Mockers of the Most High

We are Christ's elect-called to excellence. Why are we defiling his name. He is the God of the Universe. Pure. Holy. We bear his name and defile ourselves in his presence. We are his people. We are commissioned to demonstrate his power, justice, and love to those who do not follow him, yet we worship Satan and give him footholds with our actions and words. How will the world see Christ in us if we look like the world? Are we better than the Pharisees who preached and talked of holiness who pushed others to do the same yet in the secret, pursued the cravings of their flesh? We deny and detest the ways of the Pharisees, but can any distinction from their ways be found in our own hearts? We are hypocrites if we preach truth and life but tolerate and rationalize death. And we are misled and weak if we believe what we preach but are being fed by the world. The King is coming. Will he return to a drunk bride? Will he find her dress stained with blood, will he be grieved at her unfaithfulness?

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things."

Let us consider our ways. Let us consider our conversations and the words we speak. Let us consider the movies we watch. Are we bringing glory to the King. Are we living lives of excellence not by the law but our of love for our King? do we really love him? If we love him, we would desire to worship him with all of our hearts-with All of our lives. He does not tolerate sin. There is no darkness in him. "The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love." We must turn and repent. Repent of our agreements and tolerance of the spirit of Babylon and Jezebel-of the pursuit of greed and lust and our laughter at both. We are the elect of Christ. He has promised, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God." Are we bearing his name. Are we living lives of purity.

Joy

There is the melancholy in the promise of things new.
Tasting the sadness in a sunset and the heartache of friendship
Feeling love so strong
So strong, the prospect of loss stings—a hurt of the helpless sort
Joy is the anguish of wanting.
A long, ribbon road and the tired sun on wheat
That is the feeling of sad happiness—there is such a thing.
And it is not disheartening
It is the most wonderful sadness—
A hope, a promise that a secret is waiting just around the sunrise
That God of the Universe is about to present a trinket, something special
Joy is the peace of freedom and a certainty in uncertainty
A peace in seeking
and a rest in understanding why it's the fight that holds the joy



-inspired from the probing thoughts of CS Lewis

peace through the winter

Hope that lives on the back of winter
sees the glow through the cold so bitter
and though this home's under powdered sugar,
my Love's just a prayer away

I can't be sure where he's at, at the moment
and often, lies pay a visit to torment
but my peace rests in the ebbing torrent
of a plan that's bigger than my mind

I'm right here in my room getting older
and as I wait, time gets bolder
'till the day I rest my head on your shoulder
I'm waiting for you, Sport

Sock Feet

Don't cry little Sock Feet.
You pick up all the lint left over from parties and things-
confetti and crushed flower petals
You're not hidden
not a hermit crab with crampy legs
you chose socks though your feet hurt
shoes can't feel the earth like feet do
What do you carry on your white cotton fibers?
Why do you chose to walk through the dirt?
Don't you know you'll get holes in your stockings
and bleach doesn't get dirt out.
Careful little Sock Feet
Careful where you tread
In the yard there are sand burs and crab grass
In your search for dandelions to blow prayers into the wind
careful little Sock Feet
your soles are very soft

these days

this is the season of me not having much worth saying

this is the time of contentment
after thirteen years of fruitless striving

these are the days i enjoy being silent
and look forward to my quiet treks to school

these are the mornings i wake up
and eat breakfast with dad
before the sun rises
and though it's the same routine
as three years past
something about orange-juice and morning talk in the dark
hasn't lost my anticipation

these are the days i look forward to
as i fall asleep around ten

it seems these are the happiest days i've known
maybe ever
although nothing really special happens

these are the days of learning to listen
to the Voice that i want so much to hear
and of wanting to pray
and being at a loss of words
and being okay with that inadequacy

these are the days i wake up
and instead of expecting to be lonely
just expecting to be alone
and believing, for once,
my heart can still be fully happy that way

these are good days
and for this

i'm so very thankful

En los zapatos de una persona sin techo

Yo soy la chica con una corazon por personas en dolor.
Yo pienso donde esta mi chica especial.
Yo escucho lost suspiros de personas sin techos.
Yo veo el banco en el parque, el banco donde yo duermo.
Yo quiero una amiga que me ame.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

Yo pretendo que yo soy una pilota y yo vuelo en lo alto del mundo injusto.
Yo me siento contenta en el aire.
yo toco los nubes y lluvia.
Yo me procupo cuando las personas solamente piensan en ellos.
Yo lloro cuando yo recuerdo que yo no tengo familia.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

Yo se Dios es bueno.
yo digo que mi Salvador tiene paz para mi.
yo sueno con tener una casa.
Yo trato de tener paz.
Ojala que yo viva una vida buena.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

untitled

This house.
Yes, she lives here—
The one with curls of mousy hair
The table in the parlour, there,
Has but three oak legs
Yet it stands and
There she writes
And thinks all sorts of things
Outside the window sill bloom
Poppies in the spring
They bleed crimson and ebony
And sip the watery sunlight
After the rain has moved along
That’s when she likes them best
In the peace she slices cheese
A Fontina sheer and sweet
And places scales of this joy
On crackers made of wheat
How peaceful here
In this house old
And quietly alone
The dark wood trim
Is carved and thick and stained
With semi-joy
It is the ideal place to be
For none but she owns a key
And simple as the magic seems
It is her place of rest