen a spiritual significance in the fact that even almost invisible insects can be a plague or carry a pestilence; and the ancient name of Beelzebub has the meaning of the Lord of the Flies.