what follows is a very random selection of some poetry I recently rediscovered on my computer...some written recently, some from years ago, some with more meaning than others.

I hesitate--
1. I don't want an appraisal of these poems. In a literary sense, they are lacking. I also don't want compliments. It's not about that right now. (I mean, every now and then, I need a cheerleader :]...but there is a time and place.) Writing is many things, but for me, it is more of an expression than a craft. I just do it.
2. I would love feedback with regards to personal response. Do you share experiences, emotions, etc?
3. this probably isn't the only poetry post I will make.
4. I am very angry that blogger won't let me format these in the way I want to. some things need to be indented, rearranged, etc. bah.


Lost and Found

I found my Bible in my laundry basket today
Along with other forgotten things:
A key, some money, a lost t-shirt.
I think I secretly pride my self in being spiritual
without needing what I might call
"the usual bonds of religion."
So, the Truth has been under jeans and underwear
For a week or two.

And my spirit has been empty
For just as long.




Lyrics

The unfamiliarity
And insincerity
Of hospital rooms.
The impersonality
And cruelty
Of needles, tubes, and trays,
drugs, bedsheets and magazines.
This is my summer vacation.

And also,
The Who playing as the soundtrack,
Who are you? Who, who?

Not to mention my father’s voice resounding from
A foreign body—in Spanish, the tongue
That rarely left his tongue.
Ay Dios, mio. Ay Dios, mio.

Oh, my God, oh my God.
Who are you? Who, who?
Oh my God, oh my God.
Who are you? Who, who?

These lyrics of my summer
formed not only my question,
But my song.



Untitled

For a while I was
Despairing—
Losing hope in
Beauty.
But then
The clouds gilded pink
Just melted into the sky
Like cotton candy
Pulled
By sticky spitfingers.




Funeral

I touched her hand and she took it, her
fingers colliding with mine with more power
than I had ever seen her muster. I looked down
and our arms were different colors, sizes, and shapes,
but our hands were the same hands.
She leaned in and her whole body throbbed
against me, as if tuned in
to the pulse beating between our fingers.
I finally had to lean down to see that
she was sobbing
big and guttural and strangely
silent tears.
Right there, it was not
the arrangement of our births that joined us.
Right there,
we were sisters.



Baylor Psalm

Praise the LORD.

Praise the LORD from the Brazos to HEB
Praise Him from the 5th floor of Cashion to the bottom of Waco Creek
Praise Him, all His Bears,
Praise Him, all his students and faculty
Praise Him, Bachelors of Arts, Sciences, Fine Arts, and so on.
Praise Him, all you who seek knowledge.
Praise Him in the works of your hands
Praise Him in your papers, your tests, your projects
Praise Him in the comings and goings of your being
Praise Him from the BSB to Common Grounds.
Praise Him in your laughter, in your friendships
Praise Him in the beauty of sunlight
Praise Him in the glory of His creation
Praise Him for the trees surrounding Old Main, silhouetted across the Texas sky.

Praise the LORD.

it has happened. my life has gotten in the way of my promises to blog.
promises I didn't actually promise to keep, I guess. (See very first post.)

Life is full, life is good, life is hard, life is...fill in the blank.
the answer changes moment by moment.

but mostly, it is good. I am in one of my favorite spots on earth--this university that I treasure so much. This is the overarching blessing.

Also, I have fallen in love with North Russell. Staff, residents, all. My fellow Prexians may cringe to hear me say it, but I feel that I am in the right place at the right time--a satisfying feeling, one that mirrors my satisfaction in being at Baylor itself. How similar these journeys have been: first met with reluctance and frustration, then complete joy.

And in a lot of ways, Brooks still feels like home, but I'm not bound to it in the way I thought I would be.
A relief.

Besides that, I am relearning what it is to be a college student. And what it is to be in the BIC.
And learning for the first time what it is to be a CL.

Life is fast.

A wonderful moment today--some BICcer friends and I stopped walking in the middle of campus during a passing period. While we weren't doing or saying anything particularly "peaceful," we were still. We were a rock embedded in the stream of students making their way to class, flowing in purposeful motion around us. It felt good to be still.
I wish my days were filled with more moments of "still."

but here I am, instead.
busy, tired...and awake, right now, when I should be asleep.
Poetry blogpost coming soon, I think.

in His beauty, grace, and light,
good night.

I'm spending my last few hours at home before going back down to Waco tomorrow morning--packing and thinking.

