Soul Rubbed Raw

Poetry

Soul Rubbed Raw

Soul rubbed raw
heart heavy with tears
lead in my veins
stalked by my fears

Wondering why
is my skin so frail
that every word pierces
like rusty old nails

Hiding in the dark
longing to be with
desperately needing freshness
yet feeling old, dry, stiff

Tears burn forth
limbs grow weak
heaviness prevails
loneliness still seeks

 

Nearly all of my posts end in hope, or at least have a thread of hope running through.  While communicating that hope is one of the goals I’ve had for this blog since it began,  I’m learning that fully inhabiting and expressing pain acknowledges that raw truth that there isn’t always visible hope.  An expression of pain doesn’t always end with a neat, happy resolution. Sometimes it just confesses the darkness and despair felt in that moment. 

This poem was written some time ago, but I share it to encourage you not to stifle your emotions or bottle up your feelings.  Deep, strong emotions don’t just go away.  Find a healthy way to express them that works for you, whether that’s poetry or some other form of creative writing, art, sculpture, music, dance or just talking to a friend. 

Be honest. Be raw. 

Rage if you need to.  Weep if you need to. 

It may not make everything better, but it will be a big step toward healing.  And it will be much healthier than trapping those toxic sentiments inside.

What have you learned about handling emotions in your own life?  What works for you?  What doesn’t work?
Face like Flint – Suffering like Jesus

Poetry

Face like Flint – Suffering like Jesus

When suffering comes-
as it certainly will-
trust God in the darkness,
just know, and be still.

Don’t make your own fire,
your own comfort or warmth,
you’ll be blinded to the darkness
beyond the circle made by your sputtering torch

Let the one who walks in shadows
without a flicker of light
trust God in the darkness,
in the uncertainty of night.

No blinding blaze of glory,
no path will suddenly appear;
just a whisper right beside you,
“I AM with you, I AM here.”

Though the night may press in more closely,
though the clouds and oppression don’t lift,
though the beatings and mocking continue,
I have set my face like flint

Because I know that the Sovereign Lord helps me,
I know that my Savior is near
There will be no shame in this story,
My God has opened my ears.

*This poem is entirely based on a sermon I heard from Pastor Tim Dunham at CCF a couple years ago.  He preached an amazing message on the verse below that has stuck with me ever since.

Isaiah 50:4-11 (NLT)

4 The Sovereign Lord has given me his words of wisdom,
   so that I know how to comfort the weary.
Morning by morning he wakens me
   and opens my understanding to his will.
5 The Sovereign Lord has spoken to me,
   and I have listened.
I have not rebelled or turned away.
6 I offered my back to those who beat me
   and my cheeks to those who pulled out my beard.
I did not hide my face
   from mockery and spitting.
7 Because the Sovereign Lord helps me,
   I will not be disgraced.
Therefore, I have set my face like a stone,
   determined to do his will.
And I know that I will not be put to shame.
8 He who gives me justice is near.
   Who will dare to bring charges against me now?
Where are my accusers?
   Let them appear!
9 See, the Sovereign Lord is on my side!
   Who will declare me guilty?
All my enemies will be destroyed
   like old clothes that have been eaten by moths!
10 Who among you fears the Lord
   and obeys his servant?
If you are walking in darkness,
   without a ray of light,
trust in the Lord
   and rely on your God.
11 But watch out, you who live in your own light
   and warm yourselves by your own fires.
This is the reward you will receive from me:
   You will soon fall down in great torment.

Star-Breathing God

Poetry

Star-Breathing God

The star-breathing God,
my awesome Creator.
Wonder of wonders,
my soul’s Savior.
His incomprehensible majesty,
power beyond any human measure-
Tho’ creation lies in his hand,
He loves me as his treasure.
The starry host are His,
He knows each by its name
He calls mine also into eternity,
And the very galaxies proclaim
that Jesus is King,
but became God clothed in flesh.
He died in our place
who formed stars from his breath.

“By the word of the LORD the heavens were made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth.”
Psalm 33:6

I think I wrote this poem in 2014 after hearing Louie Giglio’s talk, How Great is Our God at a Christ Tomlin concert in Delhi. The whole thing can be found on YouTube and I highly recommend it.  It’ll blow your mind.

Rose Sniffers Anonymous – Making Margin to Stop and Smell the Roses

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Rose Sniffers Anonymous – Making Margin to Stop and Smell the Roses

Stop. Just stop for a moment and take a long, deep breath. Do you smell it? The dewy grass crushed beneath your feet, the damp earth under your fingers as you lean back on your hands, the tangy willow bark as it arches over the gently burbling creek. The velvety petals of the prairie rose tickle your nose as you pull the branch down to sniff the sweet almost cinnamony fragrance of the delicate bloom. Breathe in. Savor it.

