A White Fog

First day of Thanksgiving break, I woke up to a white fog.

Now such a fog is in my brain:

Creeping, encroaching, insidious

Combined effects of heaped-up work and exhaustion.

I am of Humanity: a Sketch

From the library I walk to one of the Quiet Places on campus; take off my backpack, and I am free.  I make the short climb upward and watch the world around me, the stars above.  I swing from the poles over my head, and sit atop one for a while.

It is cold.  My ears, cheeks, neck, hurt from it.  The cold air and colder metal cause my hands to ache, and I am glad.  I am glad to feel the sharp throb of my ears and ache of my hands; to feel the pain in my body, to remember it's there.  I have hands.  They hurt, and they are part of my body, and they are mine.

They are not just a tool for serving, not only an extension of my academic mind.  They are part of my physical body, which I feed and sleep and, of late, otherwise ignore.  But it is me, and I am alive.

And with the sensation, the reminder of my physical body, the imagination slowly starts to leak out from beneath the intellect.

I can swing on the metal rods and pretend I am a gymnast, or look up at the stars and imagine myself an astronomer of old, seeking the wisdom of God in the artwork of the stars.

The moon is the tiniest sliver: I try to write but it's too dark, and I cannot see the strokes of my pen.  So I clamber down, reclaim my backpack, rejoin inhabited civilization.

Inside, I feel my cheeks and ears burn.  In the bathroom mirror they are a blotchy red and white.  My hands also burn; they are bright red and ugly, with the veins and fingers starting to swell, un-shriveling in the warmth.  Once I can properly feel it again, my left hand aches from the day's writing.

People talk to me.  The strangeness of my thoughts fades away and I notice that I am hungry, tired.  I recall that I have much yet to do.

My hands have returned to their normal coloring, calluses slightly enlarged from recent use.  I am no longer too warm or cold.

And as the acute consciousness of my humanity fades, I must go back to "real life" and the ordinary thoughts and tasks before me.

Chiaroscuro

     by Kelley Goewey

I was born in darkness and
Blind in spirit since my start.
Light has burned away the scales,
Illumed the shadows in my heart.

Light of Christ and shade of sin:
I am pulled between these two.
Everlasting, by the light,
And by the dark, a death my due.

Ephemeral, eternal, these
My natures war to rule my soul.
Until the light has won, I’m caught
Between the two, chiaroscuro.

Geese in Evening

Ugly birds on ground;
In air, gold shines on bellies;
Suddenly lovely.

Fragility

Humans have limits—

I guess that means me—

I must face mortality.

Fool's Gold

They tell me gold is precious—

Expensive and hard to obtain.

But I am not so sure—

I found abundance without gain.

It is precious in the way

Of all lovely things,

But as for rare, I cannot say,

For it pours down like the rain.

And while it's true that Autumn swirls

Its hues but once a year,

Summer's gold blooms sweet and bright,

Unalloyed and pure.

Fairer still the gold I've found,

Though quick to pass away,

Than lasting stuff, from the ground,

Less subject to decay.

Do you feel the ache?

What is there for us, darling,

In this world of brightest color

And widest dark;

Of all the deepest laughter

And  most piercing, aching sorrow?

Can we carry the song each day,

And hold the fragile dream in hand?

Can we keep the hope and joy

Of most beautiful world

When weighed by tired days and tragedy?

When the dark burden of the soul

Is invisible to all who see?

Where is our place

When we see and hear and feel

All the beauty and darkness,

Throbs of pain and dazzling light,

In a blind and deaf and muted world?

Where is our place

To contain and express

And to hold in heart

All there is—

And our vibrant, aching

Hope for more?

Treasure in Jars of Clay

Insurmountable treasure in a jar of clay—

That you would dwell in, work through me—

          Great God, have Your way!

You are glory beyond glory,

Splendor beyond splendor,

Truth upon truth.

I am clay: formed of earth, dark of soul;

Imperfect, weak, prone to crack and break;

All that is small, imperfect, unholy.

Concealing imperfections no longer:

Shine Thy brilliant light

Through crack, hole, and fissure—

Shine Your glory through my clay

That You may be made great—

          Great God, have Your way!

A Fare-Thee-Well to Summer

First: happy one hundredth post! God is so faithful!

Now, the true purpose of this post. I've been busy this summer, if you haven't noticed from lack of posts.  Here are a few snapshots of the beautiful and the chaotic:

Vacation to South Carolina with my wonderful family.

Sunrise over the Atlantic

Beach/lighthouse walk between a friend's wedding and reception--one of three this summer!

House by candlelight during a power outage after a storm.

Much-needed (albeit brief) rain.

...Homework....

Many enjoyable road trips and car rides.

Creation Canticle

I heard God's voice
     in the wind through the trees;
he said, "My child,
     find a song like these."

The waves on the shore
     spoke to me
and said, "Our song
     is a praise and a plea."

The crickets sing
     long and low:
"Sing all you are
    and have and know."

He Would Possess Our Hearts Alone

"Let us not content ourselves with loving God for the mere sensible favors, how elevated soever, which He has done or may do us.... Let us seek Him often by faith.... If we do love Him alone, are we not rude, and do we not deserve blame, if we busy ourselves about trifles which do not please and perhaps offend Him?  It is to be feared these trifles will one day cost us dear.
"Let us begin to be devoted to Him in good earnest.  Let us cast everything besides out of our hearts.  He would possess them alone."

        - Brother Lawrence, The Fifteenth Letter


"Jesus said to him, 'If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.'  When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.
"And Jesus said to his disciples, 'Truly, I say to you, only with difficulty will a rich person enter the kingdom of heaven.  Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.'"

        - Matthew 19:21-24

Reading these passages, I cannot help but ask: what are the "trifles" which distract my attention from God?  Let us not be lured by the seductiveness of possessions so rampant in our culture!  Lord, keep our eyes and hearts fixed on You!

"At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, 'Yet once more will I shake not only the earth but also the heavens.'  This phrase, 'Yet once more,' indicates the removal of things that are shaken--that is, things that have been made--in order that the things that cannot be shaken may remain.  
Therefore let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire."

        - Hebrews 12:26-29

Sunrise: Psalm 19

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they display knowledge.

There is no speech or language

where their voice is not heard.

Their voice goes out into all the earth,

their words to the ends of the world.

Family & Road Trip: a Sketch

Rain drops alternately peck and hammer at the windows and roof, drawing their squiggly patterns and pock-marks only to be swept away by the windshield-wipers.

Kelsey in front of me: fashionable pink sunglasses on her blonde head, pretty little face pressed up against the window, stuffed cow tight in her arms, somehow sixteen tomorrow.

Daddy at the wheel: I can see his alert, albeit headache-worn eyes in the rearview mirror, focused on the road stretching and winding before and beneath us.

Mom at his side: navigating, company-keeping, singing to her 90s music on the stereo and looking most put-together of any of us.

Jessica, front-left: currently undistracted by rain, scenery, music; pale yellow wisps of hair curling around her face from the humidity in spite of ponytail and headband, lovely face buried unsurprisingly in a book.

Green-covered mountains rise and fall behind and before us, reaching and dipping on right and left, and mist rises to follow the cars on the curving road, or to obscure patches of mountain trees.

A quiet settles comfortably among us, relaxed to the rhythmic humming of the wheels below.  Many miles past and many yet to go, and there is peace in and among and between us, and there is joy.

And it is beautiful to me.

From My Emptiness

Solitude, silence;

Breath and rest for the soul. Come,

Great God; make me whole.

I Look for You

     Solomon Ibn Gabirol

I look for you early,
my rock and my refuge,
                  offering you worship
            morning and night;
before your vastness
I become confused
             and afraid for you to see
     The thoughts of my heart.

Roads Go Ever On

     J.R.R. Tolkien


Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Holy Sonnet XIV

     John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Under a Hat Rim

     Carl Sandburg

While the hum and the hurry

Of passing footfalls

Beat in my ear like the restless surf

Of a wind-blown sea,

A soul came to me

Out of the look on a face.

Eyes like a lake

Where a storm-wind roams

Caught me from under

The rim of a hat.

I thought of a midsea wreck

and bruised fingers clinging

to a broken state-room door.

Ambition

     Lord Byron


He who ascends to mountain tops shall find
  The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow:
He, who surpasses or subdues mankind,
  Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
  And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
  Contending tempests on his naked head;
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

Eternal Reverie

Lydia Daugaard

Morning stopped,

To listen to the mighty whisper

Of the heron's unfolding wings.

