Space outside of fear

I inhale

I am depleted of the superficial pining

My body yearns

Deep penetrating overcoming

Tangible over the numinous

I lie

For awe

For Josh and Kim

Praise be to the divine Alchemist Scribe
Who brought this union to life
Before each could ever contrive
There before the other—none could deny

With shouts of awe the angels gloried
As eternal present met in story

The haloed audience witnessed His prescribed plan
To stir Love’s fusion with a gentle hand

Concoctions of devotion
Written before dreamt notions
Of timeless answered prayers

He was there
On-looking at this pair
Enfolding a story periodically dared
Allowing a blessed complimentary chemistry shared

You, magnificently great wondrous Unending Song
Conquered temporary somas for them to forever belong
To a cleaved world once thought forgone

Sweetly surprised and intentionally matched
From synthetic, corroding frameworks they detached

Hand-in-hand with ravishing transport and so moved
Decidedly delighted to take on the new

So they wandered onward, abated journey to discover
The acquiesced calm—a life found in one another

From eternal past, we find that awaited purpose filled
Divinely penned and kinetically sealed
Witness to a an everlasting Love revealed

The tormented mind, bound by oppressive thought, thinks what it should not 

It entertains the solution as the only way, chained to the debts and regrets of the day

There in macabre sight, hanged, shot, turned off in plight

The reality is at the fingertip, in form of prescribed elixir to the lip

The patient grim company whispers with cunning lies, dressed as an angel in disguise

Looking to mirror with no good in sight, desperation calls to quit the fight

Anchored to the supposed better-off, the torturous voice explains away the cost

The seconds pass without a single doubt that the only way to, is out

The exit is quick–no walk through the Valley, with no person to hold, no will to rally

With the soul out of alignment, the body falls towards confinement

The divided mind overrides yielding to legion, fumbling and faltering past sound reason

There, with hidden hour arrived and ill forsaken plan contrived, a new thought arrives

Wherefore he saith, Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light

The blurring prolongs the desired choice; in eternal seconds sounds His voice

And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove them

Rather than reprimand from the tongue, no chide comes to silence the internal demon’s song

On battlefield and quite harassed, the one syllable fight outlasts

Realization comes in simple cries, overcoming seductive lies

Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles

Whether in progressive healing, or instantaneous revealing, souls begin reeling

The inner Spirit has room to take over; the body is given away to the Lover

The voices silence and wicked plans, with sinful nature, die; the will makes the decision, choosing Life   

No explanation will suffice, that the Savior performed this heist

The ugly plunder removed from heart, to change the motives and give new start

In front of mirror, the present has no reflection of the tattered, tortured, lifeless recollection

Now with a willful, intentionally joyous look, the answers constant, found in that old Book

Anchored in truth, desiring no other way, faith resonates and reminds that His miracles are for today

I walk toward
A journey from reality to realization
From four-walled caves
dimmed with fear
lit with power
Pressed to floor, pinned to planks, splintered by broken spirits
Torn
Engulfed by the excuses
Victimized by
Turned Away
Thrown a Blind Eye
Given Up On
Sold
Memory is foul play, massacred childhood, matured by misogynists
I was taken away
The litmus test of a survivor is whether I can work, whether I can be
accepted socially, whether I can withstand temptations of suicide,
whether I can be married
I am in a class of my own
Deciding to overcome the threshold of hegemony
Vulnerable to the world’s caring
Undecided on when trust matters
Wondering what agency means
Or just battling pain, questioning the earth, scorning
Wonder
Future
Possible
Sorting voices

I walk toward
“Close your eyes.  Breathe.”
Tremors come from mouths, choking, gasping.
Cannot exhale. Cannot find inhale.
Short, abrupt, staccato sounds
Day one stands still

I walk toward.
“Tree. Warrior. Salutation.”
Trees search for fertile ground, desiring to be rooted
Training begins with the armor of protection
Greetings exchanged triggering a welcome

I walk toward
“Tina Sister, Massage me.”
Massage me
to break misogyny
Tell me I can be

We overcome Day one at a time
Without promise, but with hope to lessen the recoiling and to displace
the disturbed dream
I call forth the little girl warrior, Pose into new abundance daily,
and dance on to give the present

The cold slanders today

Smearing sun’s message

Though when present yields shadows

Blamed as an accomplice to deeds

Light, I beg, do not hide

Economy of God, be known

Speak of greatest utility and unmatched joy

Once withdrawal and contempt fade from luminous shock

Total assassination of that which lurks in darkness  

Restoring the indignant and wounded back to a Christ reality

Oh radiant transparency!

