Wait Till Sunrise

 

The sunlight sparks my gaze,

Filling my ears with music golden.

My fingers yearn for its rays

To gather them as life for my soul.

 

A dark hand defeats me;

The sun dies in smoldering embers.

My hope shrivels blackly,

And fear slithers in, stealing my soul.

 

Nightmares wail, shadows bound,

Darkness suffocates, the music ends.

My own thoughts hunt me down—

The sun is gone, and with it, my hope.

 

A missive of light glows.

My eyes seek the sun, finding instead

The rising moon’s halos

Sending a message borne on sunlight:

 

The test of darkness betrayed

Your hope to be fragile as fine glass.

The sun died not, but bade

The moon glow for your wait till sunrise.

Photo Credit:blinkingidiot

The Generation that Nearly Killed Music

 

 

There once was a promising people.

They birthed unconventional children

With oversized ears and craniums.

They were not only unusual.

 

These were a special generation.

For they birthed ordinary children

Into a special family of love;

They dedicated themselves to God.

 

These strange, extraordinary people

Enrolled their children from infancy

Into music master classes, and

Exposed their babes to the world’s greatest.

 

“Aaaah!” exclaimed the masters nonpareil

In the pure vowels of a trained voice,

“These bambinos were made for music!

Just look at their ears! Their brains! Their limbs!”

 

936 hours of class;

They learned musical complexities

That could rival physics equations.

Without fail, they acquired perfect pitch.

 

They denounced a hasty vibrato,

Discerned the best from the consummate,

Perceived a string’s every overtone,

And named a piece with one measure played.

 

These strange ones, given every blessing

From God, parents, and education,

Turned out very unexpectedly.

For none of them became musicians.

 

They refused to sing and blushed to touch

The ivories or a violin.

They set their lips and squinted their eyes;

They quite avoided making music.

 

They would applaud and write rave reviews,

They would speak with all the convincing

Vocabulary of an expert.

They listened with full understanding.

 

 

They looked the part; nay, they talked the part.

They rejoiced to listen to the part;

They verily pretended the part.

Save that they demurred to play the part.

 

They had the music from long ago;

They had the instrument given them free;

They spoke the language with fluency;

Heart, they had not; action, they failed in.

 

Ergo, these children of such promise

Died a most ignominious death

Of wistfulness for wishes undone,

Scorned by the world for gifts ungiven.

 

The pieces were unlearned and unplayed.

The next children existed untaught.

Indeed, their generation accquired

More knowledge than any other.

 

But the passion for spreading music

Waned more than at any other time

Because they failed to play and have heart.

They saw; they knew—but they failed to do.

Artwork created by Mikaela.

Fairy Tales

A Guest Post By Susanna

I yearn to be in lands of magical lights.

I belong where there are fairies and knights;

Where there is not only one moon that gleams so bright,

But two or three to chase away all fright.

I dream of centaurs, who study skies untold;

Trees that whisper enchanting songs of old;

Of castles and battles,

Pirates and princes;

Of hay spun to gold,

Dragon tales ages-old.

I wish to see the magic pumpkin carriage,

Or the Beast's love, ending in his marriage.

I want to be captured by a unicorn.

And rest my hand upon his brilliant horn:

We will fly. Up to the golden sun,

Down to the sea. Oh now, we have just begun!

Dreams belong to naiads,

And mine with dryads,

To the bearded dwarves,

And lop-eared Minotaurs.

Though I fear only one door to Never Land

Is found, in pages fastened by a band.

Mind you open them often, for only here

May we slip through its ink ... and disappear.

Susanna is a fifteen-year-old homeschooler and the fourth daughter in a family of six children. She loves God, animals, and gourmet cooking and plays violin and piano. Oh yes--and she just happens to be our beloved younger sister who always has a special gift for us, whether that be her entertaining tales, her beautiful music, or her behind-the-scenes service. She recently took first place in a poetry contest for this original work of art, and we could not be more proud of her achievement!

Photo Credits:
#1: ToNToN CoPT
#2: Raquel of God's Daughter

Rose from the Brier

God is faithful. So last fall, when He started moving me past my status quo habits, He was faithful to replace them with worthy habits. And in the winter, when He convicted me to give up all internet video for a season, He faithfully sustained me to keep that commitment. And then in January, still failing to draw the parallels, I made a first-of-the-year resolution: to make God preeminent in my affections, above all other attractions, so that, loving Him with a whole, pure heart, the things of this earth might grow strangely dim.