It stopped for the oaks,

Their arms outstretched 

Against a rosy and roused canvas. 

The sanguine sky with his timid demeanor sat,

Rubbing his slumber-glazed eyes. 

And the morning stopped to admire him, 

Rendering his cheeks an emblazoned red. 

Morning stopped for the barefoot hills,

Scampering with pleasure towards the horizon.

It stopped for the callow ground, 

Set like a dream amidst a lazy tier of fog,

And embellished with altogether flawless beads of dew. 

Morning stopped to compose itself,

Beaming with the youthfulness of daylight.

It is a mystery.

Morning stopped,

But aroused an eternal reverie. 

Love Through Me

    Amy Carmichael

Love through me, Love of God;

There is no love in me.

O Fire of love, light Thou the love 

That burns perpetually.

Flow through me, Peace of God;

Calm River, flow until

No wind can blow, no current stir

A ripple of self-will.

Love (Herbert)

    George Herbert

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,

      Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

      From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

      If I lack'd anything.

Information Overload

(A Pre-Finals Rant)


Piles and stacks of words,
ideas, names, questions, histories, facts
continue to build homes in my brain.
Soon there are complicated webs
of connected subdivisions,
marketplaces, suburbs, cities
with extensive expressways
for zipping between
each time it's time to think of something else;
or telephone wires
for drawing lengthy connections—
though the wi-fi installed in most places
is much more efficient.

Mother to Son

     Langston Hughes


Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Fever

     John Updike

I have just brought back a good message from the land of 200°:

God exists.

I had severely doubted it before:

but the bedposts spoke of it with utmost confidence,

the threads in my blanket took it for granted,

the tree outside the window dismissed all complaints,

and I have not slept so justly for years.

It is hard now to convey

how emblematically appearances sat

upon the membranes of my consciousness;

but it is a truth long known

that some secrets are hidden from health. 

Solitude

     Lord Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes

By the deep sea, and music in its roar.

I love not man the less, but nature more,

From these our interviews in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before;

To mingle with the universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Within This Strange and Quickened Dust

      Madeleine L'Engle


O God, within this strange and quickened dust
The beating heart controls the coursing blood
In discipline that holds in check the flood
But cannot stem corrosion and dark rust.
In flesh's solitude I count it blest
That only you, my Lord, can see my heart
With passion's darkness tearing it apart
With storms of self, and tempests of unrest.
But your love breaks through blackness, bursts with light;
We separate ourselves, but you rebind
In Dayspring all our fragments; body, mind,
And spirit join, unite against the night.
Healed by your love, corruption and decay
Are turned, and whole, we greet the light of day.

The Road and the End

  Carl Sandburg

I SHALL foot it
Down the roadway in the dusk,
Where shapes of hunger wander
And the fugitives of pain go by.
I shall foot it
In the silence of the morning,
See the night slur into dawn,
Hear the slow great winds arise
Where tall trees flank the way
And shoulder toward the sky.

When Poetry Escapes you

     by Lydia Daugaard

When poetry escapes you,

And you are stripped of your eloquence,

Robbed of your rhythm

And aching for rhyme...

When life lacks color, and confidence,

And you cannot find words,

But only the end of yourself...

When stillness and silence are not enough

To quiet your heart,

And the light in your eyes is fading

Like the day at dusk...

Be still.

I will still be here,

Patiently waiting for you.

I am yours, beloved,

And you are mine. 

A Line-Storm Song

     Robert Frost

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 

  The road is forlorn all day, 

Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 

  And the hoof-prints vanish away. 

The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,

  Expend their bloom in vain. 

Come over the hills and far with me, 

  And be my love in the rain. 

Graspings

             by Jessica Stein


You, once, two-thousand years ago,

Were a man. Would that I could 

Grasp the truth of that reality.

When you walked, dust puffed up

In muffled protest to the tread of your

Sandaled, dirty feet. The same feet were

Washed with tears and anointed with 

Perfume, dried with a woman's

Tumbling hair. Did, I wonder, that

Thick, rich perfume sting against cuts

And blisters from days of traveling?

When the people pressed close

About you, and you strained your 

Throat already sore from days

of speaking to reach the outskirts of the people,

Did the smell of their sweat and

Their unwashed bodies reach you?

