one voice for One

I stand before you, a sample

of the power

of The Creator

to shape from nothing

what He chooses, for His pleasure

I stand before you

hand painted

sealed, stamped with His name

like you, and you, and you

marked with intricate detail

arms, legs, hearts beating wild

perfect in our imperfections

eyes, ears, voice

His voice, is in you, is in me

but the rhythm, the tempo, the tune

mid-air suspended, was not intended

to sound the same, no

don’t sell yourself

don’t sell Him short

the One Who’s designs

are never duplicated, replicated

or mass produced

no instant replays, reruns or counterfeits 

no simulations, imitations or forgeries

but unique, set apart, only one

for the Only One

waiting to unfold

Most of us will never be great in the world, especially when measured by its standards - where product, stature and the bottom line are most important. But measures have a way of being changed over time. There is in the world a way of measuring that has less to do with standing up and more to do with being still. Your life is that small seed etched into earth - the horizon is about to change.

Your voice - that unique view of reality, that humble vision - 

is waiting in you.

Dave Harrity - Making Manifest

see

the whole world

waits, to unfold

in your telling

in a voice that is

yours alone

humble, real

holy

making time to be still with Sandy

wounded wounding

For today's Faith Jam Bonnie gave us the writing prompt wounded.  I am sharing a clip from my novel in progress. Here Jessie discovers that the wounded create more wounds.

Jessie closed her eyes and found herself walking down crowded city streets.  People looked straight ahead, not to the left or to the right, ignoring those beside them.  Often they would bump into each other or step on someone's feet.  Sometimes when people got hit, bumped or stepped on they tripped and fell, banging into more people before they hit the ground.  Those who created the original problem did not even seem to notice.  The pace on the streets quickened.  Everyone had somewhere to go.  Jessie tried to slow down or stop but was moved along by those surrounding her.

She walked the streets for what felt like days.  There were bruises on her arms from bodies pushing, shoving or falling into her.  Her legs were covered with cuts and scrapes.  People yelled and people cried.  There was a constant falling and rising, to stop would leave one even more vulnerable, an open target, ready to be trampled unnoticed.

Jessie's feet were burning with pains that shoot through with every step. In the crush of bodies it seemed like all space was occupied.  She managed to walk fast enough to find a tiny clearing of space around her so that she could look down and see lower than the waists of other people.  When she looked, she saw the sidewalk running with blood.  Her feet were bleeding, the feet around her were bleeding.  Hurt was everywhere like a river and all of them continued moving, swept into  the pain, downstream, not able to change direction.

Those that were the most damaged fell more often, and as they did, the ones around them received more injuries as well until there was no one on the street that was free from damage.  Broken and breaking the parade continued on.

Jessie shook herself awake, reaching to rub one of her feet before she realized it didn't really hurt.

“How many people did I hurt?” she thought about the dream.  “Every time I stumbled, every time I fell someone else was harmed.  Could I have stopped it?  If I would have just given up and stayed on the ground?  But then I would have been an obstacle for them to trip over and they would have fallen too.”

Jessie spoke aloud “How do we stop?” and then fell asleep again.

There was a man with a dagger like knife in his hand, lifting his arm, about to plunge the blade into the back of a person standing in front of him.  Behind him was another man with a dagger trying to stop him, and behind him another, and another, and another.  A loud voice shouted “STOP” and all who heard it froze.  Yet the one at the back of the line was too far away to hear.  He plunged his knife into the one before him.  As the stabbed one fell, his knife went into the one standing before him, and on and on and on like dominoes they fell.  The one at the back of the line who hadn't heard the call to stop was the only one left standing and listened to the moans of pain echoing back.  “This isn't what I meant to do” he cried, over and over again.  “This isn't what I meant at all.”

Jessie woke again.  She thought the two dreams were connected and was afraid to have another, so she rose quickly and walked around the apartment to fully wake herself.  She thought again about her mother.  She picked up her pen again.

You were hurt and so you hurt me
Did you ever even know
or were you caught up in the flow?
When I thought you didn't care
could you even see me there?
Did you ever try to stop
or did you never hear the shout
that might have saved us all.
Is it better to be the last one standing
or the first to fall?
Everyone that walks in pain
hurt and hurting, again and again
There has to be a way out
a way that we can see or hear
do we really have to share the pain
with all who would come near?

“So you are beginning to see” quietly came The Voice.  “You are letting me show you many things.”

“These things are hard to see” thought Jessie in reply.

“Will you continue to look?  If I ask?”




jamming with Bonnie

 

through the breaking

Authenticity, the journey to be

who ever I may be

at this moment

My mind as blank as

the screen, white before me

I have no words

as I begin

and yet in faith

begin I must

in fragmented lines

I listen, my poet's heart

willing to be willing

to scatter, shatter, open

raw and sharp

allowing what comes

to flow, to cleanse

like blood, fresh

I can not plan

or predict the shape

sharing what He allows

or commands

I follow and find my way

through the breaking

to find His words

in my voice

This is who I am

This is what I offer.

walking with the broken, redeemed beloved with Emily







jamming with Bonnie

 

solitude not lonliness

Loneliness is black coffee and late-night television; 

solitude is herb tea and soft music. 

Solitude, quality solitude, is an assertion of self-worth, 

because only in the stillness 

can we hear the truth of our own unique voices.

Pearl Cleage

I will speak

when He asks me to speak

in the voice

the single and unique voice

He has given me

Then the Lord reached out his hand 

and touched my mouth and said to me, 

“I have put my words in your mouth.

Jeremiah 1:9 NIV

seeking that stillness with Sandy

 

Open ears

My Mom - who has unimpaired ears!

