Poetry

I am not a poet, but my Father is. I am not a song writer or a painter or a play-write. But my Father is. Last night I was surprised by poetry that came from my fingers, so surprised that I posted the line on facebook. It resonated with some friends and they said so.

There is so much in the depths of exploration, in insisting on clinging to the bosom of the King. I don't expect that my Father is making me a poet, but I am sure that His poetry is saturating me as I dream upon His breast. I hope for the day when it is the perfume of His Presence coming from me that brings someone home. And that day I will have been so near to the aroma for so very long that I will not smell it on me, and I will wonder what has drawn them.

One thing have I desired. One thing have I been granted. One thing have I rejoiced in and given thanks for.

Even surfing has too many control issues.

I think there is a dying squirrel in the attic.

My ceiling fan is moving a plastic sack.

Based on the sound and the sound two days ago of a running squirrel somewhere above me, a squirrel is dying.

Based on turning around and looking for a movement that matches the sound I hear now, the fan is moving a bag.

It does not mean that a squirrel is not dying. Maybe just not in my attic.

All of this is the evidence of my physical senses. The response in my mind is the question of what action I will take to change, no, control what I am sensing. The control of my environment, so that what I sense is no surprise, so that what I sense is always pleasant, so that nothing that I sense tempts me to fear. This is one of my great addictions.

The really kicky thing about the whole bit is that the addiction is a counterfeit and a distraction from what is available. For what has already been made available to Father's kids.

Even surfing has too many control issues.

Out here in the Wilderness, nothing of my humanity has any effect. I can not control the God Wild because nothing from earth works here. My will, my intellect, my endurance, my terror, my rage. None of it works. I can not control my environment. Only worship, surrender, leaning, trust are even interesting here. And no employment of them, making holy things into human tools, has any effect. As soon as the things that are, always have been and ever shall be about and for the King are turned to be about me or anyone else, they lose what they had, become perverse in a place where perversion can not survive, and they flee from the presence of Holiness.

Father, thank you for you Holy Wild. Thank you that you like company. Please continue to teach me to lean everything, to rest everything.