The in-between is often unsettling. You aren’t where you were or who you were, but you’ve not yet arrived or become. And the thing is I want to see the next step, know the path ahead, see with a little more clarity. But humanity is a cloak that keeps these things from me.
Sometimes the in-between results in the beautiful, like at sunrise or sunset. When the in-between equals the beginning and end of something that you can put your finger on.
Life is more of a vapour. Steps lay ahead unseen and yet I wonder if we would step forward if we knew the good or bad ahead. I think that’s part of why we don’t know…these things change who we are, where we are at…usually for the better, but since we tend to process things according to our limited knowledge, its often best that we are left in-between.
a picture is worth a thousand words
is what they say
and usually that means
its stunning, its exquisite
put this in a place of honor
but this picture
it speaks a thousand words
about everything this picture
the mask of smiles you wear
goes only so far as to flit across your face
it doesn’t go to your heart
it stealthily hides
the bitterness and gile that are your
i know about the pain he suffers
i know about the bruises
the words that cut like razors
the way your taunts reverbrate
telling him he’s not good enough
he’ll always be less than enough
and i see the glance between mom and son
she lives in a world of her own making
thinking he’s the golden child
that he’ll make something of himself
a name for himself for her for them
and she turns a blind eye
to the black eye
and the bruised heart
this picture is worth a thousand words
but they aren’t the kind you want to frame
the kind you want to put over the fireplace
these are the skeletons in your closet
creeping into the light
shove them back with a hard hand
keep them where they belong
don’t let them reveal the lie your living
wear the mask
wear the smile
let it fade away
till all that remains
is the grisly grin
of your skeletal remains.
the truth has been revealed
and darkness and deceit drown in the light
you’ve got nothing left…
hang those skeletons out to dry.
by Janel Andrews
written July 27/2013
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”
― Stephen King, Different Seasons
shared by Kris Camealy on facebook
Yesterday we headed out to a driving range for a little fun. My dad has played a round of golf once in his life, abd my brother has played a couple times in different charity events he’s been part of. I have been known to hit a good round or two…in mini-golf! So all that to say we’re definitely not professionals!
In highschool (10+ years ago) we had some golf lessons as part of gym class. It was a small private school, so there were only about 25 of us so we each were able to get in some practice.
Even though I’ve been to the driving range a handfull of times I’ve ingrained in my head the ‘rules’ I learned. Make sure that your non-dominant hand is holding on at the top with your thumb pointing down. Remember to wrap your dominant hand over your thumb. Keep your one arm straight, bend the other at the elbow. Bend your knees and stick your butt out a little. Keep your eye on the ball.
I’m not much of a multitasker so keeping all these points is sometimes a bit overwhelming, but I managed to do pretty well. After awhile though my elbow began to ache and my dominant hand began to throb. I put my club down and started to stretch my hand. In my head I was realizing that I was holding the club very tightly. I encouraged myself to hold it loosely, but realized with such a narrow handle that would be difficult. I was ledt realizing that I could choose to quit or continue on inspite of the ache.
As I pondered this ‘golfing experience’ this morning and read Jennifer Lee’s post about how present our God is in EVERYTHING…I was reminded of the ache of holding on so tightly, and how it doesn’t have to be that way in our lives. There is no desperate holding on to a steel shaft to keep things under control. There is no way to hold on that might make the ache we experience be removed. Surrender means that all his strength takes over our weary selves. Surrender means letting go and knowing He is there…we have nothing to prove or lose with Him.
As my hand ached and I thought about holding things loser I was reminded of how much stress and burden I take on trying to figure out life on my own…when I could be laying my burdens down and walking free in His strength and grace.
Oh how hard it is to let go of the grip I have on life that says “I can do this, I don’t need others, I can carry this, I can figure it out myself.”
What burdens I lay on my back that He longs to take from me…and as my muscles cramp and my back aches I swem to think there is something to be gained by pushing through.
When will His grace and refreshment and peace become something my weary soul longs for, thirts for?
For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies…
Lord of all, to Thee we raise,
This our hymn of grateful praise…
Hill and vale, and tree and flower,
Sun and moon, and stars of light.
When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we escape our self-conscious selves – Madeleine L’Engle
An inspiring quote from Billy Coffey:
There are few callings higher than that of a writer. We inspire through story. We remind others of truths that have defined humanity since the beginning. We provide necessary break from the monotony of the everyday. We create worlds. The words we string together serve an invaluable function: They become a mirror the reader holds to himself. They show us not how we are so different from one another, but how we are so much the same. Perhaps it is because that calling is so high that it is also so fraught with peril. Writing is not for the weak or timid. It requires courage to face the page every day. To send out queries that may not even be answered, to pour yourself into a story that may or may not be read, and to lay yourself bare to a world that may only reject you. We can endure all of those things only so long as we have joy. Joy is how we can laugh as we fight the good battle and how we can dance even in the rain. Joy is what we need, just as much as platform and presence, plot and characters. It is a tenuous thing, delicate and at times fleeting. And i’m here to tell you that losing it is not a myth. It happens. But as long as you can hold it tightly; hope is never lost.
its been quiet here for a bit. I have alot floating around in my head…but don’t seem to have the ‘ability’ to get it down right now. It has been good to see you all writing through this time of quiet on my end…you each continue to inspire and for that i’m thankful.
