Love Poured Out (A bit of free verse)

Lord, my soul brims.
Your Word, Your beautiful Self-portrait
Ripples in my heart,
Makes it tremble with love for You.

Fullness overflows.
My words cascade.
Though they can't express the loveliness I see,
Nor vibrate in perfect sympathy with my heart's strings
As You draw out their music.

You accept my humble gift with humbler joy.
You smile.
You love.

Should I write my heart here,
Where none but a handful will ever read it?

Like Mary, I will break my alabaster box,
I will pour out my fragrance of love
Though only a few around Your table will breathe their aroma,
And some may not approve.

Judas thought the anointing wasteful,
Too much for Your poor body.
I sorrow that it's not enough
For Him who reigns in Glory.

You accept my humble gift with humbler joy.
You smile.
You love.

I have no eyes for those who frown.
But I feel the warmth of tearful smiles
From those who've also given You
Their paltry best
And felt Your blessing on it.

Our Bridegroom,
We rejoice to have no further need
To anoint You for Your burial.
With great anticipation we pour our hearts out to You
For our wedding day.

Announcing My New (Other) Blog

Photo by Webdeblee

As much as I love writing theological treatises, I have other writing passions as well.  I LOVE to write fiction...in fact, much of how I "work through" issues involves watching characters in my mind living things out and talking to each other.

I know, it's weird.  But that's life as a writer.  As Popeye said, "I yam what I yam."

Most of my fiction never leaves my head.  But a lot of it would like to.  And maybe it even should!

I also occasionally get struck with bouts of poetry, and this new blog will give me an outlet for that as well.

Also, I have lots of older works of short fiction and poetry sitting around.  Some of my works have been featured in this blog, and much has been featured in writing contests at FaithWriters.  (I'm no longer a paying, contest-entering member, but it's a great outlet for Christian writers, so check it out!)  In order to kick-start my new blog, I'm re-posting my favorites over there at an anticipated rate of one per day.

Sooooo, if you like short fiction and/or poetry, please come check out "Weightiness and Whimsy."  I chose the title because (as you've probably guessed), the content will run the emotional gamut.  Currently (as of the morning of 3/4/13), it contains two works of short fiction, one that I would call "heartfelt," and another that is pure whimsy.  They're both older works, written in 2008 for writing contests.  I hope you enjoy them.

If you're hoping for newer content, never fear!  I have a work of very heartfelt short fiction that has been percolating in my brain for days.  In fact, it's the reason I decided that I really needed an outlet for my stories.  Maybe if they get out, they'll quit bouncing around in my head distracting me!

Or maybe not.

And don't worry...I'm still going to finish the series I've started here.  And I still expect that most of my writing will be for this blog, not the new one.

Anyway, please come check out the new blog, and let me know what you think!

When Shadows Aren't Enough

Image by The Rusty Projector via Flickr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could have sworn I had already posted this poem here on my blog, but I just searched for it in vain.  And for some reason, I feel that I ought to post it now.

The Lord is bringing significant healing to my life, but I have a long way to go.  And sometimes, especially for the sake of those who are still "in the valley," it is good to revisit the pain.  Not for the sake of morbidity, but for encouragement.  Because if God can bring me out of this valley, as deep as it was, He can bring anyone out of their valley too.

I wrote this poem back in 2006, when I had already been in my "valley" for about seven years.  It took that long to be able to face the pain enough to put it into words.

The poem is about the time when my two-year-old son changed virtually overnight…from a seemingly normal toddler to an autistic stranger.  It is called:

------------------------------

When Shadows Aren't Enough

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

My son is lost in that valley.
He died. He lives.
Two years old.
Toddling
Pointing
Tearing into Christmas presents
Voicing his thoughts with newly-learned words.
Adorable, squeezable, lovable, loved.
Phillip.

Gone.

His words give way to screaming.
Endless, throat-tearing screaming.
Little body stiff in my arms.
Twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours each day
His shrieks rake my ears, shred my soul
Screaming, and screaming, and screaming.
For months.

Hands forget how they once played.
Now they flap before a stranger’s eyes
No longer willing to meet my own.