Did it bother you? But all this,

It is merely the skin, the senses—

Were you ever lonely for the dance

Of eternities you had momentarily left

To get to know us? You were angry,

Once at least, and how your eyes

Must have blazed. How many sunrises 

Did you watch as you hid in the wilderness

With your Father? I wonder whether 

You ever stood silent, heart shattering 

Because of the beauty of this 

Broken, burdened world.

Perhaps you too, along with the 

Spirit, are groaning for our redemption

And the restoring of the earth.

For you too were a man, you knew

and still know our sufferings and the 

trials of the human race. Would that 

I could grasp that truth more fully.

A Word

(Photo: That Red One, by Arthur Dove, 1880-1946) 

      by Gary Gildner

Give me I said to those round

young faces a round word

and they looked at me

fully puzzled until finally

several cried What do you mean?

I mean I said round round

you know about round

and Oh yes they said but

give us examples!

Okay I said let's have a

square word

square maybe

will lead us to round.

And they groaned

they groaned and they frowned

every one except one

little voice way in the back said

Toast.

Valley of Dry Bones

     by Kelley Goewey

White bones, dry bones,

Bleaching in the sun.

These are my bones.

I am dead and gone.

Numb and empty,

Marrow scorched away.

Always empty,

Nothing but a grave.

"the hours rise up putting off stars..."

              E.E. Cummings

the hours rise up putting off stars and it is

dawn

into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems

Becalmed

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Becalmed upon the sea of Thought

Still unattained the land it sought,

My mind, with loosely-hanging sails,

Lies waiting the auspicious gales.

On either side, behind., before,

The ocean stretches like a floor,—

A level floor of amethyst,

Crowned by a golden dome of mist.

The Ingenious Little Old Man

I just found out April is National Poetry Month! Thus I am obliged to observe by posting lots of good poems.

The Ingenious Little Old Man
                       by John Bennett

A little old man of the sea
Went out in a boat for a sail:
The water came in
Almost up to his chin
And he had nothing with which to bail.
But this little old man of the sea
Just drew out his jackknife so stout,
And a hole with his blade
In the bottom he made
So that all of the water ran out.

Easter Musings

This Easter weekend I was thinking for the first time how interesting it is that Jesus died during Passover.  Everyone celebrated God's grace, mercy and love in that He killed all the firstborn Egyptian sons but passed over the Hebrew firstborn.  Yet Jesus, "the firstborn of all creation," to show God's grace and mercy and love, was not passed over but killed rather ruthlessly...and at the hands of those who had once been "passed-over," no less.

It is much to think of, and all I have for now.

Peace be with you. He is risen!

Crucifying (another Good Friday post)

Crucifying
        by John Donne

By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate:
In both affections many to Him ran.
But O! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas! and do, unto th’ Immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life’s infinity to span,
Nay to an inch. Lo! where condemned He
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, He must bear more and die.
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.

Dark (a Good Friday post)

Dark

     by Dom Julian Stead

Has there been a break in it
The soundless cry?
Has there been any relenting to the cry, cry,
Cry from the hollow dark?
Cry to the height of invisible light.
Light which cannot penetrate
Unless on the waves of the comprehending cry.
Do not ask what to cry,
The hollow resounds best with silence
And the horror-struck eye
Sees best in the stillness of dark.
Only one Voice can fill
And thrill
This hollow void.

Faithfulness, part two

(Greek flashcards and tea at the library)

Sometimes when it comes to Christianity, I think we assume that if we know, learn, and understand the truth about something our behavior will automatically change in accordance with what we know.

But I wonder if there are some things that we can only truly know about and understand once we've practiced them.

I wonder if we can only truly learn what it means to be faithful by being faithful; by persevering and continuing to respond in obedience.

Ordinarily I might come up with some examples or an insightful quote.

However, I'm going to leave you with just this tidbit and go do paperwork, write papers, and other miscellaneous homework.  Because for me right now, these are the ways  I am called to be obedient.

Peace be with you this Holy Week!

Everydayness, Dreams, & Faithfulness

Vague thoughts on faithfulness have been mulling at the back of my brain for a good week or so now.  I think there will be more to it, but here are my thoughts thus far.