And in less than two months, God has faithfully drawn me closer. Two funerals in two weeks of January brought sorrow, but Ecclesiastes 7:2-4 sums up just exactly what they meant to my heart: “Better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for that is the end of all men; and the living will take it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for by a sad countenance the heart is made better. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.”

My reputation was falsely challenged, but so was the idol in my heart; I cherished a good name above my God. Yet the Lord of the universe “…made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men (Philippians 2:7).”

A harbored dream, the hope that Mama was finally getting healthy again, acceptance, and my plans for the year: all of these have come to naught in the last two months.

Do you conclude I have had a terrible time of it? Do not think so, for because of these circumstances, I have sought God’s face like never before, and He has been faithful. He wakes me up in the morning with a song in my head with which to praise Him and a joy unspeakable to greet the day. As my heart strays, He reminds me, once again, of His presence, and calls me to worship. While housecleaning, I sit down, mortified by my longing for those old idols, and then comforted by His grace. Late at night, while doing computer work, I must go to my knees, because His presence is there with me, and I weep in awe.

God has called me this year to give up my costume jewelry in exchange for His treasue, to say each and every day with Amy Carmichael, “My Lord, my Love, I am content with Thee.”

Thou hast not that, My child, but thou hast Me,
And am not I alone enough for thee?
I know it all, know how thy heart was set
Upon this joy which has not been given yet.

And well I know how through the wistful days
Thou walkest all the dear familiar ways,
As unregarded as a breath of air,
But there in love and longing, always there.

I know it all; but from thy brier shall blow
A rose for others.  If it were not so
I would have told thee.  Come, then, say to Me:
My Lord, my Love, I am content with Thee.

PS--Our giveaway is still going strong! Click here to enter.

Photograph Credit: nicolas_gent. Used by permission under the Creative Commons License.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Lord I Need You

It has been one of those weeks.

But I told Lauren I wouldn't whine through the whole blog post. Maybe just the beginning, eh?

Most stressful and emotional and all-consuming has been a major surgery Mama went through last Thursday. Home from the hospital only since Sunday night, we have already had to make another trek to the doctor's office to address complications. Dealing with extreme pain, insomnia, and the lovely side effects of all the pain meds has been brutal for Mama and stressful for the rest of us. Add on top of that Melanie's college finals, sickness for four out of the eight of us, two concerts in a weekend, teaching, and lessons, and we have had one of those weeks. 

Photo Credit

But it is during these kinds of weeks, when I have to remind myself to breathe and I barely have time to consume dinner, that I suddenly feel compelled to take extra time with God and His Word. I have abruptly realized how weak I am, and in tears, I go to Isaiah and read the precious words there. I wish it were not so; I wish I was as dependent upon God in the good times as I am in the bad. I'm working on that--when life is whistling along and I'm feeling tremendous, I'll remind myself of this feeling of a helpless babe held securely in God's arms.

      "Have you not known?
      Have you not heard?
      The everlasting God, the LORD,
      The Creator of the ends of the earth,
      Neither faints nor is weary.
      His understanding is unsearchable.
       He gives power to the weak,
      And to those who have no might He increases strength.
       Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
      And the young men shall utterly fall,
       But those who wait on the LORD
      Shall renew their strength;
      They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
      They shall run and not be weary,
      They shall walk and not faint (Isaiah 40:28-31)."

One of my favorite hymns is "Lord I Need You" by Ron Hamilton, and that has been a great comfort to me this week:

Sometimes when life seems gentle and blessings flood my way,
I turn my gaze away from You and soon forget to pray.
But when the sky grows darker and courage turns to fear,
My anxious voice cries upward with words you long to hear.

Chorus:

Lord, I need You when the sea of life is calm.
O Lord, I need You when the wind is blowing strong.
Whether trials come or cease, keep me always on my knees.
Lord, I need You. Lord I need You.

Lord, help me to remember I'm weak but You are strong.
I cannot sing apart from You, for Lord You are my song.
Although I'm prone to wander and boast in all I do;
Lord keep my eyes turned upward so I depend on You.

Last night, I dreamt that Jesus came back. What a wonderful lovely dream to have last night! It put things in perspective and reminded me, once again, not to worry so much about all the dirty laundry I haven't gotten to, and the clean laundry that is molding into the shape of our laundry baskets, and the Christmas gifts I have yet to make, and the Christmas traditions I am cheating my younger siblings of because of my preoccupation with other things. This life is the indent to the first paragraph of a great novel called Eternity. 

So I'm living today with Eternity reflecting in my eyes and God's Word in my heart, and I'm writing this post so I can come back next week and remind my forgetful self.   

 

Photograph: Dia

Mirror, Mirror of My Heart

Photo Credit

I look into the mirror,

And I don’t like who I see.

An awkward, blemished person

Who cannot really be me.

I claw my skin and look in;

My filthy heart is rotting,

Is heinous like none else,

Is sin-clogged, hardly pumping.

I turn away, disgusted,

To beautiful Jesus' gaze.

His eyes show no repulsion

As His pierced hands touch my face.

He strips all my ugliness;

He swathes me with His beauty.

He carves out my foul, sick heart;

A newborn one He gives me. 

I smile into the mirror,

And I see Jesus, clearer. 

I go with Him; the old me

Is left beneath the mirror. 

God, the Great Musician

At the beach this weekend with some girlfriends, we were studying Psalms 23 together one morning, and pondering on all the details David included which only a shepherd would know. David related God to something he knew best--shepherding--and the result has touched billions. So Sarah wondered--what if we wrote a Psalm to God based on what we know best or do most often? I challenged my friends to do just that, and here is my attempt at the project.

Photo Credit

The Lord is my composer;

He wrote my life's song outside of time.

He brought me to earth
with His song on my heart.

His song I rejected,

and His music I did not follow,

until He opened my ears.

And now, Oh Lord,

I will play Your music

with every breath I have.

I will watch for Your direction

and play to my utmost.

But help me, dear Father!

For I am weak, and an unskilled musician.

I cannot see the next measure,

nor hear the themes as I play;

I do not appreciate the dissonances

in my haste to get to the consonances.

I balk at playing the harmony

when the melody is lauded and appreciated.

God, I look at the four beats

Your Word has illuminated to me,

And I know--I cannot play even those notes.

So God, here: take my instrument, my life.

Play me for Your glory.

You Who know the exposition,

development, and recapitulation;

You, Who do all things beautifully;

You Who are perfect and omniscient;
You Who hear with perfect pitch;
You Whose fingers never miss;
You Who are my composer;

Play me, Father, for the rest of my life.

 

Photo Credit: HeedinttheMuses. Used by permission.

Pass on the Vision

The lyrics of a hymn I wrote several years ago.

Standards churn and people fail;

Etern’ty leaves their eyes.

Gone the children, lost, the war;

Purpose wastes and vision dies.

Photo Credit

The time is now, the crisis here;

Proclaim God’s strength, proclaim God’s strength,

To this generation,

And His power to the future!

Abram knew the heart of God:

God’s heart became his dream.

Abram’s dream has transformed lives;

Lives who live His lifelong theme.

The time is now, the crisis here;

Proclaim God’s strength, proclaim God’s strength,

To this generation,

And His power to the future!

Prove to Isaacs yet to come,

God’s praises strength and truth.

Shout His works abroad to all:

Rise! You men, women, and youth!

The time is now, the crisis here;

Proclaim God’s strength, proclaim God’s strength,

To this generation,

And His power to the future!

Photo used by by permission under the Creative Commons License. Created by todoloko.

Soar

In the whisper of the silence,

I can hear my Jesus say,

“If I lead you from all the rest,

Yet can you walk in my way?”

 

“Not looking at what others do,

But focus on my Promise?

Can you trudge when they soar skyward,

And fix your eyes on My face?

 

“T’will be safer with me at night

Than it is for them at day.

Follow me, with no backward look,

And I’ll be there all the way.”

 

I look on His face; the world fades,

And, through fear, I know my choice.

I will stride the deserts with Him;

My heart will follow His voice.

I go; I live simply with Christ.

Each day, scores fly over me,

But I grip His promise closer,

And press on through the valley.

