Hurricane
I am standing on a beach, aware that the hurricane is coming. We are all waiting expectantly, perhaps with concern but not fear. I have shoved some things into my pockets, hoping to hang onto them.
The Longing
Let me long for You more than any other
To search for You more than a long lost lover
To see Your eyes in the endless depths of stars
And in wholeness behold the face of God.
The End of the Road
I am driving down an unfamiliar road in the countryside, towards Ennis, TX to see the Bluebonnets. I see a person leading a horse in the road. Suddenly the horse’s legs buckle and the horse collapses. Uncharacteristically, I keep driving–intent on finding my way, but I can see in my rearview mirror that others have stopped to help. Suddenly I reach the end of the road and it dead ends at a small church to my right. To my left is a walking trail. There are people gathered outside the church for a funeral, and I can see a sign or plaque indicating that it is for a US veteran. I turn the car around and decide to ask someone for help. I come up to where the horse collapsed but instead, I see a relative of mine. I wake up.
The relative in the dream has a spouse who is a US veteran and who has had ongoing health problems. I immediately start praying for this person, that the Lord would grant them a long life. I later call my relative to ask how they both are doing. Apparently the spouse has recently had surgery but is recovering and doing “fine.” I feel, however, that this dream is a call to prayer. I believe that even prophetic things can show us not what will “definitely” happen but what will “likely” happen unless action is taken. I believe the best action, in this instance, is prayer.
Voice of Trumpets
Come to me again
Break into my soul.
I will unbolt the doors,
Unlatch the windows.
Rush over me
Like a waterfall,
A violent current,
Rip through this wall.
Your words in waves
of trumpet blasts,
Trembling and quaking,
Breaking at last
The slabs of rock
I lie beneath.
Speak into me; break into me!
Singing Over Me
Zephaniah 3:17 (NIV)
The LORD your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.”
I was unaware of this verse when I had the dream. I was only aware of a young man, whom I knew somehow to be God, singing to me. Before waking, the last part of the verse formed in my mind: “. . . He will rejoice over you with singing.” Perhaps I had heard the verse before; that did not really matter. What mattered was that He loved me, and I could still feel that love. That was probably three years ago.
In last night’s dream, I had the vague notion of being at my grandparents house but really no other context. I began to hear the music clearly in my ears, more lucid than a dream should be. But these were many voices together singing of the greatness of God and of His great love for me. I do not remember seeing God and yet I was aware of His presence. It seemed to be a wonderful song although I can’t recall the melody or words, only the feeling of love that still lingers.
These are gift dreams–existing for no other reason than to feel that overwhelming compassion, and dare I say “passion,” of the Creator for His children. Thank You.
Your Higher Calling
Forgetting what’s behind
I press on to
Your higher calling.
You’re all that I desire
And this longing
Is a fire that draws me up
Past the circle of the earth and the night
To the place where Your beauty resides,
All the creatures declaring
The risen Christ.
(repeat)
Farewell to Grandmama and Papaw
On November 8, 2009 my grandmother “graduated to Heaven” as a friend of mine likes to say. Ten days later my grandfather, her husband of 61+ years followed. Grandmama was 86 and Papaw 89, and although neither was in the best of health, their deaths came rather unexpectedly. It seems there is not truly any quiet and peaceful way to face death–particularly from the perspective of the ones left behind. Their absence strikes us as violently as their last gasp for air. Certainly knowing they are in Heaven basking in the pure joy of their God and King, and both together at that, is a great comfort to me. Nevertheless there seems to be a spiritual canyon between us, and an uneasy knowing that we all must one day make that journey. But as a believer in Christ, I have a greater hope in a resurrected body and the redemption of a fallen world.
Farewell to Grandmama: maker of three course breakfasts, reader of nursery rhymes, generous servant to her husband, children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. She was soft and gentle like a lamb, cut from a different fabric than this world. I remember her floral nightgowns, dark brown eyes and how she always smelled of lotion and powder. I would beg her to cut up apples or carrots for me so that I could make a trap in the woods for a stray horse that just might wonder into the back yard. Her words were always kind, although I would quickly become bored as she would tell the same old stories about growing up in Cumberland Gap, TN. How I wish I had paid more attention to them.