Welcome, fellow rose sniffer.

I’ve just invited you onto one of my favorite places on earth, a little spot by the creek on the farm where I grew up. The place I went to dream, to process experiences, to prepare for adventures, to pray, to find hope and to write.

“Hi. My name is Mina,”
(All echo, “Hi Mina”)
“…and I’m a rose sniffer. Or at least I want to be.”

OK, I know that’s not how it’s supposed to go, but this blog is a place where I (and I hope you too, dear reader) can learn to stop and smell the roses. Even if it’s just a sniff, because sometimes that’s all we can manage. But at least it’s a start.

It’s those rose scented moments– the earthy, everyday ones, the ethereal, sacred ones and even the old rotting ones– that make up a lifetime.

How often do you pause, quit the hustle and bustle and breathe deeply?

“Be still, and know that I am God!”  ~Psalm  46:10a

Do you make a habit of reserving margin in your life to be still?

Do I?

I’ve learned over the last few months what an intentional choice this is– the rose sniffing, the being still– it has to be. For me this means scheduling a special time into my day, and then leaving some breathing space in the rest of the schedule. If I don’t intentionally choose to clear a margin in my life for pausing and being still, it won’t happen.  Just ask any elder and they’ll tell you, life goes by in a flash.  I don’t want to turn around and realize I’ve missed it.  Do you?

So just pause for a second. Breathe deeply. Smell that? It’s the scent of adventure, perspective, hope.

I want to learn from you! How do you make time in your life to be still before god?

Music

All That I Am – Rend Collective Cover

Rend Collective is my absolute favorite band at the moment.  Their folky style tickles my fancy but their lyrics strike deep into the heart:

“Take every treasure, take this life
Everything’s on the altar now
No holding back, no holding out
In view of Your matchless sacrifice
Take every treasure, take this life

“All that I am for all that You are, my Lord
All that I have for all that You are, You’re the
Pearl beyond price, greater than life
All that I am for all that You are

“Selfish ambition and my pride
I’m giving up, I’m letting die
In these empty hands I have it all, have it all
The pure joy of knowing You, my Lord”

-Rend Collective
Watch the original song here.

No Stone in His Hand

Word Paintings

No Stone in His Hand

The door bursts open and dust flies everywhere.  Shafts of sunlight pierce into the darkness.  Bearded men flow into the room, robes swirling behind them.  Rough hands drag me from the bed, coarse hands yank me by my hair as my naked body falls to the floor.  I try to curl into a ball to protect myself from their vicious contempt, but those unforgiving hands jerk me upright and sharp fingernails dig into the flesh on my arms. I am caught.

I can’t believe what’s happening.  All the strength leaves my body and my limbs go weak as the realization of what is happening floods through me.  I glance wildly around me, but I’m met only by dark piercing eyes filled with sneering contempt and disgust.  Curling in on myself, I try in vain to cover my nakedness and humiliation until someone has the decency to throw a coarse woolen blanket over my shoulders.  But I know it’s more for their sake than mine as I clutch it tightly around myself as if it could protect me from the accusations I know I deserve. Yet even its rough touch lacks any mercy.

They drag me to the temple and shove me to the ground in the courtyard.  It’s jagged surface bites into my hands as I try to brace myself against the fall. My teeth clatter together at  the force of the impact.  As I struggle to my knees,  I look at my palms. They’re covered in bleeding red cuts filled with tiny rocks and dirt.  Then the understanding of what is going to happen hits me like a blow to the stomach. Those tiny little rocks hurt so much. But now I realize all those coarse hands that were so rough before, now hold much bigger rocks.

They are going to stone me.

Terror chokes me and I jump to my feet to flee, but those rough hands grab and crush my trembling skin to the very bone.  I’m thrown back to the ground.  The merciless blanket falls off. I am more alone now than ever.  But there’s no time for thoughts, only pain.  And shame. I pull the blanket close about my shoulders and put my hands over my head. My body tenses, waiting for the inevitable blows from the rocks that will end my miserable life.  What are they waiting for?  Will the first hurt the most? How long will the pain go on?