And then one quiet night, I pause

And my heart is stillest still.

I hear again His whispered voice,

With love speaking His kind will.

 

He asks, “Was it worth the aching?

Was the ground better than sky?”

Without wavering I say yes

And He smiles. “Then now, you fly.”

Picture Credit: AlicePopkorn

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

When you are dying—when you stand at the gate of eternity—you see things from a different perspective than when you think you may live for a long time….Every time I saw the smoke pouring from the hideous smokestacks I knew it was the last remains of some poor woman who had been with me in Ravensbruck.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

But I was not afraid. Following Betsie’s death, God’s Presence was even more real. Even though I was looking into the valley of the shadow of death, I was not afraid.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It is here that Jesus comes the closest, taking our hand, and leading us through. One week before the order came to kill all the women of my age, I was free. I still do not understand all the details of my release from Ravensbruck.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

All I know is, it was a miracle of God.

“Invictus” or “unconquered”—beautiful words put together that touched my heart and sorrowed my soul. For, in the midst of the courage, the optimism, and the determination, is complete and utter faith in man—humanism. Corrie ten Boom’s story made of simple, real sentences challenges even the most adroit reader because of the unfathomable atrocities she survives. Yet, despite the grimness and in the midst of her courage, optimism, and determination is complete and utter faith in God.

How natural, how right, it seems to say, “No matter what, I will determine my destiny! I will control my soul!” It seems positively American to whittle oneself a walking stick rather than lean on a Divine shoulder. It is habit to wake up each morning and bow to idols—ourselves—in submission. It is politically correct to hold man’s thoughts on evolution, healthy eating, homosexuality, and divorce in higher esteem than Scripture. Man fights viciously for his own rights, desires, needs, and reputation. Americans sacrifice unborn babies on the altar of their own selfish volition.

We worship ourselves. In the direst of circumstances, we look inward with faith and determination. We are humanists. “For do I now persuade men, or God? Or do I seek to please men? For if I still pleased men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ (Galatians 1:10).”

Humanism is a lie as old as time, beginning from the first temptation of the serpent who suggested that Eve could become like God. Man is not God; man is a lowly, sinful, depraved creation capable of no righteousness except through God and deserving of nothing but hell. If that sounds harsh, it is because humanism has not only infiltrated our movies, music, books, politics, and education, but also our theology and churches. We are born humanists, selfish and materialistic little deities around which the world revolves. Once God picks us up out of our filth and saves us, we are not vaccinated against humanism, though; having a Biblical worldview equires daily cleansing in the Word and daily deference to a sovereign God.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Humanism sounds so heroic, but what place does chance have in a Christian's life?

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,

Humanism sounds so pragmatic, but what place does fear of the future have in a Christian's life?

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Humanism sounds so beautiful, but it is a lie. Because ultimately, the strait gate will matter. At the Great White Throne, captains and masters are no match for the fate of one's soul; it is God Who will remain unconquered, and not man.

“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God. For I say, through the grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly, as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith (Romans 12:1-3).”

Picture Credit
Italicized Poem: Henley, William Ernest (1888). A book of verses: Invictus. London: D. Nutt.
Quotations interspersed with "Invictus": ten Boom, Corrie. Tramp for the Lord. Pillar Books, New York, 1976.
"Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved."

The Wisdom Peddler

Proverbs 17:16

"Why is there in the hand of a fool the purchase price of wisdom,

Since he has no heart for it?"

One day I discovered a peddler
Who marketed wisdom by the pound.
He hawked it from his office on walls
That proclaimed the wisdom he had found.

I saw fools go in clutching money.
But for true wisdom they had no heart.
They left, money gone, simpler still,
With a sheet proclaiming the shrewd farce.

I wandered in, my money in hand,
Bent on interrogating the man
To judge how valid his wisdom was
And how well recognized in the land.

“This sumptuous wisdom will get ya’
Wherever ya’ want to go,” says he.
“It’s older than dirt yet fresh as mud.
No tricks, just buy wisdom on this street.”

“What wisdom will I gain?” I questioned.
“Smarts aren’t in your head or heart, silly!”
He laughed. “They show up in your paycheck,
And this stuff comes with a sure warr’nty.”