Mostly I'm thinking of how much I've changed in this past year, and how much has happened since the first time I packed my bags for Baylor. I have made some great friends who I feel will be around for a while. I've survived my first year of research papers and schedule juggling (this gives me a bit of hope--if I did it once, I can do it again...even while being a CL and trying to figure out my life.) I've made some mistakes, and hopefully I will learn from them. I have finally found a church that feels like home (UBC, if you're wondering.) I have found some favorite places in Waco that I've missed this summer--and I thought Waco could never grow on me.

These thoughts perpetuate the anticipation I already feel about moving back--how much more will my life be filled by the time I am packing my bags yet again for Wacko Waco? What will I be writing about a year from now? It's a wild question for me, without, of course, a real answer. So I guess I'll leave it up to the air for now and go back to packing...

I almost hesitate to post these thoughts, because I fear seeming superspiritual.

Not because of shame of my faith, necessarily, but because I dislike and fear holier-than-thou-ness, or maybe even some notion that I've got it together or have all the answers. (I wouldn't consider the latter fear, except that I have the tendency to trust too much of what I read, even in blogs...)

But enough of disclaimers.

 

Part I

 

This morning, as I was running late on my way to a random day of work, I plugged my iPod into my little cheap tape converter in order to listen to some music by my good buddy, Phil Wickham. (and by 'good buddy,' I mean that he does not have an inkling of my existence, but that I follow him on Twitter and like is music.)

 

anyways.

 

As I listened to his song "True Love," a thought from some sermon long past popped into my head.

Christ does not love me as a mere part of an amorphous blob called Humanity.

Until January 2008, I had thought of His love and His sacrifice in this way--that it was a sweeping generalization of perhaps unreachable love that doesn't really make sense or isn't daily present. (And, well, it still really doesn't make 'sense.' You could say that grace is nonsensical...)

 

But while He does love the masses, he also loves ME, personally. YOU, personally.

 

I once heard this love explained like this:

"If you were the only person that he could rescue by dying by the gruesomeness and agony of the cross--He still would."

 

Right now, this seems most mind-boggling. Perhaps it's because of my background or just my particular thought process, but my painful confession is this: especially when I was younger, there were times that such a sacrifice did not seem so remarkable. The ethics here seemed simplistic. If you could save countless lives, would you not give up one, even your own? (The T.V. series Heroes comes to mind here...)

 

As I have grown, considered the cross, and come to understand more of what He did, this idea has changed some.

But it was not until I understood this love and sacrifice to be so personal, that I was completely blown away by it.

 

He loves ME. Me??

The thought is difficult for me to express, but in some ways, it almost seems harder to love one person than many.

 

Again, it just blows me away

that His love is not only big enough to reach the masses,

but that it is also big enough to love the individual.

 

Part II

 

my fear is that I will not (well, do not) love in this way. Ha, perhaps it's not so much a fear as a reality.

I say that I love people, that I want to care for them, that I want to know their stories, etc. This is the general sentiment.

 

But what about practically and individually?

I am selfish. So often, I prefer to love in my own way, on my own time, when I feel like it.

But oh, I still 'love' everyone, yes?

Consistency fail.

 

Part III

 

My prayer is this (and it seems repetitive because...it is):

 

that you and I would know this love:personal, rich and deep 

and would overflow with it to His glory, because that's all we can do.

*Disclaimer* The following doesn't even pretend to be quality writing. The blame is to fall on the late hour and the scrambled thoughts. It's basically a contemplative laundry list of things I have discovered this summer, whether they be bits of truth, new obsessions, or revealed characteristics.

1. I really love playing board games and card games with my friends. It's a cheap thrill, sure, and offers no profundity, but I LOVE them nonetheless. My faves so far are: BANANAGRAMS, "golf," Taboo, Catchphrase.
2. Heroes. Superpowers are so legittt. AND since it's on instant Netflix, I don't have to be patient weekly. I am hooked. The end.
3. I don't speak as much Spanish as I thought I did...but a smile is the same in every language.
4. That perhaps God does not intend for us to be happy, but that He created us for joyful praise.
5. That God may be hedonistic...talk to C.S. Lewis and Matt Chandler on this one. Relates to #4. Think about it.
6. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver.
7. The musical stylings of Feist and Keane.
8. That I'm not always good at being home.
9. That friendship is difficult sometimes.
10. That I can do eye reshaping therapy instead of having to wear contacts or glasses!! woot!
11. That I can find my booklist on bearweb, not blackboard (a rediscovery.)
12. That He is after my heart.
13. That I need a new camera.
14. That I don't really 'need' anything...
15. That you have to fight to hang on to old friendships.
16. That five hours can seem like 10 one day, and 2 the next day.
17. 1/2 cup oil+ 1 cup epsom salt + a bit of essential oil = happy exfoliating stuff.
18. I have very little resolve (another rediscovery.)
19. That going a whole summer without learning your favorite barista's name will leave you with more than a twinge of regret.
20. That I love blue/turquoise nail polish.

off to bed...yet another doctor's appointment in the morning. Yay health insurance!