I have known for quite a long time (as have many of you who engage in face to face conversation with me) that I have struggled with hearing loss in my left ear.  Too often I need to ask for words to be repeated and even then I often give up in frustration before truly understanding what is being said. 

I have attributed this to aging and genetics and grown somewhat used to turning my good right ear toward sounds I am trying to capture.  I've gotten accustomed to missing much of what is said in movies or on television.  I've even used the impairment to my advantage, pressing my good ear hard into the pillow at night so I don't hear Faith when she goes on a barking spree.

I have both complained and made jokes about the problem.  It was only when the ringing and roaring in my ear became a constant distraction that I decided to seek help.

A visit with an ear, nose and throat specialist confirmed my difficulties.  Monday's testing with an audiologist measured the extent of the problem.  Something has damaged the nerve, the loss is defined as permanent and an MRI is scheduled for the end of May to investigate the cause.

It seems like a long time to wait and ponder.  I will continue to release all of this into His hands, willing to be a sign and a wonder if He should choose to restore what has been called unrecoverable.

I will continue to open the ears of my spirit, which operate on a different wavelength.  Hearing His voice doesn't need my damaged nerve, it simply needs my hungry heart.

 

His voice, His presence

Today is the day we share God-Bumps and God-Incidences at Jennifer Lee's place.  I have chosen to rework a post from 2008, for I believe it bears repeating.

One might expect God to speak in an audible, thundering voice, but for most people this doesn’t occur. The voice of God is most often experienced as a fleeting, spontaneous thought, in many ways much less dramatic than one would imagine, but no less powerful.

God also speaks through His written Word when it suddenly seems alive in a new way, speaking His truth into situations in your life. I have had words seem to leap off the page and felt a yes in my spirit, amazed that it was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. That same yes in my spirit accompanies His voice, no matter what form it has taken. Although He will often speak to me in a style similar to my own, He speaks things I know I would not have thought of in my own mind. He doesn’t seem rushed. There is no sense of pressure. In fact, in my experience, if there is a sense of urgency, or pressure to act immediately I am almost always sure it is not God speaking, but the enemy.

His voice, whether audible, seen (as in dreams and visions), or sensed, will always line up with His Word, the Bible.

I have only heard His audible voice once. One morning, I was still in bed, in my quiet time of prayer, and my husband was down the hall in the den checking mail on the computer and preparing for work. I heard a male voice speak my name Karin.  I shouted down the hall “Yes, what do you want”. My husband said “What do you mean?” I said “You called me.” He insisted that he had not spoken. “But I heard my name” I said “and there is no one in the house but you, me and the cats”. He then wisely spoke to me the same words Eli spoke to the young Samuel:

So Eli told Samuel, “Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’” 1 Samuel 3:9 NIV

All I could do was pause in wonder, thanking the Lord that He would regard me.

I had been praying one night, asking the Lord to show me His love in a tangible way. The next morning, while still in bed, again during my quiet time of prayer, with one of my cats curled up beside me, I could feel God’s arm around me. I remember telling the cat “We’re not going to move, God is holding us.” Some years later I was talking with the Lord and reminded Him about how He put His arm around me. I could sense Him laughing as He replied My arm? My child, that was just My little finger. I thought, of course, He is so very big, I would fit in the palm of His hand.

Some years ago, I began to hear a quiet, gentle, metallic tinkling sound like wind chimes. This could happen anywhere, and there were no chimes present. After the chimes I would sense a thought from God, a short word of comfort, encouragement or direction. This happened so often that I began to realize that He had gifted me with the sound of chimes as a sign that He wanted to speak to me, so each time I head them I would become silent and still, waiting in faith for Him to speak. He never disappointed me. I regret that in the busyness of life I often miss hearing and have even totally forgotten the chimes for long periods of time. When I remember and mention to the Lord in prayer that I have not heard the chimes or His voice, I sense Him saying simply You have not been listening.
 
 

Joining Jennifer and others today at Getting Down With Jesus
 
 

Not far

I am not far from here
though it may seem I've been away

in the hush of new snow
I am waiting to hear
not His thunder
but His thin voice
the words too easily missed

the voice
that beckons me
"listen"

 

Time for conversation

I wake
thinking in lists
what must be done
mental check marks
bullet points
never believing
there is time enough
perhaps an early start
is best
yet always
my brain static
is interrupted

Martha, Martha,
you are worried and upset about many things,
but few things are needed—or indeed only one*

Yes, Lord,
I stop, to calm
come to a place of stillness
there is no one there
but Him and me
a hillside
an ocean shore
a river bank
where idle chatter
steps aside
makes way
for conversation

I offer
a willing heart
open ears
and a listening spirit
What words I speak
are not important
for their clarity
or perfection
meter or rhyme, no,
they are significant only
because of their intended
audience
and the intimacy
of their exchange

This then is prayer
may these conversations
never cease


from Luke 10:41-42




Jamming with Bonnie about Whitespace and Prayer

also joining my voice with Emily and the imperfect, broken and redeemed.

Finding my voice in His

Finding my voice by HisFireFly

Sometimes a shout. more often a whisper
confident or hesitant
faltering or strong and clear
my voice
in s
       t
         e
           p        
             s,
in s p a c e s
in bold print and flourishing italics
in very tiny fonts almost too small to read
yet wonders why it can't be heard

I am learning to listen
to speak what I hear
and breathe in the silence
to do only as He did and does still...

I can't do a solitary thing on my own: I listen, then I decide. You can trust my decision because I'm not out to get my own way but only to carry out orders. If I were simply speaking on my own account, it would be an empty, self-serving witness.  John 5:30 The Message

May I be a mere shadow of my Lord
and find my voice, an echo of His.


Jamming with Bonnie about finding our voice

Joining in the choir at Emily's of those imperfect yet beloved