Farewell to Papaw: giver of backslapping hugs, watcher of Looney Tunes and (later in life) Judge Judy, collector of native American artifacts. I can see his wide grin and still hear him say, “Hiya Rozzy!” when we would greet. He spent many years outside exploring–hunting arrowheads or hiking in the mountains beside Grandmama. Back pain and instability would later keep him from even walking to the mailbox and I’m sure this must have been hard for him emotionally. I developed a great appreciation of my mountain heritage from the hikes that they would take with me and my sisters. We were always bounding off ahead to see what lay around the next bend but they took things more slowly and savored every wildflower, bird and tree. How I wish I had paid attention to the things they were always pointing out to me.
But I must say that their greatest legacy was their faith. Not that we shared every doctrinal view but we agreed on the fundamentals of the Christian Faith, which is what mattered most. Up until the last conversation I ever had with Papaw, he would always tell me, “You know I pray for you and those kids every single night.” Lord knows I needed those prayers. I could, in fact, use them now.
Attack of the Bear
I think the stress of this move may be starting to get to me. I was driving down the road today trying to figure out what I would do if suddenly attacked by a bear while on a hike, armed only with a small knife. How do you mortally wound a bear? I wondered. What should I aim for–the heart, the neck, the head? If I don’t kill it, I might just make it angrier and then I’m doomed for sure. And what if I have to rescue a companion who is being attacked? I could see myself running at the bear from behind and stabbing it and the bear turning around (merely a flesh wound) and going for me. Would it be like in those dragon movies where you have to find the one and only soft spot and stab it when it is almost on top of you. You know, I really don’t want to have to kill any animal but I’ll do it if I have to! Could I kill a bear? The Bible says the boy David killed a lion and a bear. Well, he was pretty good with a slingshot and he had a little help. Oh, the light is green. ”Thank you!”
Welcome to my mind.
bubble wrap
My life is boxes, tape and bubble wrap. It’s still not quite real to me that in two weeks I will start a new life in Dallas, TX. Honestly, not a place I ever imagined myself living. But people assure me that it is going to be really exciting and fun, and I am very likely to agree with them, to their faces anyway. The idea of starting over in a new place, in a sense reinventing myself, had been very appealing in the beginning but it is quickly losing some of its luster. The stress of packing and fine tuning all the arrangements is starting to remind me of planning my wedding many moons ago–yet with far fewer returns. Perhaps it is all because I realize that very soon I will find myself once again hemmed in by a landscape of boxes and bubble wrap. Will I be able to unwrap myself?
We met at Gatwick Airport (Part 4)
I breezed my way through immigration and customs, my mind in a complete fog. Appropriately, it had been foggy and spitting rain as the plane landed; apart from that, I had seen absolutely nothing London-like at all. A ball of anticipation, excitement and sheer terror, I followed the train of people into the Arrivals area. I had not looked long before I heard a familiar voice, deep and Anglican, boom, “Roz! Roz!” Red coat (check), “ginger” hair (check), glasses (check); must be Phil. We embraced warmly like old friends and collected my few bits of luggage.
It felt strange sitting in the left front seat of Phil’s red Vauxhall estate (wagon) and not driving. It felt strange sitting next to the man that I loved but had only just met, in a country populated by roundabouts. The wet, verdant countryside flew by as we chatted about our plans for my stay and listened to his favorite albums. I recall one particular song, “One Night Stand” by The Aloof; amazingly soulful and yet anthemic, the artist sings, “What am I doing here?” Indeed, but in a slightly different context, what were either of us doing here? Philip somehow managed to hold my hand between gear shifts, and it felt nice and not at all forced. I think there was a great sigh of relief from both of us.
Mostly, I just sat back and enjoyed the scenery, or what scenery that could be viewed from the motorway. Everything held my fascination: the zippy little Euro cars, the Little Chef signs at the rest stops, pubs with funny names like “Slug and Lettuce,” snug little semi-detached houses with postage stamp lawns, and roadsigns denoting the direction to such amusing place-names as “Dorking.” It was at this point that I found myself beginning to fall deeply in love not only with this man beside me driving on the wrong side of the road but with this weird and wonderful new world, Inglaterra.
