Stand

I was reading recently of deserts and sandstorms, clouds and skies, sins and forgiveness, and deserts and sandstorms. The heroes and heroines of both tales responded in different ways to these deserts and sandstorms. Some sheltered down into cool and protective rock homes, others stayed outside in the brutal heat of the deserts and the wicked thrashing of the sand storms, deserts and sandstorms. The vivid images painted by these two sharp scenarios has stuck in my mind to the point of fueling an imagination lain dormant for too long a time, like the sands in a desert before the storm.

I imagined the terror and exhilaration of staring directly into the approaching tidal waves of winds and swirling sands and waiting to see what would happen next. When the storm had blown past, what would remain? Would the talons of disturbance tear flesh from bone? Would I stand inside a shield of protection watching the chaos surround and engulf the very air outside my translucent shelter? Would I be unscathed?

Can I find the answer to these questions without standing in the storm?

Will I stand?

Or, as countless forms that have come before have seen, would I be shaken, moved, torn, changed, ripped and rebuilt, ground down and reshaped? As the boulders crumble in the midst of the storm, the dunes shift and travel away, the desert dragons batten the hatches, all things of colour fade, the sky darkens, and those that are left are but dust and sand. Out here on this barren plain of shifting sands, those that stand are two grains of sand, and they are blown down by the wind. The children of a parched land are sifted and scattered before the very eyes of those who joined its desolation. But it’s too late to turn back. Storms approach in the desert. A parched land of deserts and storms. So I wait, I watch, I dig my feet and grit my teeth. The hounds pull ahead in the chase and the emancipated are captured. The only question that remains is:

Will I stand?

The only answer to the question is found by standing in the storm.

Tried and Tested

A dusty horizon,
Dark clouds rising high,
The sounds travel nearer,
Like a whispering sigh.

A mob in the desert,
The people of sins,
Approaches, is angry,
Send tension-filled winds.

They bear down upon me,
I’ve attempted to stand,
On my own and alone,
On the sad-shifting sand.

Huge human shapes rise,
They’re fortressed before me,
Intend none but my death,
On this vast barren sea.

I cryout in despair,
Hot tears falling and,
As their wave breaks upon me,
I realize I stand.

As the faces fly by,
Harsh glances are passed,
Great windy giants,
Surround me with past.

They sweep all around me,
Their force blowing strong,
Yet still here I stand,
One suffering long.

Portals

Escape is a common theme resounding through the halls of the worn and traveled hearts of the humanity by which our world is surrounded. Some call it an excuse to become removed from world in which we live. Others hold, dearly, that escape is necessary to maintain a structure of sanity in their lives. Still others stand convinced of the tangible reality of an “other place” that generously impart renewal and rejuvenation to those who find its secrets.

It is, conceptually, both powerful and timid, both peaceful and utilitarian, both real and imagined, both quiet and demanding. Escape is thus a place of unbounded attraction to those with a wandering mind, and a sweet dream for those in need. Indeed, it is a sweet dream for some without need or care. Truthfully, the difference between our own individual worlds of escape, for, you know, we all have them, is not a sense of existence, but the certain and tangible knowledge of the existence of these places of refuge. Some lay hold of this diversity and attempt to offer some profundities in a futile effort to resolve them. There is, however, a simple explanation that will serve admirably to satisfy the curious: Imagination. My personal curiosity led me to discover this which I now share with you.

Kaetti’s World

A frozen sea of crystal sand,
A common sight for those within,
Entraps the image of without,
A vantage point where worlds begin;
And in their midst is Kaetti’s world.

For as one looks, and thinks, and breathes,
Flash colours of life passing by,
Though some are different and reflect,
A scripted, random, pattern nigh;
And thus a step toward Kaetti’s world.

Then landscapes shift and clouds roll in,
Outside, their tears, they shower clear,
And as one scene all blends and melts,
While nature fades the light from here;
The light behind shows Kaetti’s world.