“We caught this woman in the act of adultery.”  The Pharisees declare my crime before the gawking crowd. The words feel like the rocks lodged in my fresh wounds, they cut deep with the sharpness of their harsh, unapologetic truth.  I can feel their eyes boring into me, and I can imagine the condemnation and disgust scrawled across their faces.  If only they knew what it was like inside.  But how could they see?    “What does Moses say we should do?”  they demand.  I know the question must be rhetorical. I know the answer full well. So do they. The law has been drilled into our minds since we were children. We stone adulteresses.  A twisted sense of relief floods me.  I deserve this.  The struggle, the pain, the guilt, the shame– it will all be over soon.  Where is that first blow?

But instead of the answer I expected to hear, the sound of stone hitting flesh–my flesh–I see, or maybe more like feel, across the dust that I’m choking on… a finger.  It’s of a strong, calloused hand drawing on the ground.  It too is a coarse hand.  But it’s work is different.

What is this?    The sound.  There is none.  Only the blood rushing in my ears…my burning soul in its last moments.  It’s like the man with this coarse hand can hear…my soul?

Finally, as the leaders, now embarrassed in such silence, stridently demand an answer, a strong gentle voice cuts through the clamor of the crowd.  “Let the one who is without sin throw the first stone.”

A taut silence again settles over the courtyard. Tears begin to streak down my face and blur my vision. I barely see the finger writing in the dirt again.  I hold my breath, cringing, waiting for the pain to begin. And yet now  I know He hears. What I hear is feet shuffling away.  But I can’t bring myself to look up.  The tears have unlocked the shame of a lifetime and it pours from me in a river of sobs and remorse.  So many tears.  The blood on my hands mingles in the cascade of sorrow falling to the ground. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.  My heart weeps.  But I know only He hears.

It seemed like an eternity that I wept there, laying in the dust.  But when I opened my eyes there was a pair of dusty sandaled feet right in front of me.  I bury my head in my hands, trying to make myself as small as possible.  “Dear one, where are they?  Has no one condemned you?”  It is a gentle, low voice speaking. My ears hear.  My soul trembles.  I tentatively lift my head and look around the now empty courtyard. “No one, sir.” I hardly trust my voice.

Gathering the courage to look up at the one who spoke, my eyes travel up from the dusty feet to the coarse robe and then finally to bearded face and kind eyes of  the one all of Israel has come to know as Jesus.  If anyone, he is worthy to stone me. But there is no stone in His hand. With a choked sob I lower my forehead to the ground and dare to reach out my trembling fingers to touch his feet.  Oh, if only to be with the tears and blood soaking into the ground.

Strong, coarse, but gentle hands grasp my shoulders and lift me to my feet.  My eyes remain fixed on the ground until he lifts my chin and my gaze locks with that of the purest man in history, the One who hears my soul.  I see myself reflected in his knowing brown eyes.  But it’s not the dirty, tear-streaked, naked adulteress I see there.  In his eyes I see the truth of who I am, a broken but beautiful woman, valuable and precious, worth him dying for. In his eyes I see love.  “I don’t condemn you either.  Go, and stop sinning.”

*Disclaimer: While this word painting is based off of John 8:1-11 and inspired in part by this video, the backstory and some other aspects of this piece are from my imagination and simply reflect my emotional response to this story in my life.  This is in no way meant to replace, change or improve upon the original Bible story, but to vividly “paint with words” what it might have been like for the woman who looked into Jesus’ eyes and saw love instead of judgement.

Music

Road to Zion by Petra – Harp Cover

This enchanting melody rings from the strings of a harp, but the lyrics are also rich and true:

“There is a way that leads to life
The few that find it never die
Past mountain peaks graced white with snow
The way grows brighter as it goes

“Sometimes it’s good to look back down
We’ve come so far – we’ve gained such ground
But joy is not in where we’ve been
Joy is who’s waiting at the end.”

-Petra

See all lyrics here.

The Greatest Adventure

Blog

The Greatest Adventure

The sun had barely risen over the cacti and scrubby bushes of northern Mexico. I just hoped, as I stumbled down the dusty road in the yet dim light of the hesitantly rising sun, that I wouldn’t encounter any scorpions. Sleep clung to my eyes and brain like decaying cobwebs.

Why had I ever committed to this thing in the first place?

Oh yeah.  It was God’s idea.

That thought trudged around and around my mind as I sat perfectly still for my sister-in-law to paint my face. The baggy suit slipped on easily, and she tied a pair of headphones around my waist. I looked in the mirror.

Ridiculous. I looked like a clown. It was perfect.

