Bringing Faith to Life
Posts tagged inspiration
Love Inspired
0Infinite love, inhale… All that is in you, exhale… Don’t hold your breath.
Beauty under the foliage
2Some people are just showy. They strut their stuff and it’s good. No matter what they wear, it draws attention. And whatever they do, it’s news. They are the trend-setters. All eyes are on them. And they revel in the limelight. The good gaze of an adoring and appreciative audience.
My beautiful hydrangea is one of these. Watering can in hand, I marveled as I approached the plant to give it a drink. How glorious its blooms shone in the rise of the morning sun. The lavender luster of the largest stole the show.
As I drew closer, a smaller, pinker display invited me to look. Not yet fully bloomed, this pink one had potential. The water droplets on its delicate petals winked at me. Just wait, they seemed to say, we’re gonna be gorgeous.
As I drew nearer to give the stems a drink, I noticed a burgeoning floral bundle I had nearly missed. Its bushy lavender petals were mostly hidden from view by the lush greenery. Only when I pulled them aside could I appreciate its beauty. It wasn’t hiding; it was just happy to be beautiful under the foliage. Away from the bright sun. As if it had chosen not to compete with its showier siblings.
It was in full bloom. Stunning in its beauty, yet happy, right where it was. Doing its right thing.
Oh, to be satisfied with that.
Breath of Creation
2A million lights twinkle above me in constellations I once knew. Bright lights from bodies trillions of miles away scatter the early morning darkness. I whirl in wonder at their glorious display.
How, O Lord, can I fail to believe you are here?
My feet, rooted in dust and dirt, are heavy in the sand of time, in the gnarled root of twisted words and weighty worries. It bends me and pulls me down, insisting I pay attention. I fall again and again at my own feet.
How, O Lord, can I believe you are here?
Is there another? Another who reaches and falls, reaches and falls, as I do this day? My expiration, she inspires? His expiration, I inspire? Do we, together, breathe the universe?
How, O Lord, could we not believe, if we knew one another?
I am, but God is
0It’s comforting to sit among friends
to share how difficult it is
(life makes it)
(circumstances dictate)
(inspiration absent)
to wait to do what I’m supposed to,
meant to, what I promised to do.
Circumstances don’t define me.
My life is bigger than that.
Life needn’t suffocate me.
I can choose air, light, breath.
Inspiration is around me and in me.
If I let God make it, shape it for me.
I am Not a stone. Not a statue.
I am but the movement, the hinge, the moving part.
I’m a limb, but God traces my arc.
I’m the impetus, but God is the animation.
I’m the pen to paper, but God is the words.
I’m the stamp, but God is the sender.
I’m the hand, but God is the help.
I’m the give, but God is the giver.
I’m the learn, but God is the teacher.
I’m the eyes, but God is the seer.
I’m the ears, but God is the hearer.
I’m the nose, but God is the smeller.
When I’m stinky, God hugs me anyway.
I am.
God, in me, is.
If my life is a single statement, then
1“A human life is a single statement.” ~ Howard Thurman (in With Head and Heart) Isn’t that a fascinating thought in light of … “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God…All things came into being through him.” ~ John 1:1-3
And
“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said,” ~ Genesis 1: 1-3a
I am more than a word; I’m a whole statement. A breathing out of expression from God. Perhaps all of humanity is the expression of God’s wisdom. All the earth. All the world. All the worlds. All the universe. The whole spoken vocabulary of a God whose nature is Creation.
Now, I do take liberties with the written language, unapologetically, and to the chagrin of my editor, but still, the thought fascinates. If my life is a single statement, what does that look like? I have a capital letter to begin (born) and period at the end (death). But the rest, I am meant to fill in.
- There are commas ,,, pauses to stop and think, perhaps re-group or re-route.
- There are colons ::: to proclaim: this is what I mean.
- There are semi-colons ;;; to join an additional idea I didn’t think of to begin with but now seems correct to add.
- There are hyphens – to join two words into one or perhaps to connect a word so long that is sprawled onto the next line.
- There are apostrophes ‘ ‘ ‘ for all those letters I left out in my rush to tell.
- There are dashes — for those things that really didn’t need adding — the sentence didn’t really need — but people really should know.
- There are ellipses … where I left something out or skipped right along.
- There are parenthesis ( ) to enumerate, add explanation or offer citation.
- There are quotations ” ” because sometimes only the original expression will suffice.
- There are spaces empty of anything, awkward because something really should go there, but what?
Did the author make a mistake? Leave out a letter. Make a deletion? And what of misspellings and insertions, strike-through’s and editorial comments in the margin. Remember all those red marks on your English paper? Those English teachers have a graphics department all their own!
But to these stalwart men and women (mostly women) I owe a great deal — for teaching me about grammar and spelling and the parts of speech. Helping me diagram sentences, assign subjects and objects, identify dependent and independent clauses and lasso the run-on sentences.
Because today I can look at my life as a single sentence spoken by God, a continuous out-pouring of breath, freely and joyfully being exclaimed. I am its subject. My life’s purpose is its verb. The one I act on or act for is its object. With one inspiration, God breathed me into the world and the wind of the Spirit moves me along.
Wouldn’t it be great if when I came to my end God put an exclamation point? I’m not really sure how to punctuate that sentence but it seems right to ask.
The high fly ball of Inspiration
0The deadline for the Lenten Devotional looms. The editors are EXPECTing my submission. But inspiration just won’t come. That’s the thing about inspiration…you just can’t force it. In fact, the harder I try, the less of it I seem to have.
Still, it doesn’t seem right to just sit here. Waiting. As if a lightning bolt is going to descend and write itself upon my paper in perfect insights, with perfect grammar and legible penmanship. There are plenty of sitters out there. Waiting. I am not good at either.
I need to DO something to hurry the inspiration along! I cut and paste a few verses of my chosen scripture (Song of Songs 2:8-13) onto the computer screen. A few different translations. Why not? I pour over them. Read and re-read. I take notes, look for connections, let my wander to visual imagery. I respond to the verses – in writing! – but to no avail. Everything lies flat upon the page. A day passes. Another. The deadline is mere days away.
And then suddenly a phrase enters my mind: No really, I love you. And I begin…”A man I love side-stepped death.” The scripture sends an image of lattice-work and the loved one calling. An image of the mullions on my very own windows. The lover looks in. I look out. What do I see? What would another see who stood here? Do they hear Him saying, “No really, I love you”?
The experience is powerfully crafting the writing as I wait on the images. Sitting and waiting, here I am after all. But the waiting is expectant. I am the fielder and it is the fly ball. I have heard the crack of the bat. I’ve got a line on it as it soars high in the sky. I try to gauge its descent, tending first right and then a bit left. I see it beginning to drop. I reach out my hand and open my glove wide. It is coming; I am ready to catch it. 
Fielding inspiration when it falls is not easy. It takes practice and preparation. One must be ready. But sometimes the ball seems forever in the coming down. Those editors, after all, are waiting.
I type the last and hit submit. Then my friend emails to share that her dearest childhood friend had just succumbed to cancer. It was a long battle, but she still is not sure whether the departed came to know how much God loved her during her lifetime. Surely a God of mercy understands.
This is when I realize that the piece I had written was intended for a different deadline. It was meant to comfort a grieving friend and landed right on time.
My job is simply to settle under the fly ball of grace and catch inspiration as it comes down. Then, to prepare for the next. Kind of ridiculous to think I could force the ball to fall faster into my glove.
Behold! The branch didn’t want me to miss this
0The driveway is covered with ice as I skate along it to roll out the trash bin. I have my hood pulled up over my head against the cold rain that is falling. My rubber soled shoes have just enough traction. There is a fascinating compression of water under the surface layer of ice that reminds me of a time snow shoeing when I walked across a frozen creek, watching the water flow beneath. Knowing that asphalt lies at bottom here gives me a bit more confidence.
Having parallel parked the bin in the slush distributed by a few passing cars, I take off a glove to extract the two letters meant for the mailbox that I have tucked under my sweatshirt against the patter of rain. The box is frozen shut with a night’s worth’s of freezing. There will be no mailbox access.
Back I go, letters in hand, sliding and crunching and swishing along. I stoop to collect the paper and dedicate my focus to my feet and my balance. My hood and the not yet daylight cover me in darkness, but for the two dim lights affixed next to the garage. I feel the patter on my back and hear the rain spitting on the drive.
Bop. An unseen hand taps me on the head. I peer out from under the side of my hood. 
It’s a low hanging branch from our crepe myrtle, bent under the weight of the icy accumulation. It’s fingers coated in a shimmering glow, almost as if it is a divine hand. I am stopped. Not angered or injured, just amused and bedazzled. Now, by the whole tree that is covered in a see-through negligee.
Must get a photo, of course, because this must be shared!
I re-emerge, camera in hand, to record the moment and snap a view of branch and tree. But, look at that. Just beyond, are the angels on the lawn, happily announcing the coming King on their snowy hillside. Our neighbor’s lantern even gives them a divine glow.
All this would I have missed under hood, but for the tap of a sparkling hand to which I turned. Then I saw… 
Every Country’s Native Son
0
Nelson Mandela died at the age of 95 years. We knew it was coming, yet we still find it wrenching our collective guts. World leaders from around the globe are pausing in memory and providing words for a life lived fully. “A man,” as the President of South Africa puts is, “who had no unfulfilled missions.”