Sleep mocks me.
Hope perishes.
Sanity flees.
Nothing exists but screaming, and screaming, and screaming
And three little faces who look to me
To give them life
While I am dying.

I reel in this valley of death that is not death.
Through? There is no “through.”
I sink to my knees
But find no comfort there.
No God
And no strength to rise again.

The air in this valley
Fills lungs with dust
Parches them with dread
Not the fear that death will come,
But that it will not.

“If You have any compassion at all
Be done with shadows which bring no relief!
Let this be simply the valley of death.
End it all. Please just end it all.”

Our breaths keep coming.
His rip the air with cries of torment.

Mine can only breathe, “I hate You, God. I hate You.”

Slowly the horror abates
But endless months in the shadow of death
Have transformed me into a shadow of life.
I am hollow.
Nothing remains of me.
I am without form, void, in darkness.

The Spirit hovers
He has little to work with.
The fragments He finds are seething with rage
At Him.

He sings, and I weep.
I don’t want to, but I do.
He praises, and I feel it.
Sometimes I can even join in, feebly
Pushing the words out past thick clouds of fury.

I am so glad I still can.
Because if He is life
Then a shadow of life is not enough
Not in a place such as this.

I stagger to my feet
And risk a few unsteady steps.
For I do not hate life
Or the One who is Life
But only the shadow that hides Him from me
Here in this valley.

----------------------------

Now, the post script.  Ten years after my son and I entered that valley together, God has restored both of us in ways I could never have imagined.  Yes, my son is still autistic and bipolar.  Barring a miracle, he always will be.  Yes, he relies on powerful medications to keep him at a functional level of emotional stability.  But he is a beacon of hope; a hopping, jumping, hand-flapping miracle who sings God's praises sometimes for hours on end.  His growing faith is precious and inspirational.  He is one of God's precious diamonds, and the gleam is already sparkling despite the surrounding coal.

What's more, God led me into that valley as a self-deceived lost person, someone who believed herself saved but had never been born again.  He led me out of it as His daughter.

For many years I would have told you that I hated the valley, and that it was proof that God hated me.  Now I would not trade it for anything.  I'm glad it's in the rearview mirror, and I hope I never have to walk through it, or one like it, again.  But if I do, may I remember God's faithfulness through it all, and may I be comforted by the knowledge that He brings the greatest good out of the worst trials.

And God grant that the same may be true for you.

I Am From…

I am from Florida's sweaty air, from the close quarters of a small home, from one bathroom shared by five people, from wide-mouthed Jalousie windows which gasped for breath just like we did in the endless, merciless summers.

I am from the lake behind my house, the mud squishing between my toes, the wooden-handled net swooshing down to snag wily turtles, the creak of oars in oarlocks.

I am from bare feet wincing and mincing their way across scalding roads and sandspur-choked lawns; from hours of play with Breyer model horses (who needs other kids?); from curtains flapping in moonlight as mallards murmured and crickets chirped me to sleep.

I am from a 90-minute drive to Disney World, and knowing better than to even ask if we could ever afford to go there.

I am from family gatherings at Nana's little house, from the old folding stepstool-seat that boosted generations of children to her table; from Uncle Roger's hearty belly-laugh; from Nana and Mom whose humor gave release to happy tears…tears which provided cover for the heartbroken ones we would have otherwise kept inside.

I am from Nana's Bible full of tiny handwritten notes; from learning to sing alto beside her in the choir while Mom sang soprano behind us; from wounded and struggling women who led and fed their family's souls the best they could, because the men would not.

I'm from pizza for Christmas Dinner; from Nana's "Man Pleaser" Casserole, from "Tang" and "Space Food Sticks" made popular in the years when Neil Armstrong's boot print still pressed deeply into America's spirit.

I'm from longed-for day trips to the Moncks' farm, from tomboy-wanderings among Live Oaks which dripped with Spanish Moss; from putting a quarter between my middle and ring fingers so I could learn to make the Vulcan salute.

I am from bitter squabbles with older siblings whose adult love and loyalty I did not foresee; from hidden hurts we could not help each other through until we grew up and realized the others felt them, too; from agonies that brought us to our knees to find, when we arose, that God sometimes hugs us through the very ones we used to fight with over breakfast cereal.