A shimmering, inviting, place,
‘Comes more defined – outside is night,
New colours dance and weave and blur,
Now painting vivid unknown sights,
A glimpse revealed, of Kaetti’s world.

The portal gleams and stands anew,
Inviting one to enter in,
A tapestry of brightened scenes –
Experience the peace within;
The warm embrace of Kaetti’s world.

Thence to fly, be it pain or need,
To weep and pray and heal and rest,
In worlds removed, imagined, free,
The place of refuge loved the best;
A hope renewed in Kaetti’s world.

This gateway to another world,
Found in a mirror looking out;
Where some would see mere darkened skies,
There lays a deepened peace throughout;
The rest and calm of Kaetti’s world.

Like so much rain on child’s chalk,
All dissipates with morning light,
Once more through life someone must walk,
Remembering the hope from night,
Spent at rest in Kaetti’s world…

Emancipation

As this saga draws to a close (or maybe, as the first lines have now been set), I feel a great release and a longing for more. It’s as though the first journey has been completed, though, unknown to the reader, the trial was merely a quest for initiation – a fire of testing. As the dross and imperfections begin to melt away, one can sense the beginnings of a new beautiful creation; purer, fairer, robust, and sure. Above all, I believe the result is Truth; a shining truth that whispers of a journey of origin and a lifetime of destiny.

The release is a part of me that needed to let go. Severing the chains that so easily entangle is a progressing idea, not a singular apprehension. Yet, for so long, I have thus treated the Hope that is right before our very eyes. May the lost hours, days, and months be forever a reminder of my blind stumbling and stubborn pride.

As to the longing: may it grow in strength. May the desire for the dawn and the will to enter into the heavenly chorus of praise and worship become a perpetual crescendo even through the fires of life’s testing. For those who are willing, and those who are weak, and those who are seeking, and those who may sink, may find hope, and His strength, answers that satisfy, and refuge from the storm. For since the Son has been born on the wings of the dawn, the Brave may sing on not still in the dark, but wrapped with shining gold, and safe in His everlasting arms. Thus: Part Two.

Emancipation

The blackened hues that paint the skies,
Now spread their falsehood far and wide,
The hope the Earth once saw with eyes,
Lies locked beneath the darkened tide.

The Sun a distant memory,
Led captive to a midnight grave,
Sees those who wait expectantly,
And burns to whips this evening Nave.

Now listen! – All with ears to hear,
The faintest voice but growing strong,
That sings a song to calm our fear,
And cancel all the debts of Wrong.

For in that voice a Power flows,
To free the captive – save the slave,
For faintly now a light that glows,
Restores the hope of weary brave.

And as the thousands join the song,
A shining fold full-fills their sight,
The Sun it glows with rays so strong,
That it could not be held by Night.

So off it threw its shackles far,
Exploding, burning pieces they,
Now watch the night, its surface marred,
By those bright stars, as some would say.

And as the wakened birds resound,
The trees now echo their reply,
Their Sun could ‘nere be kept or bound;
Free, its Hope shines full from on high.

Bound

The contrast between the existence or appearance of light and dark is as old as this world itself. The clash of the two opposites have been used as the inspiration for the authors of literally countless works of original creation including books, plays, poetry, movies, ancient manuscripts, great works of art and many other mediums of communication. The legacy of the great struggle between the darkness and the light has been played out ever since the two powers were separated on the fourth day. The celestial bodies have since that time been acting out their well-ordered play in the heavens while inspiring the imaginations of the citizens of earth to explore the heights of radiance and depths of the voluminous void created by light’s absence. As one following in the footsteps of such greatness I cannot hope to do proper justice to these lofty apprehensions. Yet, I have once again dipped my pen in an attempt to reflect upon the movements of these contrasting ideas and, I think, to express a curious analogy found between the lines and meanings of these few verses. Without further ado: Part I.

~ Jon ~

A Shackled Sun

A crimson red across the sky
The painted stripes of dying day,
Cry out in anguish: help us nigh,
Preserve the light, please make it stay.