At the Virginia Film Festival in November I was privileged to view the film, “Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom.” As a writer, I always come with a notebook and a pen, but in a darkened theater it is difficult to jot down ideas or good quotes. So moved was I, though, by his words spoken to close the film – the message of a life – that I found a small bench in the hallway and, fending off the throngs exiting past me, I sat scrawling frantically so I wouldn’t forget.
This is what I recalled to words:
“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion, people must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” ~ Nelson Mandela
Mandela was the kind of man who made you believe. A man…
- with every reason to choose revenge but chose forgiveness
- with every reason to choose hatred, but chose love
- who worked through the system to speak on and act in the truth he saw
- who made the people see a way between extremes
- who let kindness take its course
- who insisted reconciliation have its day because it was the only way to freedom
- who every nation today calls their favorite son.
As Pastor Trevor Hudson said of his countryman, “Even in his death, this man is uniting a nation.” And today that nation, though mourning, is also dancing in celebration. That is the African way: lively, colorful, rhythmic, festive, full of heart.
A particular moment remains with me from my viewing of the film. Black South Africans have just received the right to vote and Mr. Mandela is seeking election as their President. There is a line extending for miles in the distance of black South Africans executing their new right. At the front of this line a young woman walks into a small building, pushes her paper ballot through a slot in a wooden box, and exits the building shouting and dancing and singing. And the line joins her in her celebration.
In my hometown a couple of weeks later, I cast my ballot because of this woman. And I lament. On that day in Virginia, not a single voter, coming or going, even wears a smile. The choice we have is among candidates who have not distinguished themselves as honorable, trustworthy or deserving. What a contrast. Where has our life and vigor gone?
Today, we pause to celebrate the life of Nelson Mandela. A man who President Obama has said, “took history in his hands and bent the arc of the moral universe toward justice.” Mandela was resolved, disciplined, dignified, smart, committed, and charismatic. He healed a nation. He was his country’s conscience. He said follow me and they did.
He was doing his duty for his people and his country. A duty for which he was willing to give full devotion, whatever the price. In his own words,
“I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.” —Rivonia trial, 1964
Read other wisdom of Nelson Mandela here.
What a legacy lived and left for us all to live into. That “we are not born hating, we learn it. And if we can learn that, we can learn to love, which comes more naturally to the human heart.”
One man’s life healed a nation. Can the death of One Man heal a world? Nelson Mandela’s life renews my hope that it can, and it will.
In the eye of the beholder
0Sunset, Sunrise.
5:20pm
7:00 amOh, how the light of a new day paints things differently.
And imagine, just this morning, I sat back and pondered this whole scene from a distance.
7 amWhoever thought this up knew what they were doing.
Go ahead, run that stop sign!
011 years
If I come to a complete stop, I’m stuck.
Not that I’m prone to hyperactivity. I’m actually quite a measured person. I consider carefully what I do. I’m not a risk-taker or an impulsive doer. Just a mover. Something about being in motion gives me a sense of myself in space, in place, in life.
So, I wonder about people who just stand there on purpose. Who, through clenched fists and tight lips, say “I’m waiting for ‘a calling’ or ‘for inspiration’ or ‘for a sign.'” As soon as they get the word, they’ll be off to the races. Until then, they are sweating bullets sitting at that crossroads.
I don’t work that hard. There’s a sign at the intersection in the front of my house that says stop. In my car, I do. But on foot, I don’t. I look right, left and straight ahead and then step off into the direction for the day’s venture.
Which way is the “right” way, I really don’t know. But what I have found is that the sign at the entrance is rarely God’s sign. It’s an earthly sign, erected by humans. It’s the law and I’m meant to obey it. But once I choose the way, once I turn in a direction, then God’s signs are all along it to tell me I’m on His path.
Occasionally I see another stop or a yield or a “rough road ahead” sign on this path. These are Him, too. Telling me I’ve made a wrong turn!
Perhaps if I listened more carefully at the entrance of my day I would hear Him calling me into something in particular. A “Go this way. I’ve made you a novelist!” Or “Go that way. I’ve made you a coach!” Or “Turn around. I’ve made you a personal trainer!”
Nope. None of that. The call for me is not a hearing, but a moving and then a noticing. What I am meant to be will come clearer along the way. Perhaps He’ll slap some armor on me and make me a warrior. Or stick feathers in me and make me a bird. Or pour syrup and sprinkles from above and make me an ice cream sundae.
What we’re meant to be will be revealed. For now I’m working on trusting. God’s not calling me to perform divine acts of great consequence. That’s His business. Just to the small stuff. “Go in the strength you have,” He says, “and I’ll be along.”
This requires a certain amount of letting go, a certain amount of trust and a heaping helping of humor. Trusting myself to make all the decisions, now that’s laughable. Trusting in God is much safer, much healthier and the way things are going to work out anyway. Along that path, I may even learn to trust myself! I’m not looking for anything in particular. I’m just coming.
So much simpler than trying to figure it all out ahead of time.