The ones whose faces stare at us in the black-and-white photos of the places from which we've come.

----------------

I wrote this little piece in response to a post called, "Autobiography: Template for 'I Am From…'" If you would like to participate or just see her similarly-written work, pop on over there!

A Hand’s Breadth of Time

As I’ve mentioned before, my precious grandmother died at the same exact time that her first great-great grandchild was being born.  I was at my grandmother’s bedside as she took her final breaths, and then I made the mad rush to another hospital for my great-nephew’s arrival, only to learn that we couldn’t see him yet.  They had had trouble getting him to breathe at first, and now they didn’t want a lot of visitors.  (Don’t worry, he’s just fine.)

This all happened in 1997, and yet it’s still fresh in my mind.  You can imagine that such a day would be hard to forget!  (The blown-out tire that we experienced on the interstate on the way home from the hospital didn’t help, either!)

Anyway, that day didn’t come directly to mind for me when I saw the topic for a recent FaithWriter’s Weekly Challenge.  But after I sat back and read what I wrote for that challenge, I knew that I had written about the day Nana went Home and Sheldon was born.  The topic was “Beginning and End,” and here’s what I wrote for it.  (No, it didn’t win or get honorable mention or anything like that in the contest.  Oh well.)

----------------------------

A Hand’s Breadth of Time

Hands 
So tiny
Curled into themselves,
Washed clean of all the mortal gore of birth.
Innocent,
Ripe with potential unknown.
Miracles, really
Knit together in secret
Muscles, bones, tendons, ligaments, skin
Perfectly engineered for a lifetime of service.

You don't know how to use them yet.
When they move before your eyes,
You don't even know they're yours.

When you figure it out, and find out what those hands can do, you'll be amazed!

Use them well, Little One. Use them well.

***

Hands
So tiny
Shrunken, melted with age,
Washed clean of the grime of your dying days.
Innocent? No. But good. Very good.
Potential? Gone...but not wasted. Well spent.
Miracles, really.
Ordinary, everyday miracles of love with skin on it.
God touched me with your hands,
And yet you probably didn't even know it.

When you step into glory, and realize all that those hands of yours have done, you'll be amazed!

You used them well, Dear One. Let them rest.

The Aroma of Life to Life

Once she hid, alone
Guarding a dead husk,
Hoping it still lived.
Precious, it was,
And the only one
She would ever have.

Shriveled,
Wilted,
It did not respond
To her touch
Or anyone else's.
Deep inside she knew
It had no breath.
But if she admitted
That it had none,
Then she would have to admit
That neither did she.

You see
It was
Her soul.

It rattled, dryly scraping
In the slightest breeze
And she hoped those were sounds
Of life.
But the truth was a terror
Which haunted her dreams.

One more wound,
One more grief,
One more betrayal,
One more lie,
And the tiny spark of life
If there was one
Would surely ebb away.
She would become a zombie
The walking dead.

The image awakened her in a cold sweat
Night after night.

How can
A dead
Soul live?

She had no close friends.
Even her family
Was kept at bay
By her smiles which lied.
She was okay
Or at least she would be
If everyone would just
Leave her alone
To stare at her husk
And convince herself
That it lived.

People make demands.
They drain you.
I'd love to have something to give
But I only have this husk
And I will die without it.
Better to live here, alone
Than to let anyone take it from me.

A dead
Soul's better
Than none.

But there was an aroma
A scent
Which sometimes drifted into
Her loneliness
And when she smelled it
She wept
For joy.

But it didn't happen often.
What can dry husks savor?

Most of the time
Rage simmered
Against any and all
Who even dared to want
Much less need
Anything from her.

You're trying to kill me.
You will use me up
Until there's nothing left.

Then He came.

She knew He was behind
Everything that happened
In the universe He'd made.
So she hated Him
Most of all.

And yet
He brought
That scent

And on one dark night
He did the unthinkable.
He picked up the husk
And showed it to her
Forced her to see it
For what it was
For the very first time.

Ugly rot
Decaying stench
Lifeless corpse.

It lay in His hand.
A scarred hand.
And she knew she was helpless
Against Him.
He could close His fist
And it would be crushed
Forever.

And yet
Her fear
Met love.

Her gaze, for once
Forsook its idol
And moved upwards
To see His face.
Pounding heart
In mortal peril
Yet felt calmed.

Though He slay me
Yet will I trust Him.

How could
She feel
This way?

She knew before she looked.
The husk lived.
She lived.
The perfume infused a soul
Which once could not draw breath.

Every whiff I sensed before
Was a miracle from His hand
I should not have been able to smell it
But He knew I needed to.

All those years
When she had thought she was
The guardian of her soul
It had been Him
Him
All along.

Tender One
Living Water
Reviving Breath

She is safe.

Life still hurts.
But she has no more dreams
Of zombies.

Life still hurts.
But she no longer
Craves her solitude.
At least not all the time.

Life still hurts.
But life is sweet
Because she knows
How it feels to be
Without it.

Life still hurts.
But no one can take it from her
Because it rests in the hands
Of the One who will someday
Take all the hurt away.

Life still hurts.
But love grows
Where fear no longer reigns.
And it especially grows
When it senses that aroma
From the souls of others.

Precious, beloved others
Even those she's never met
Still move her heart because
They share His life.

Life still hurts.
But those who bear
His aroma
Touch her with it
And she knows
A foretaste
Of healing.

Even some of those who were
Her family by flesh and blood alone
Are now her family in the Spirit, too.
And there is joy
Even when there's heartache.

The perfume wafts
From petals crushed.
The Rose of Sharon
The Lilly of the Valley
For love's sake
Bruised for her.

For you.

Can you
Smell it
As well?

-------------------------------------

Copyright Betsy Markman, 2009

2 Cor. 3:17 - True Freedom "In Other Words"

"In Other Words"

"I'm free!" said he, and off he ran
Away from that oppressive man
Who weighed him down with rules and such
Restrictions which were far too much
To bear, and so like wind he flew
"Bye Mom and Dad, I don't need you!"

Yes, free he was to break all rules
And limits set for mindless fools --
"A fool I'm not, why can't you see,
Your warnings don't apply to me!
Who cares if others lost their way?
I'm my own god, how can I stray?"

Who was this lad, and what his fate?
He's millions who have passed the gate
Which leads into a way so wide
That everyone can fit inside
And play whatever foolish games
Will blind them to approaching flames.

Freed to fiddle while life burns,
Oblivious to downward turns.
Singing to drown out the screams
Of all who've reached the end of dreams.
At liberty to take a chance
And on Titanic's decks to dance.

"What, jump this ship?" the blind fools scoff.
"We've no desire to get off.
How can you say that we could sink?
You lack a zest for life, we think."
How free are they, who blinders wear
And doom themselves, without a care?

Titanic Image via Wikipedia
~~

"I'm free!" said she, "I will not work.
Some slaves may serve; I'm free to shirk.
Submit? You cannot force me to!
My soul would die if I served you."
Her home, her kids, her husband, all
Ignored in favor of self's call.

And yet, within her heart she wept
For love unshown, and vows unkept.
Her kids grew tall, and years were lost
She had her way, but at what cost?
If truth be told, she longed to give
But feared "to serve is not to live."

But then the Spirit touched and warmed
Her heart, and tenderly He formed
A love that cast out all her fear,
Freed her to serve the ones most dear.
"No one can force, but you can choose:
Life lost to save, or saved to lose?" *

Safe in His love, she's free at last
Not doomed to imitate the past.
Loosed from the cycle of regret
To sin's demands no more in debt
What joy it is to see how she
is redefining liberty!


Each soul, when given choice, pursues
exactly what Love says to choose.
A bitter trap, the love of sin
A gilded net to drown souls in.
But precious gift the Spirit gives...
A heart that loves the Lord, and lives!


*Matt. 16:25

This week's "In Other Words" is being hosted by Karen at her blog, "In Love W.I.T.H Jesus." Be sure to drop by her blog for links to other insights on this verse, and please leave comments if you are blessed.