I can't help wondering if we've overemphasized the importance of blessings in life; if we've started thinking the goal of the Christian life is to be happy rather than to be faithful and live lives of worship; if we've gotten our faith mixed up with the American dream.  I'm not saying God doesn't let us be happy from time to time or doesn't ultimately desire our happiness and fulfillment. I'm not sure enough about theology to say that decisively either way.  But I think the orientation in general is the problem--it's looking at what I have or don't have or need rather than who GOD is, what He's asking of me, and what HIS perspective is on life, ourselves, and those around us.  Maybe.

I wonder if we've heard so many stories of Christians doing big things for the kingdom--of missionaries, of martyrs...if we've  been told to "dream big" so many times, been told that we are destined for great things...that we become discouraged when we are caught up in the mundaneness of daily work, homework, paper-writing.  It doesn't feel "big" or glamorous.  But I wonder if our expectations have been falsely constructed; if we've trusted a false ideal.

March

March

never aims to please;

is never one for sentimentality
or prim and proper subtleties.
Biting paradox is her specialty
whene'er her whim is to be ornery
and a trail of vexed casualties
can always be found in graves or on knees.
A day of sun!—warm, balmy skies—
     the next, a cold, harsh freeze
to sting your very eyes.
Then allergies,
make one sniffle and sneeze,
to make one run and then to wheeze—
and she laughs at all her falsities.
We forgive her when she coaxes
     blossoms onto trees,
recalling how Spring
     always wins in spite of her complexities,
and curse her yet again
     for all the grievances we see
when she'll caress the trees with sympathy
only to bully and crow obscenities.
She'll drive us to perplexities,
she'll mock, berate, taunt, and tease,

but March

never

aimed to please.

An Overture Untitled

The world is alive today in swelling fullness,
life upon life upon death.


The clouds were played and arranged
by a string quartet,
and the veiled winter sun
the woodwinds proudly array.


(In my Love, the King,
      is all magnificence--)


He opened the heavens,
opened his hands,
and what is invisible poured forth.


If our hearts were but right
      we might see!
If our hearts were but right
      we might hear!
Or perhaps it is not our lot,
and perhaps it is not our lot.


The symphony surges,
swirls above and throughout
      (we keep to our quiet lives).
The triumphal march soars,
sweeping loudly to proclaim
      (we keep to our busy lives).


The resonating cello
left its song within my soul.
It sings sweetly and strongly
of sorrow and lament
and a throbbing ache
of strange, unspeakable joy.


The world, my dear,
is alive today,
and the silent love of a King
(life upon life upon death).

A Request

A group of friends from my home church is currently in Thailand right now on a short-term mission trip.
Please pray for them, as they are experiencing spiritual warfare these past few days.

Here is the link to the blog for their trip, in which you can find their prayer requests and learn more about what they're doing. http://rejoice2012.wordpress.com/
In addition, one of the team members is recording the journey from his personal blog, which you can read about here: http://jonathanrgray.blogspot.com/


This is completely irrelevant, but while I'm dishing out links, I'd like to make a quick shout-out to my sister, Jessica, who recently started a blog as well.  She has some insightful and provoking poetry, musings and quotations (mostly poetry), as well as some pretty photos on the side :). So if you're interested and/or know her and didn't know she was blogging (I didn't find out right away myself), check it out! http://j-stein.blogspot.com/

Till next time, God bless!

allison

Disquiet

When all that she saw was less than she knew

and she was forced to pass by what she yearned to go through;

when all of the stars in the purple-black sky

wished to grant her wish that she might fly;

as the hollow bark of the old canoe

so her soul felt dull and empty too;

Her lips speak words she knows but can't feel;

beauty exists, though somehow less real;

she holds tight to the window—can't and won't fall—

the lament and joy of her voice grow small;

the world is spinning and color going flat

and her music is shrinking—

    and she sits,

            she goes,

                   she is,

                     she loves,

    confined in a tattered canoe.

Communion

- n1. an exchange of thoughts, emotions, etc 2. possession or sharing in common; participation 3. (followed by: by, with) strong emotional or spiritual feelings (for): communion with nature 4. a religious group or denomination having a common body of beliefs, doctrines, and practices 5. the spiritual union held by Christians to exist between individual Christians and Christ, their Church, or their fellow Christians [from Latin commūniō, general participation, from commūnis, common] (From World English Dictionary, accessed at Dictionary.com) We eat the body (of the bread) together as the body (of believers) because of, and to so remember, Christ's body (broken for us). Communion.

Static

       The muse has muted

the writer so the writer

has nothing to say.