I leaned on his closed door, deflated.
This wisdom was but a sham—a lie!
How could wisdom be bought for brib’ry?
My longing for wisdom was denied .

Then—a pure voice, calling from the square.
I looked ‘round the beggars, dirt, and noise,
Wond’ring who rang those words of challenge.
I charged the streets, pursuing the voice.

And there Wisdom was, calling to me.
“How much?” I despairingly implored.
She smiled at me: “Wisdom is priceless
To those who kneel here, who fear the Lord.”

Picture Credit

Biblio Files

This weekend involved many highlights, from scrapbooking to gardening classes with Mama to the premier of a song by a new composer (and friend) to spending a lovely few days with our friend, Sarah. Sadly, I have no pictures to prove the weekend's existence, so I decided to focus on one small, short aspect of our time: Powell's Books. Seeing as the name alone strikes me speechless, allow me to copy their own description from the website:

Powell's City of Books is a book lover's paradise, the largest used and new bookstore in the world. Located in downtown Portland, Oregon and occupying an entire city block, the City stocks more than a million new and used books. Nine color coded rooms house over 3,500 different sections, offering something for every interest, including an incredible selection of out-of-print and hard-to-find titles.

The City's Rare Book Room gathers autographed first editions and other collectible volumes for readers in search of a one-of-a-kind treasure.

Every day at our buyers' counter in the Orange Room, we purchase thousands of used books from the public. Powell's purchases special collections, libraries, and bookstore inventories as well.

A few facts about the City of Books:

• 68,000 square feet packed with books
• we buy 3,000 used books over the counter every day
• approximately 3,000 people walk in and buy something every day
• another 3,000 people just browse and drink coffee
• our parking garage provides space for 40 cars (ok, so there are bigger parking garages)
• we stock 122 major subject areas and more than 3,500 subsections
• you'll find more than 1,000,000 volumes on our shelves
• approximately 80,000 book lovers browse the City's shelves every day, in Portland and via the Internet. So is our mother ship the world's largest bookstore? Hey, it may be bigger than your whole town.

While we were there, we eagerly picked up one find: Spring Came on Forever by Bess Streeter Aldrich who wrote one of my favorite books of all time, A Lantern in Her Hand. We looked at slim paperbacks of poetry by Christian poet Christina Rossetti (for the record, there is a disproportionately large amount of cute people in the poetry aisles). We searched for E.P. Roe, a rarely read author in the 21st century whom we discovered from our grandmother's book collection (start with Opening a Chestnut Burr if you want to try him). We also drooled over Gene Stratton Porter, Margaret Sidney (of The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew fame), marvelous editions of The Last of the Mohicans, centuries-old books by Saint Augustine, and gorgeous antique books in French (we couldn't read a word, but they were beautiful!).

Many years ago, we bought a book we had never heard of (What Katy Did, written in the 19th century by Susan Coolidge) at Powell's. After reading the book, though, we knew it was going to be a staple on our bookshelf. Coolidge unravels the tale of a rambunctious, awkward, quick-tempered girl who is the oldest of six motherless children (their father and aunt tend to the bunch). Katy loves her siblings and sincerely wants to guide them, encourage them, and be patient with them, but her own unthinking self always seems to get the better of her noble desires. Through a series of devastating events, however, Katy grows up and learns how to be best friends with her own siblings.

If some of these favorite authors and books are ones that you have yet to read, I highly encourage you to check them out! You may not be blessed to live near Powell's, but where there's a bibliophile, there's a way!

The Lights Are On

A small brown steeple spears the bleak sky,
Slows the blur of crowds pushing by.
Soot smears glass; graffiti stripes the porch,
But the lights are on in the church.

Outside, the rain beats and people run.
Loud raucous voices fade to a hum,
And someone stands in the flood to watch—
For the lights are on in the church.

A shamed woman cries here with release;
An unloved child stares at the cross—peace.
An addict ends now his frantic search,
For the lights are on in the church.

For the dark outside, they glow more bright:
Spill on the street, illumine the night.
People pause, knowing Someone’s at work—
For the lights are on in the church.

Copyright 2009 by Lauren. To be used only with permission.

Picture from http://www.creativevisionary.com/img/adv/wisconsin/steeple.jpg