And please remember...no matter what happens with the elections, a heart centered on God, through Christ, by the Spirit will find peace, joy, and yes, LIBERTY in Him!

Friday Fiction: Erasmus and the Ant

Friday Fiction

I originally wrote this fun little piece for the FaithWriters Weekly Challenge, under the topic, "Bridge."

Erasmus and the Ant

When Erasmus Lee Gold
Became eighty years old
He did the day up with rare style.
He got into a plane
With no fear in his brain
And waved his goodbyes with a smile.


Image via Wikipedia

"I told them I'd do it!
I could! I just knew it!
But no one ever believed me.
They said, 'Pops, you're unsound,
Now stay put on the ground!'
But the thought of quitting grieved me."

Through the glass he could see
Oh, so melancholy
His children and all of his grands.
Daughter Sue wiped her tears
Oh, that gal's silly fears!
And the rest stood wringing their hands.

Image via Wikipedia


Soon he zoomed way up high
In the clear, azure sky
With the chute fixed tight to his frame.
His palms felt all sweaty
Like first kissing Betty.
"Next to that leap, this one is tame!"

Now, unseen way below
Crawled a red ant named Joe
An ant of the leaf-cutting kind.
Bit off more than could chew
What on earth should he do?
He was in a horrible bind.

Image via Wikipedia

See, he'd made a fool's bet
And would soon be in debt
If he couldn't haul this load back.
Many leaves of huge size
In his jaws like a vise
Nearly gave him a heart attack!

"That dip once seemed so small,
Before I had to haul
This load that has left me so tired.
Now I can't get across,
And my wager's a loss.
If late, I may even get fired!"

"Oh dear Lord," he prayed, "first,"
I am dying of thirst
And second, it's six forty-eight.
If I'm tardy, my boss
Will get terribly cross
And seven-oh-one is too late!"

Just then, high in the air,
Without even a care,
Erasmus jumped from his safe perch,
So enthralled with the view
That he shouted, "WHOO-HOOO!"
As his parachute caught with a lurch.














Now, aerodynamics,
And fluid mechanics
Did just what they naturally do,
So his false teeth came loose
Thanks to wind and "spit juice"
And flew from his mouth in mid "HOOO."

Once affixed to a crown,
Six teeth now spiraled down
As if they'd never been anchored.
They touched down with a "thud"
Right near Joe, in the mud...
The answer for which he'd hankered!

"Hallelujah" he cried
When the blessing he spied
At just five minutes to seven.
An arch stood, nice and neat,
'Cross the dip near his feet...
A bridge that fell down from Heaven!

Image via Wikipedia

This week's Friday Fiction is being hosted by Patty Wysong and Patterings. Be sure to drop by there for links to more great entries.

(The skydiver photo is from Stock.xchng by janky)

Do I Really? - "In Other Words" Tuesday

"In Other Words" Tuesday

I wrote this poem a while back, and in my heart I can imagine it becoming a song. It's about being honest with ourselves before God.

Do I Really?

I sing of bowing down, and I call Him my King,
I pray to the Lord, “Thy Kingdom come,”
But do I really hear the humble words that I sing?
Or has my heart grown distant and numb?

Do I really yearn to see His Will being done
On Earth as it is in His Heaven?
To take His yoke, to bear my cross, to die like the Son
To search out and purge sinful leaven?

Before His just commands do my knees truly bend?
Do I mold my will to match His word?
For Jesus will I leave my treasures, family, and friends
Stake all on the promises I’ve heard?

How can I pretend to want His kingdom to reign
If I won’t let Him rule within me?
Can I refuse His righteous call, His lordship disdain
Then say that I want Him to win me?

I sing of bowing down, and I call Him my King,
I pray to the Lord, “Thy Kingdom come,”
But do I really hear the humble words that I sing?
Or has my heart grown distant and numb?

We can't know our own hearts, according to Jer. 17:9. And Ps. 36:2 tells us, "For in his own eyes he flatters himself too much to detect or hate his sin" (NIV). And yet we are commanded to examine ourselves (2 Co. 13:5), and King David sets an example by asking God to examine him and point out where he needs to repent (Ps. 139:23-24).