I missed out last week on Lisa-Jo’s linkup at Five Minute Friday, so I thought I’d join back in today.
The premise of FMF is that a word prompt is revealed ever Friday morning (EARLY) and then wonderful writers from all over unite over writing unedited about that word. Its always fascinating to see what stories come out of the same prompt. It has been a beautiful exercise that stretches and its always wonderful to read other entries as well, and get to ‘know’ some other writers.
Today’s Prompt: RHYTHM
Several years ago my mom and I had the opportunity to attend a women’s retreat from a different church. Since my parent’s church and my church are so big, they rarely do events like this. One of my dad’s coworkers attends this smaller church and had told my mom about the retreat. It was in the middle of a city about an hour away from here but the property had been bought and built up in a manner that it was surrounded by a forested area and residential area and so you hardly even knew where you were. It was beautiful.
The weekend was about ‘The Holy and the Horrible’ and the speaker was amazing. She taught us about lament and praise and I’m not sure that it will ever leave me. The Holy Spirit was present, in both the healing of hearts that took place and in the heart lifting laughter and joy that was present that weekend.
On Saturday the option was presented to learn basic drumming. I adore music and I love singing, but I’ve never been one to embrace too many instruments, mostly because I didn’t have the fortitude to work through the long hours of actually learning. Oh i could figure out piano music if I sat down to it, but it was something I endured rather then enjoyed.
There were about 20 of us that gathered that day to learn some basic techniques and then practice our part in the worship of that evening. It was so fun and it was exhilarating to participate in creating this life rhythm with others who I had become united with in this endeavor.
When I was in grade one, I was the ‘director’ of a shadow play that we put on at school. I walked in my shiny shoes that clipped along the floor and proudly announced the show. There were butterflies in my stomach and I was so excited to have such a wonderful role. The same butterflies of that moment in my youth, filled me as I went up into the circle with the other woman and began my part in the rhythm that would accompany the worship of that evening. My heart filled with the different sounds being produced and I realized with tears in my eyes, that I was part of something bigger then I had ever imagined…I was part of making a joyful sound unto the Lord. It mesmerized my heart!
pieces of the broken, re-imagined into a beautiful work of art. The brokenness remains, and yet it has become so much a part of something more, something bigger than it was originally.
and in the midst of the hurt, the ache, the pieces of our heart that we think will never again be full or working ever again, there is a hand, one that reaches down, picks up the pieces, and tenderly begins to place them in a mosaic of beauty beyond anything we had ever begun to imagine if we had been the creative force.
The broken pieces seem to overwhelm these days. A blog writer extraordinaire who has longed for several years for children, found out upon the day of her child-to-be’s birth, that the birth mama had decided to keep him…12 hours after they received a picture of his birth. His crib was full of blankets, the clothes hung in his closet, pictures of animals adorned his walls a place full of vibrant life to be, now a stark reminder of a raw ache and blistering heart. Closing the door on this room, feels like a punch in the stomach, a sucking out of the last breathe of light…and still her and her husband fight on, for one more breathe, for that one spark of hope, for those broken pieces to be made into something beautiful only He can see and know.
A status update declaring a husband of 30 plus years has signed the paperwork for their divorce only a week ago and is already engaged to the ‘new love of his life’. And i realize that even though i didn’t know it, these two from my past, from my early years seemed infallible to me. They too have suffered deep and felt the cracks threaten their very lives. A vibrant teenage son passing away in the middle of the night from an unknown ailment. Several years of life altering surgery…and with these two tragic events, fissures begin to make themselves known in the relationships. Cracks that perhaps had been masked with basic repair, began to blast wide open, leaving heart break spread carelessly upon the ground, memories lay in cascading force, the blast from the betrayal all encompassing…and yet somewhere, I know that there is hope for her, though the light seems more than dim, barely a flicker.
And I read of a daughter dreamed of, a soul taken to heaven early in the pregnancy…a vision sparked to life and then sent to black and white, only shadows of the dream that was. Not only aching in heart and body, but the young boys who knew the life that had sparked, now speak to know of heaven and their sisters time spent in the arms of their Saviour. And the ribbons and lace, the sparkles of grace, now seem to be a figment, a dream that became a reality and then was snuffed out, like the last burning of that midnight oil. This heart break, this soul tear…this wounding of places so deep and vulnerable, seems that it will bleed forever. and yet, there is hope…the sunlight glistens through the black mask of grief, and that one shard that lights up and pierces through the grief, speaks of a renewal, of a piecing back together…of a hand at work, holding in comfort, picking up and carefully reassembling what was worldly broken.
and my heart aches. Because i know that pain. Because i know that sometimes all you want to do is scream into the silence, to let people know that you’re still alive and that you don’t understand why life continues on like nothing happened when inside its all you can do to try to hold yourself together. When you feel like you’ve fallen to pieces, that you look around you and there isn’t a piece of you that you can call whole…and yet you know, there is hope. That there is a spark, that no matter what, will not be relinquished. and that there is a beam of light, that tears through those places and begins to warm and heal. And that there is a mighty hand, a hand that knows the picture of perfection, that we are being made into a reflection of our broken, beautiful Saviour, more and more as the pieces become smooth and worn and more perfectly fit together into the picture only he can see, to the design only He can fashion in his own way.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi