Physics and Prophets

 

What is a prophet, except one who
Simply
Believes
The Word of old, a seer –
Not of the future, but of the past –
Who sees the Word long-written
As truer than the matter
His hand can touch.
Walking on the living Word,
Without deviation, he finds
On that slim line
All of Physics in a child’s grasp,
And his own heart’s Physician
Bending near.
~
meditations on Psalm 119

His Promise Is Enough

Up to regions high and light
I go when I release my tight grip
On managing my earthy home.
My open hands can join the
Angel band, busy in praise!
Sacred lyrics, angel-sung,
Storehouse treasure, proclaim that
When He says He’ll supply
All my needs,
He knows exactly what those are,
To the finest accounting.
And that He has already provided them.
And that I did not even need a sign –
A hummingbird or a rainbow –
His promise is enough.

~
Tapestry owned by Carol Wildeman

The Gentle Now

This morning’s
Back porch prayer
Is a sigh –
Not a sad sigh,
Or a happy sigh,
But a sigh sigh,

A wordless prayer to
The One Who Hears,
Agreeing to wait.

Perhaps, He suggests,
There is more joy here,
More sigh solace,
In dove woes and
Tin roof rain,

In sugared flow of life beneath
What you can see,

Than in the triumph of
Your hopes.

Perhaps you already have
What you are waiting for.
~
His gentleness owns me whole.

 

 

Come Up Here To Me Awhile

Take a deep breath, girl.
Fill those lungs;
Relax your shoulders,
Your neck,
Your jaw.

Be still,
And know that
I am God.

Open your hand.
I’ll hold it now,
And sit beside you,
And care for every little thing
That you care about.

Your babies . . .
Their babies,

I’ve got them.

Look at Me.
Hear Me.

Every single word
In My Book,
Is a love song.

One word of Mine,
One word,
Is a feast worthy of a
Great Hall.

Deep in My Word,
Find Me
All you’ve craved,
And all that satisfies you.

Find Me . . .
Delighted with you.

I hear you when you fear
That you might be the one
I forget,

The one
I don’t
Have an answer for.

Ask for Me.
I promise you,
I promise you,
I AM your answer.

I’ll show you a mystery:
Walk with me in love,
And your eyes will see,
Your feet will tread,
A straight road,
Where hard-hearts stumble crooked.

Straight roads are not
Easy roads.

I know this.
John cried Me a straight road –
Valleys raised
And mountains leveled.

I set My face on a
Straight road

To the cross.

And when the straight road
Led
To the end of all things,
The abandoned grief
And naked shame
Became the womb of
Glory!

That’s what I do
For you.

For you . . .
You are dust.

I held your body in My hands
So gently.
I put my face to yours
And
Breathed a rushing wind.

And you came alive.                                                                

I did this first on an Eden morning.
It was Adam I held, but
You were there too,
In My heart.
I knew you then.

And then I breathed on you another time,
You and I know when.
The day I called your name.
Do you remember?
And you heard My voice,
Remember?

Oh, I sang that day.

What I breathe to life
No power can kill.
Your deliverance
Is
Eternal.

On your
Straight,
Hard
Road,
Nights can be dark,
But
There is always the third day

When Joy bursts like
The rising of the Morning Star.

Child of Mine,
Come up here to me awhile.
~
Written for the women’s conference at Christ Covenant Presbyterian Church, Cullman, AL, March 1 and 2, 2019.

Obedience Street – Part Two

Tiny glimpse
Beyond the veil,
Moment of deepest peace,
Knowing my Companion
On Obedience Road,
My walking Buddy,
Is the judge who acquitted me,
The lawyer who pled for me,
The prisoner who accepted my
Life sentence,
My three-in-one.
I would resist the word obey
Except that
When my heart’s Friend says it,
It seems to mean
Favored.
Favorite.
And that is irresistible.
That’s life
On this road.
~
Psalm 119: 153 – 160

December Into January And Yoga Pants

December into January,
From Advent to after,
Build-up to come-down,
Weighty to wayward,
And it’s raining;
The calendar has grown soggy,
Clumped into a fibrous wad,
Windblown and
Come to rest against
The dripping screen on a winter back porch.
Days don’t have names in the earliest moments
Of a new year. The year only knows it’s new
Because of the let-down after the feast,
When all it can contemplate is
Digestion, and maybe
A yard-sale in . . . March, when the
Day-names come back.
Meanwhile, I’ll put on my Christmas-new,
Cornflower blue
Yoga pants and ride on
Last year’s
Muscle memory to keep my heels together
Toes tippied knees back
Shoulders down hips tucked
Belly button in lungs respiring
Arm up high balanced at the barre,
Pulsing low to the downbeat of
Havana.