In His beauty, grace, and light,

goodnight...

There are many subjects weighing heavily on my mind at this moment (in varying degrees. Not all of them, however are weighted appropriately, according to universal significance.)

As the plot progresses, the musician becomes less and less of a mere story opportunity to the reporter. He wants to help him, but when he tries to do so, it seems to backfire. At this point, Lopez is talking with his ex-wife about his frustrating dilemma of trying to fix things, at least make them better, make a difference.

Their conversation goes something like this (though not verbatim, sorry):

Lopez: I’m just trying to help.

Mary: You can’t fix all of L.A., Steve. You can’t cure him. But you can be his friend. You can keep showing up.

And that’s what he does. He shows up. The movie has no conclusive feel, no sensation of tying up the loose ends. The musician, Ayers, isn’t cured of his problems, mental or otherwise. But he has a friend.

Watching this movie brought up feelings that I really started to experience during the spring semester. For whatever reason, my eyes started to open more and more to the true magnitude of suffering in the world. I had experienced pain of my own, and witnessed it here and abroad. But maybe what really started dawning on me was how much there was of it. A sense of responsibility for it and a sense of hopelessness for it was birthed in me simultaneously.

Amidst the craze of activity and schoolwork, this thing throbbed in my head all semester. I went to the Rescue with Invisible Children and part of me wondered what it was that we were accomplishing, other than raising awareness and funds. I’ve had several conversations with friends about whether or not it’s even worthwhile to try to help people across the globe, especially when your neighbor is hurting, too.

I know I can’t cure the whole world. Shoot, I can’t cure a single person. I mean, I know Who can, but that still leaves me with responsibility of action. And where to act? And how? I don’t feel at this point that He’s calling me away towards something in this direction (of what? Activism? Social work? )…I don’t even know what that would be. Maybe someday. 

I guess right now, I’m focusing on doing what I can, where I can. I guess what I’ve decided for myself is to show up. To be a friend. To share love. And God knows it’s hard sometimes, all the time. (And frankly, I suck at it. No, really, I do. I know my own heart. ) But I want to do things with the opportunities that I’ve found, with things like Invisible Children, Falling Whistles, One, To Write Love on Her Arms, and the rest of the myriad of sometimes-too-trendy organizations that have been thrown my way.

My head still spins with wanting to solve everything more conclusively, and I struggle with thinking that this is not enough, and that maybe I am doing this just because it is a cool, right thing to do. (read this for more insight into this thought process. It's worth the read) But for now, it’s my way of showing up.

Other than that, I will attempt to let Christ work through me to love the people around me: my friends, my family, my classmates, and my new residents in the fall. My prayer is that the treasure of His love will fill this broken shard of pottery to the measure—and overflow to His glory. (2 Cor. 4 & Eph 3)

I fail at this. All the time. Every day. But I also hope for His grace to be sufficient, and His power to be made perfect in my weaknesses. (2 Cor. 12:9)

Now if only I can figure out how to actually accomplish this in my life.

Anyways. Here are a few amazing quotes that have contributed to my thinking and feeling, but that I am not clever enough to incorporate smoothly:

“If God’s description of what true praise constitutes is a ‘living praise,’ and if a ‘living praise’ is to embody the things that God is concerned with…a responding to the covering of our fall by Christ…a flesh of the concerns of God, then our living must bring rescue from the trampling boot. Justice will be our concern because it is God’s concern. And what is it that causes this to well up in us? It is His unrelenting love. This is praise—taking care of everyone in time of need. It is picking up those who are marginalized and whose voices are unheard and saying, “Look! Look!” Not in calculated ways to improve our perceived spiritual standing but because it is in us. His unrelenting love has consumed us and when we see need there seems no alternative but to respond to the fluid movements of this redeeming covering on Christ. To feel color flood back in and our heart lift from the ground with soaring dreams of the very living, breathing kingdom of God under our feet.” –David Crowder, Praise Habit

"Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly. 

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love…We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home." 
   --Jamie Tworkowski, To Write Love on Her Arms