What if we don't like what we see?

The humble heart will repent and seek a closer walk with God. But the proud heart will make excuses for itself and will put on an act for others. Sadly, when it does so, it pushes God even further away.

For God resists the proud, and gives grace to the humble (James 4:6).

The key to humbly loving others, instead of using them to stroke our own egos, is to altogether abandon the search for self-esteem, and to focus on growing our God-esteem.

Unless, of course, we really believe that true joy, happiness, and life are to be found in ourselves more than in God...

May God keep us from believing such lies, and help us find our lives in Him!

----------------------------

Today's "In Other Words" Tuesday is being hosted by Lynette Kraft. Be sure to drop by her blog for links to more insights based on today's quote.

To Know Him - Monday Manna

Monday Manna

There's a hidden place in my soul.
I barely know it's there, but I defend it fiercely anyway.
Its walls stand firm and imposing, like Jericho of old.
They've grown thicker with every assault.
Attacks only serve to make this fortress stronger.
No enemy can ever breach its defenses.

Its surface is emblazoned with the graffiti of years.
Words in lead paint.
Poisonous.
"Toughen up!"
"Life's rough! Get over it!"
"Suffer in silence!"
"Faker! Phony!"
Dagger-words spoken in response to
my childhood tears.

Love had to be tough
To prepare me for a cruel world
A sink-or-swim world
Where no one, no one
Will ever really be there for you.

Most don't love.
But those who do
Are too overwhelmed with their own pain
To help you bear the weight of yours.
No one wants to hear your problems, anyway.

Alone.

Solitary.

Bereft.

Always.

So there was a little girl.
A little blonde girl.
A little blonde girl who cried.

I locked her away.
She had no right to cry.
If she insisted on doing so
she certainly had no right to be heard.

Life is tough.
Get over it.

She still lives in the fortress, where even I barely ever hear her.

For years the graffiti on her walls has gotten thicker.

The one with the spray can is me, showing her "tough love."
I have to thicken her walls, because if anyone sees her, they might hurt her.

She already hurts too much.

But someone knows her.




He has met with her sometimes.
Always by surprise.

He does not knock holes in her walls
or dig tunnels underneath
or use high explosives.

She's prepared for all of that.

He uses
the gentlest of touches
the kindest of looks
the softest of voices...
sometimes just in her heart
sometimes through His other children.

Walls melt.

She stands, exposed
but somehow not afraid.
Not of Him.

She weeps, always, when He finds her.
But her tears are sweet
because of the tenderness of
The One
who wipes them away
and perhaps most of all
because what she wants more than anything
is love.

She cannot bear to be exposed for long
so He hides Himself
for gentleness' sake
until she's ready to see Him again.

She wants...

no...


I...
I want...
to know Him.

His resurrection
is life
from this tomb

The fellowship of His sufferings...

sufferings which do not make Him belittle my lesser pains
but rather transforms them...

the fellowship of His sufferings
erases the word "Alone."

His death
is so much more beautiful
than the living death my soul has known.
I want to trade my death
for His
because His is full
of eternal life
and love.

I want to know Him
because
God help me!
I have heard my own voice
crushing my children's souls.
I've have seen my own hands
with bricks
and mortar
and lead paint
giving them the same
"tough love"
that smothered my soul
in airless darkness.

Dear God,
I want to know You
not just in my head
but in the deepest parts of me
the parts that need to feel
Your love, and
Your gentleness
and then pass them along to others
whose souls ache and languish
like mine.

Please
God.

Amen.

------------------------------------

Monday Manna is being hosted this week by Joanne over at An Open Book. Be sure to drop by for more food from Heaven, and remember to leave comments if an entry touched your heart.

God-Seasoned Tears

Thank You, Lord, that my tears taste different now.

They used to taste of

bitter despairacid rage
bloodied pride
choking hopelessness
acrid loneliness
fevered hatred
sulfurous distrust
cruel accusation
bilious self-pity.


You could have chosen just to numb the pain
But any old drug can do that.

You're no drug.


You could have kept pain away
Like a doting father who would spoil me until I got mushy and rank like an overripe peach.