Recruit the long suffering

To bring story to the resigned suspicious

Truth be common once again

That we may be reminded Eros Turannos in utterances deep

He stumbled upon an old heart’s page

That collected dust in a timeless age

Where eternity hit the soul’s speaking

There were the voyeurs entreating

Enticed by the God-send word

An unforeseen alienation occurred

Misunderstanding they engaged

Cerebral plots and curiosity staged

Without interaction there they met

Poised to lose what they could get

Never did they once test

The reality at its best

In August, I had the glorious aspiration to write more.  On the 20th, I started a job and that pleasure vanished.  I have been vigorously focused more on purpose.  But, there is a balance. There is a place where our very purpose is to understand that God loves what brings Him pleasure.  He’s that loving.  I just now have to silence the voices that tell me to put up a thousand posts to make up for the months I didn’t.  I guess I’ll just settle on enjoying that this is another start.  Ahh, the challenge of imperfection and releasing condemnation!

Sarayu’s Interjection: Opportunity to be Broken

“You see,” interjected Sarayu, “broken humans center their lives around things that seem good to them, but that will neither fill them nor free them.  They are addicted to power, or the illusion of security that power offers.  When a disaster happens, those same people will turn against the false powers they trusted.  In their disappointment, they either become softened toward me or they become bolder in their independence. If you could only see how all of this ends and what we will achieve without the violation of one human will—then you would understand.” (Young 123)

                Why did this resonate so loudly with me? I know the first reason is because it was a struggle for me to admit that I am a “broken human”.   I don’t want to be a broken human. I don’t want to be anything close to broken or broke for that matter.  Secondly, I do want goodness and that should be enough to fill me and free me…but the Author asserts otherwise.  Thirdly, why does power and independence often get the bad rap? Can’t they be synonymous to strength and freedom?   I have begun to process the gravity of Sarayu’s claims.  As the allegorical Holy Spirit, it is fitting that Sarayu would have my heart in an entrenched tussle in order to discover Truth in Love. 

As I search deeply, I know that at the root of brokenness is opportunity.  Though I don’t want to be broken, I can only accept brokenness if I am going to be wrecked to pieces, shattered, completely torn down, and done…with myself.  After the death of my oldest brother 7 years ago, I truly died in spirit.  I was broken.  Since I know what it feels like, I would never wish a bit of brokenness on anyone.  However, complete brokenness means that what was can never be repaired and stitched up to be the exact replica of the original.  Who I was prior to my brother’s death or during the years of a depressive aftermath or as the result of God’s healing were distinct.  Who I was at any of these points is not the same person as I am now. 

Why?  Prior to my brother’s death, I was broken yet enjoying the ignorance of my own brokenness.  During the depressive aftermath, I was experiencing a mix of grief, and unimaginable pain that translated to brokenness.  As the result of God’s healing 3 years after my brother’s death, I was at a hurtful revelatory point of brokenness.  Now, I am the ongoing culmination of Papa’s new creation.  Before I never realized that I was incapable of “fixing” myself nor did I understand that I was entirely unable to heal myself.  If I was half-broke, I would use all of my own energy to do a half-decent job and go back to being the same.  However, because God is ultimately good, He did not just fix me.  He gave me entirely new eyes—ones that see my nieces and nephew with complete gratitude. He gave me new arms which allow for long embraces and melting hearts.  He gave me a new mind—one not stuck in the destruction of negativity and horror, but one that can focus on His Love.  Ultimately, He gave me a new heart, mind, body, and soul—all open to the wonder in life and death, pain and joy, and laughter and tears.  And the newness continues. 

The next question I have asked at the frontend is related: why can’t I solely rely on “goodness” to sustain me?  Why would the Author disagree?  Let’s see what the Author has to say about this…soon.

        Literature is a mirror of our lives because the stories speak to and from our daily interactions and internal wrestling.  The starkest reality is that often, characters give life to the words that have been resting in our bowels.  We realize that these words have never been spoken or processed until we read. 

        I am reading William P. Young’s The Shack.  So far, I have found myself anxious, trying to absorb profound challenges.  With healthy hesitation, I still turn the page and continue reading even when it hurts too much to confront a version of my reality that the character Mack is confronting.  I have allowed me to be gripped—even if it has meant that I have had to stop reading in order to weep, grieve, or writhe.  I know that when I let go, that grip gets tighter and it is then that I am held by “Papa.”

        I begin a little journey with Mack because dancing with literature is so fun, and letting “Sarayu” take the lead is always dangerously exciting, and good. Thus begins this adventure to The Shack of My Own…