Defiant sphere it shall not die,
Titanic struggle to remain,
Ablaze, unsunken, hanging high,
Approaching night – our sun’s dark bane.

Its glory road stretched on and on,
All day its warmth shone far and bright,
Yet as it nears the temporal con,
It fades and falls and dims its light.

The whole expanse with sorrow sighs,
Its clouds weep tears like falling rain,
From valleys echo birds’ goodbyes,
The sun is shackled; dark with pain.

Oh how the world has turned this day,
It’s seen the joys and highs and lows,
All with sun’s light that’s gone away,
Like fallen petals of a rose.

Darkened clouds spread heavy air,
Now his final glow has gone;
With baited breath Creation fair,
Awaits the singing of the Dawn.

A Temporal Voice

The Circle Trilogy by Ted Dekker illustrates how our entire lives are wrapped up in a gigantic cosmic tale of love, and dealing with the sin-created opposite, hate. It is amazing to take a step back and realize that, we're here for a purpose created by a loving God, and that, though we became imperfect and inherently flawed to a fatal degree, we may be saved from our condition because of a vital and personal love: the sacrificial love of Christ. Thus, our response to love and philosophies guiding the in which we think about, speak about and practice love become of the utmost importance.

Recently, I've had the privilage of sitting under some purely excellent teaching about the nature of love. One of the main conclusions reached by the teachers to whom I have listened has been that a totally self-denying and sacrificial love actualized by God, vibrant in our hearts, and vivid through our actions is the highest and best way in which to live our lives in regards to the character of love. That thought alone has made me stop to think more often about my own actions and the reasons behind the words I say and thoughts I think. The realization, or dawning comprehension of the true scope that love should have in one's life is incredibly powerful. A basic understand of this Agape, or unconditional love, is certainly the best place in which to begin an exploration of the other loves identified by the Greeks in their literature, love for family and friends, for self, and the...more romantic love.

I began my introduction in this manner to provide a little perspective on where I've been, so that you can understand where I'm going. I wrote this next little work in the context of the more romantic (surprised?) love that's been stirred and tapped recently. I want you, as the reader, to understand that, though I am enraptured by this love, it is not the highest love. In fact, this love isn't even possible in a pure form until one can grasp the larger picture of the unconditional and sacrificial love displayed by Christ. My passion for the subject about which I have written below originates directly from my recent turn from being trapped on my own playing field to looking upwards and seeking the face of God, His direction, and His will. And thus, I have written :-)

~ Jon ~

Heavenly Similitudes

There once was a boy,
Who lived in a world,
Like unto our own,
Whose life was just plain,
Until that one day,
Of rapture and awe.

The day had begun,
Like any Spring day,
Yet all felt more rich,
So vibrant – alive,
As if God had sung,
And World echoed back.

He trod his life’s path,
That one fine Spring day,
But tripped and fell flat,
And reddened quickly,
Then tried to explain,
His two lefted feet.

But she smiled back,
A light in her eyes,
And offered her hand,
To help him back up,
To balance his feet,
And righten his mind.

From that one day on,
Nothing was the same,
For that boy had known,
She had been special;
That he fell in love,
With earth’s one angel.

Sometimes he’d see her,
They’d cross in their paths,
He’d walk and look down,
She’d stop and just smile,
At him who she knew,
That she loved so too.

This angel of light,
The sweetest of beings,
He held in his heart,
The closest of all,
Her soul changed his life,
Forever, for good…

This earth-bound angel,
She sang like the sun,
Moved as a princess,
And told of her love,
With a smile just like,
A light on dark hills.

She made his heart leap,
And rise to a love,
That’d die for her name,
Protect her whole life,
Then’d embrace her and say,
You’re safe in my arms.

The story goes on,
Of their love and life,
Together, they were,
Eternity on;
Would that I could tell,
Their history’s path.

The ending was lost,
I’m saddened to say,
Yet, can be remade,
Through other lives too,
As he holds her close,
His angel and friend.