not my road

farewells extended

still feel fragile and fleeting

how can a heart shattered

continue to break

eight nights remain

wrapped in African 

velvet darkness, wishing 

for a different end

to this story, knowing

it is not mine to write

He reminded me this morning

journal open, pen in hand

I have never set an easy road before you

will you ask for one now?

Or will you surrender to My plans?

When you pray 

"whatever - for the glory of Your Kingdom"

do you mean it?

When you say "anything"

is it your "anything" or Mine?

Your own ears will hear him.

    Right behind you a voice will say,

“This is the way you should go,”

    whether to the right or to the left.

Isaiah 30:21 NLT

Sweet play...

When it becomes work, 

I know I have stopped listening...

 
Joining L.L. Barkat digging into sweets today

 

Strategy? What strategy?

Image found at http://www.dreamstime.com/nib-pen-and-inkwell-thumb2029268.jpg

I should have a plan
that's surely what the world would say
what writing logic would say
50,000 words in 30 days
there must be a strategy to accomplish such a task
and yet

the only plan I can follow
is His
the only words I wish to write
are those He supplies

my only strategy
is surrender
to be a pen in His hand
leaking Jesus onto every page

joining Peter Pollock and others talking about strategy

 

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

Quilted words

My hands and thoughts have no patience for crafts
no knitting, crocheting, scrapbooking done here
no sewing, embroidery, needlepoint, ceramics
I do not quilt
though I am fascinated by the piecing of scraps
building colour upon colour
Is it the same as when I take simple ingredients to cook
creating something greater than the individual parts

And yet...
perhaps I do quilt, in my way
stiching together words
building colour upon colour
creating stories greater than each individual word
something to climb inside
find comfort, warmth, joy.

We should use the tools He provides
each a gift not received lightly

How do you quilt?

Stop by Peter Pollock's to read more words on quilts

Disconnecting

For a day or two I am pulling the plug, shutting out electronic noise. the click clack of the keyboard

The world will continue to spin, tweets will sing out even if I can't hear, status updates will scroll on though my screen will be black

I may or may not pick up a pen or choose to let my words be few as I listen instead

I will connect eye to eye, ear to ear, heart to heart, with my beloved and others the Lord has chosen

I will breathe deep, taking in each gift He offers, drinking more than my fill so that I may pour out again

As I run to His arms, know that I am in the safest of all places.

Every day - Five Minute Friday

I'm finally taking a minute, actually five minutes, to join in the fun with The Gypsy Mama who invites us to "Indulge in five rich, delicious minutes of pure writing" each Friday.

This week the prompt was every day.

Every day I look to the forcast as if it were something magical, as if I could plan my day, every day.

Every day this week there have been little pictures of clouds covering even smaller pictures of the sun.

Every day the winds have blown strong and the heat I've been craving has been kept away, every day.

Every day the flowers wait to find their home, planted in rich prairie soil.  Instead they sit in small plastic pots and trays, ladies in waiting, wanting to thrive.

Every day I look to the skies.  Every day evening rolls in with much left to be done.

Every day I say a prayer for the farmers who also wait, every day, to put their future in ground that is too wet to work. 

Every day I say thanks to the One Who knows; when the clouds will break, when the sun will shine, when the chill in the air will be chased away by Summer's heat;  for He knows the secrets of yesterday, today and tomorrow, the promise of every day.




Come on over to Lisa Jo's and join the fun.

Keeping my goal in sight

Goals is the word for this week’s One Word at a Time Carnival.

I can think of many things I plan, hope, and pray for in the near and distant future.

• I will finish the novel I began in November.
• I will see words of mine published on paper before printed books become obsolete.
• I will serve the Lord in whatever way He chooses on the red dirt of Africa.

But none of these can take priority over the greater thing that God has placed within my spirit.

You may be shocked, surprised, or worried about the status of my mental health to learn that my primary goal is death.

Yes, you read that correctly, and no, I am not suicidal. I don’t wish to take my life; I want to give my life, wholly and without hesitation to my Lord.

I’m talking here about death to my self (with its fleshly actions and desires) and the fullness of life in Christ. That is the key to transformation, to becoming the new creation He gave His life for. This dying is a day by day, no, moment by moment, challenge.

This is a goal that will stay written on my heart, my calendars, my planning lists and yet never been fully attained until I meet Him face to face.

Oh, what glory then.

So if you're serious about living this new resurrection life with Christ, act like it. Pursue the things over which Christ presides. Don't shuffle along, eyes to the ground, absorbed with the things right in front of you. Look up, and be alert to what is going on around Christ—that's where the action is. See things from his perspective.

Your old life is dead. Your new life, which is your real life—even though invisible to spectators—is with Christ in God. He is your life. When Christ (your real life, remember) shows up again on this earth, you'll show up, too—the real you, the glorious you. Meanwhile, be content with obscurity, like Christ. Colossians 3:1-4 The Message

Stop by Peter's place to read more views on goals.

  

Random on a Saturday

Image via Wikipedia

I have words, random words, dancing about my thoughts --

spin
to cause to turn around rapidly, as on an axis; twirl; whirl: to spin a coin on a table.

turn
to change or convert (usually fol. by into or to ): to turn water into ice; to turn tears into laughter.
to bring the lower layers of (sod, soil, etc.) to the surface, as in plowing.

centre
to be at or come to a center, to come to a focus; converge; concentrate
 
wait
to remain inactive or in a state of repose, as until something expected happens
Archaic. (of things) to be in readiness for; be reserved for; await: Glory waits thee.

rest
the refreshing quiet or repose of sleep: a good night's rest.
refreshing ease or inactivity after exertion or labor: to allow an hour for rest.
relief or freedom, esp. from anything that wearies, troubles, or disturbs.
a period or interval of inactivity, repose, solitude, or tranquillity: to go away for a rest.
mental or spiritual calm; tranquillity.

I'm not quite sure what to do with these, so:

I shall wait on the Lord Who turns all things for good
till my thoughts spin at the centre of His will
for there I will find my rest.

Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.  Romans 8:26-28 The Message


Definintions found at dictionary.com

Time to bring forth

Image by Monica and Joe via Flickr
My time of journaling this morning leaves me trembling in holy fear and expectation (one of my words for 2011).

The ways of My Spirit cannot be understood with human reason.  Hold what I show you until the Spirit reveals its truth, even if no one else can see.

You dreamed yet again of being in late stages of pregnancy, at the hospital ,ready for delivery.  You were trying to explain to the nurse why you were so old.

And truly I tell you, the moment is here and your dream has twofold meaning.

It is indeed time for you to be delivered from any and all fear of man and the ways of man.  You are ready for delivery, there is no need to explain why or how or apologize - it is My timing. always My timing.

The second meaning is the birthing - for indeed you are carrying what I have conceived and it is time to bring it forth.

Yes, this is the novel We are writing - yet perhaps there are non-identical twins, for there is also something to be born in the Spirit, something you do not yet know but will recognize when you see it, when it takes its first breaths and begins to grow on its own.  You are a carrier of this new thing for you have been willing to be used, just as Mary was.

Do not be afraid, little one, as the birth pains continue - all is well and I will always be with you.

And I replied:

Yes, Lord, I am Your servant, may it be unto me as You have said.  Have Your way Lord.

Will you stand with me in prayer as I submit and obey and allow His work to be accomplished?
 

Imperfect Prose - Somewhere to fly to

All through the next summer she gave boys what they wanted, in dark garages and basements. There was nothing they could take from her that hadn’t already been stolen.

Billy was different. He just wanted to be with Jessie, to hold her and stroke her hair. He called her beautiful and said she was like a strange bird that didn’t know how to fly. She wasn’t sure how to respond to him, always thinking there must be something else he wanted, just like all the other guys.

He was eighteen when she turned fifteen, and had moved into a place of his own. They were sitting in the single room, on the frayed green sofa he had taken from his fathers basement when his Dad was moving out of town. Jessie snuggled close against his side. He handed her a tiny box wrapped with frilly ribbons. “Happy birthday, Jessie-bird” he smiled.

“What’s this?” she asked, not used to pretty packages.

“It’s just a little something to help your wings find a place to fly to” Billy replied.

Jessie untied each ribbon slowly, which made Billy laugh impatiently. “Come on already, Jessie-bird, open it up.”

She finally opened the box, and wrapped in layers of tissue was a door key on a silver chain. Billy took it from her hand and placed it gently around her neck.

“Now you can come here whenever you like, even when I’m not home. This will be your place too.” Jessie had never told him about all the trouble at her place, or the men that would come and go, but there was something so fragile about her, he seemed to know what she needed. “I think sometimes you need to be alone” he said.

“Why would you do this for me?” Jessie asked, so unaccustomed to kindness.

“Because I care about you Jessie-bird. I care about you very much.”

“Thank you Billy. I’ve never known anyone like you.” She kissed him on the cheek and leaned back into his arms. She expected him to want something in return for his gift, so she asked “Do you want me to take my clothes off now?”

“No Jessie-bird” he shook his head. “No, just relax.”

Sharing this bite from my work-in-progress in all its imperfection.  Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon where we share broken pieces and more.

A poet's New Year

The year
newborn, fresh
seems to contain
limitless
possibility
trails to blaze.

Words ripe, dripping
fragrant
cry out
for the plucking
sweet juices flow
like life sustaining
blood
to the permanance
of paper.

Stop by One Stop Poetry to read more One Shots and maybe add your own!

Sharing one heartbeat

God has called me to live my faith out loud, and that living takes place in a variety of layers, levels and ways.

We live in flesh even while we walk in step with the Spirit.

There is a small group of people that I can “do life” with in a visible, real-life, day to day manner. I can hold on to their hands when we pray and look into their eyes.
 

Image via Wikipedia

But these touchable ones are not the only people who know me. Connections have been forged in the past year with people I have only seen in photographs, with voices I have never heard, yet our hearts seem to share the same rhythm as we all seek to hear and move to the heartbeat of our Father.

I wish to honor and thank these precious ones who have taken the time to speak truth and life into my spirit, both directly in comments and emails and indirectly through the words they blog describing their own journeys. Their words of encouragement have kept me focused on the eyes of my Lord and His call for me to pour forth the words He places in my heart.

Here, in no order of importance but alphabet are these special ones.  Take some time to visit their blogs where you will find them living their faith out loud for the world to see!

Billy @ Billy Coffey
Bonnie @ Faith Barista
Emily @ In the Hush of the Moon
Glynn @ Faith, Fiction, Friends
Jason @ Connecting to Impact
Jay @ Soulfari
Sandy @ Sandra Heska King

There are more, so many others I can not name them all now, but shall continue to point you in their direction in the year ahead.

Imperfect Prose - Sugar Hearts

Jessie and Sara Jayne sat without speaking, drinking their coffee. Sara Jayne’s two year old Miranda had fallen asleep with her head on her mama’s lap, while Laura and Charlie, her other two children busied themselves, building a city out of creamers, cutlery and sugar packets. They were uncommonly quiet for children only seven and four, as if they knew that they mustn’t attract too much attention. Instead of speaking, Charlie would tug at his mother’s sleeve and point at what he had constructed, looking for some sign of approval. Vacant eyes looked upon his work without comment. Instead, Laura, his older sister smiled at him and noiselessly clapped her hands. He smiled sadly, accepting the morsel of her encouragement.

Laura took some sugar packets and laid them out on the table in the shape of a heart, tapped Charlie on the shoulder, pointed to herself, then to the heart, then to him. The unspoken “I love you” made his smile a bit brighter. He tugged on Jessie’s sleeve again until she looked at him, then he repeated what his sister had just done for him, pointing at himself, at the heart and at Sara Jayne.

“Right” she said, brushing the sugar packets off the table, onto the floor and the children’s laps. “What’s that’s supposed to mean anyway.”

Charlie’s lips began to quiver as he turned his eyes away. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry” said a voice similar to the one that echoed in Sara Jayne’s head. “It will hurt even more if you cry.”

Laura collected whatever sugars she could, and stacked them neatly in the holder on the table, creating order out of disorder so quickly that Jessie thought she must be well practiced at such.



Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon for more imperfected words

HisFireFly

Rejoicing

This morning I am rejoicing in the overwhelming sense of victory and wonder at all that God has done as I determined to surrender again and again to His leading, allowing me to write Redeeming Silence, the story that He chose.

Last night, even knowing I still had today to complete the NaNoWriMo 50,000 word challenge, I felt the need to press hard and get it done, in a sense compelled to feel the breaking of the tape at the final lean into the finish line.

To anyone I have ignored or neglected during this past month of hiding out in front of the keyboard, please forgive me.

To my beloved Rick, nothing I do would be possible without the love you allow God to pour through you. I will continue to lean on your encouragement and support as I work with and trust in our God to complete what He has begun.

I have may have reached 50,000 words, but the story has much more to go. I pray that with His strength I have the courage, boldness and conviction to see it through.

Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me Philippians 3:12 NKJV

Momentary rest

Feathers fluffed
against the wind
this chickadee
finds momentary rest
a frozen foothold
providing peace.

The intensity of NaNoWriMo is coming to an end. November has slipped past me and I have likely missed many things along the way. The work God has begun in me and through me shall continue as December turns the calendar but perhaps with a bit more time to participate in life as it continues all around me.

May I also find my foothold, strong and secure, in the shadow of His wings.

Drifting

If you had only heard the reported amount of snowfall yesterday you would not have believed what the world looked like around us last night and this morning.

Rick's truck didn't make it home yesterday, sliding to a stop across our gravel road about half a mile from the house.

The drifting continued along with new snow through the night. Rick phoned in to work to say "If you want me there, you're going to have to come get me" and we were both surprised when they did just that!

I never went out, even to take pictures, preferring the warmth inside. The picture above is another day, another year. I used the day to to try to write, with NaNoWriMo and an article on deadline for the Marriage Counter at Internet Cafe Devotions.

I sat to type, my head pounded. I got up to look out at the snow. My head pounded. I read emails, I looked at the snow. I wrote a few words. My head pounded. I chatted on the phone. I wept before the Lord. My head pounded. I read some blogs and prayed about the state of our yard. I got up to look out the window at the snow. Outside and inside, drifting continued. A friend prayed on the phone about my headache. I ate some cheese. I wrote the words God provided.

A neighbor arrived to plow and blow snow, working to clear the yard. Rick was delivered home, safe and sound and is back outside shoveling what can't be plowed.

Inside I remain, headache still hanging around on the fringes. More words will come as He wills. I am warm. I am sheltered. I am blessed.

And drifting continues.

Imperfect Prose - Snippet

I'm accepting a large dose of the Lord's courage and boldness and sharing a bit of my NaNoWriMo work-in-progress. It certainly qualifies as imperfect prose.

Instead of turning on the television Jessie opened her new Bible. She re-read the verses she had already read in Johnny’s Bible and they did seem to be a little bit easier to understand. “Maybe I’m not too dumb to get it” she thought. “Maybe I can learn what it all means.”

But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. They are reborn—not with a physical birth resulting from human passion or plan, but a birth that comes from God.

If she became a child of God, that would mean that God would be her father. Jessie closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to know that God was her father, but because she never knew a father she couldn’t put the pieces together. She never knew that a father should love you; she only was told that a father leaves you.

She had a night filled with dreams of babies and fathers coming and going. Some of the babies were taken home and others were left behind. There were babies that screamed and babies that were silent. In the dreams Jessie was trying to unlock the secret of which babies were loved but there was no predictable pattern to it. It seemed to have nothing to do with the babies and everything to do with the men who were supposed to be their fathers.

In the last dream of the night, all of the babies that had been left behind grew up very quickly and as adults, all of them were holding up signs with writing in different colours that said “There is something wrong with me.”

Jessie woke up thinking “That’s exactly how I feel, but if it wasn’t the babies’ faults then maybe it wasn’t my fault either.”

“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions if I were you” said the voices, though they sounded a bit muffled.

“Maybe I was already jumping to conclusions” she answered back “and they were the wrong ones.”


Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon to read more or perhaps even share some of your own words imperfect.

Word fight

Image via Wikipedia

For many years,

I had left poetry

behind
and for reasons of His own
in this season
my Lord has led me

back to rhythm,

meter

and rhyme.
If I try to force

a poem
what flows is prose.

With fictional prose as my goal
the words tumble out as poetry.

Words with a life of their own
seem to have donned boxing gloves
and taken to the ring.

So I wait before the Lord
Who has a story
He desires unfolded
and I lay out adjectives,
verbs, nouns
like a jigsaw puzzle.

I ache for these newly developed
characters
that they would know Him.
Then I think
how much more He grieved for me
before I turned.

I am behind in my word count for NaNoWriMo, but feel I can only move as quickly as He allows. I am not writing my story this year, but instead I have surrendered to Him and will allow Him to lead me.

Almost November...

Tomorrow the madness begins.

I am taking the National Novel Writing Month NaNoWriMo Challenge for the second year.

God hasn't told me what I'm to be writing about, but writing I will be, 50,000 words in the next 30 days.

I intend to continue to blog regularly as well, but if you notice me more silent than usual, pray that I'm writing, writing, writing away....