You are a much better parent than that.


I could not have loved You the way I do now, if you had done either of those things. How would You have been better than what Earth can offer?

But You...

Only You could do this.

You taught me that tears can taste like

fountains of hope
oceans of mercy
wellsprings of love
streams of refreshment
brooks of camaraderie
rivers of trust
seas of acceptance
tidal waves of thanksgiving
floods of praise.

And they taste like...

Salt.

You have told us that we are the salt of the earth.

Perhaps we can only be salt
if our hearts have learned to shed
God-seasoned tears.

Betsy Markman

(Photo from Stock.xchng by Fishmonk)

Mirror People - IOW Tuesday

In Other Words

We love to look at the things we love. For many of us, that means we go through life with a mirror strapped in front of our faces, focusing on ourselves as if we were the source of our own lives, the fount of our own happiness. We are born loving ourselves, absolutely devoted to pleasing ourselves, committed to serving ourselves, and determined to make others serve us as much as possible (or else get out of our way!)

Image via Wikipedia

There we are, little clay pots, admiring ourselves as if we had created ourselves. And all the while we wonder why we feel so empty.

We try to fill that emptiness with other people's admiration, doing our best to make our own little lights shine in a way that will bedazzle them. Some fail miserably at that. Others succeed miserably. Either way, we find no joy there.

A few years ago I wrote a poem about how we can use our mirrors in a way that brings true joy to ourselves and others, and most importantly, brings glory to God. It's called:

Mirror People

I was born with a looking-glass
Set right in front of my face
No matter where I turn my head
It always stays right in place.

I know my world from what I see
There in my own reflection
Consulting my own image for
Life's meaning and direction.

Whatever works to make me smile
Will suit me quite precisely
And anyone who puts me first
Will serve me very nicely.

There's not much room to look at you
Around my precious mirror
But that's okay, I do not wish
To see you any clearer.

Unless you can somehow improve
My image, re-create it
If you can help me like myself
I'd sure appreciate it.

My world feels very small and close
My face no longer thrills me
I want to feed my self-esteem
Before starvation kills me.

But now a bold intruder comes
He really aggravates me
He wants all my attention, and
Sometimes I think He hates me.

He messes with my looking-glass
But won't make me look better
He says I ought to worship Him
Like I'm some kind of debtor.

He shows me all my flaws, and yet
He says that there's good in store
The problem is, I'm not allowed
To dwell on "me" anymore.

I let Him push my mirror down
No more than an inch or two
And when I take my eyes off me
I'm amazed by something new.

Such wideness and such majesty!
My overwhelmed senses reel
Such joy, such awe, such love are more
Than I thought I'd ever feel.

My hands fall to my sides and let
My mirror fall and shatter
I barely notice that it's gone
It doesn't seem to matter.

He smiles, and in His eyes I see
The source of all this glory
Now praise seems only natural
And not obligatory.

He gives me a new looking-glass
And instinctively I know
Which way I want to turn it and
Whose face I want it to show.

I never want to look away
This beauty feeds my spirit
I shout the news to everyone
And pray that some will hear it.

There, standing out among the throngs
I see some shining Others
Their mirrors turned toward The Light
My sisters and my brothers.

Our little glasses cannot hope
His glory all to capture
But each one can reflect some more
And blaze with holy rapture.

I fear this is too good to last
And then I hear Him praying
I scarcely can believe the words
The Son of God is saying.

"I pray that they will be with Me
In Heaven, where forever
My splendor they will always see
And from Me none can sever."

How can I thank or praise enough
For such a wondrous present?
The finest riches Heaven owns
Lavished on me, a peasant!

Friends, if you see me sorrowing,
My mirror turned to face me
Please help me point it back to God
And let His joy embrace me.

And if you're sad, I'll give to you
The best I could ever give
I'll help you turn your eyes to God
To look to Him so you'll live.


(Click here to find all posts related to the subject of God-Centeredness.)

Today's "In Other Words" is being hosted by Bonnie at her "Ink It" Blog. Be sure to drop by and read her entry, then scroll down to find links to all of the other participating blogs.