How could I get out of doing this? But I’d committed. It was too late now. Trying to ignore the snickering of some of the others in the van, I stared out the window and wished it was over with. We arrived. The guards stared, ushered me into the cubicle and frisked me for contraband. I didn’t blame them, who knows what I could have been hiding in that preposterous getup. Then they let me in.

The first part of the service took about an eternity and a half and I sweated in the glare of the sun and the terror of anticipation until I was sure my face paint was ruined.

But the moment came at last. I walked out into the middle of that courtyard, surrounded on all sides by of hundreds of Mexican criminals, every brown eye fixed on me. It was so quiet that I was sure everyone could hear the thunderous beating of my heart.

I started out by juggling oranges. Before long they were rolling to the far reaches of the prison. I twirled batons. The clatter of the wood echoed deafeningly in the silence. I snatched up the unicycle. A moment of tottering success, and I fell. I tried again, and fell. Again, and I sprawled on the concrete in defeat.

That was it.

That was the plan. That was what God had told me to do. Go out there… and fail.

In front of hundreds of men, my ministry team, and my family…fail.

Why? I have no idea.

I was barely sixteen then and that day was a pivotal point in my life. My family has been involved in some kind of ministry or another at every stage of my life and my parents have gone to great lengths to involve me and my siblings in our ministry as a family.

I have loved Jesus since before I can remember. He has always been my Friend. He has always been my Savior. I have always known I was a sinner, I have always known I needed His blood to cover my sins and make me acceptable to God. I have always believed that He came into the world, born of a virgin; that He died on the cross for my sin and the sin of the whole world; and that He rose from the dead on the third day.

There has been a sweet confidence throughout my life that Jesus has saved me and that when I die I will go to be with Him.

I mean seriously, I was baptized when I was five.

But until that day in the Mexican prison, I hadn’t fully committed myself to Jesus as my Master and Lord. On that day, I made the choice to obey Him no matter what–even if I look like a complete fool; even if, for the life of me, I cannot understand why; even if it’s scary and even if it is dangerous.

I’m still making that choice. Since that time I was a clown, it’s gotten harder.  The choices have gotten bigger, the faith I’ve needed stronger.

 

While there are still the “little” daily choices to humble myself and obey, there are bigger even more life changing ones like leaving the only home I’ve ever known and moving across the ocean with my family.

 

It’s a daily act of surrendering myself to God’s will.  And let me tell you, I have certainly not learned this lesson fully yet. 

But it’s incredible what our God can do with someone who is willing to shakily step out onto the frontier of what they know and are comfortable with and trust God completely.  It may not make sense, it may be terrifying, and it may even seem useless, but to follow the leading of the Holy Spirit is the most glorious adventure I know.

 

What have you been learning about faith in your own life?  I’d love to hear your story!  comment below!
The Beggar’s Smile – A Raw Reflection on My Approach to Poverty

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The Beggar’s Smile – A Raw Reflection on My Approach to Poverty

Light bulbs dangled precariously over the multitude of food stalls crowding the plaza.  Each illuminated glossy candies, perfectly iced cakes, heaps of noodles flecked with vegetables, shish kabobs dripping with spicy sauce, piles of fried chicken, pork and seafood, and tubs of curry.  My every sense was assaulted, nose filled with a thrilling array of scents, tongue ablaze with spice and flavor.  My feet throbbed from walking from stall to stall to stall and my stomach ached with fullness.

It’s funny how in the places of opulence I forget that there is want.  When my belly is filled with good things, I don’t think of those that are starving just down the street. When I’m comfortably tucked away in my bed, under my blankets, the family around the corner living under a tarp exposed to the elements is far from my mind.

In that food choked plaza, I walked quickly (maybe waddled would be a better word) to rejoin my family after a foray to the spicy veggie shish kabob stall with a friend.  As I passed through a narrow, darker area of the plaza, a man much shorter than me caught my eye and smiled at me.  It was one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen.  My steps slowed as I took in the radiance and sweetness of his expression and I instinctively returned the smile.  Belatedly, I realized that he was standing not on his feet but on the stubs of his legs missing from just below his hips, a scuffed cup in his hands, a hopeful sparkle in his brown eyes. My smile didn’t fade, but it felt cheap and fake as I walked briskly past.

I charged onward, pushing down the familiar conflicted feelings, wondering if I should have paused, given him something, said something.  It was then I noticed my friend was no longer walking behind me. I turned around and saw her bending to greet the man, speaking a few gentle words to him and dropping a few coins into his cup. Shame washed over me, and I turned and rushed onward, hiding my burning face from my compassionate friend.  This feeling was so familiar, the confusion, the doubt, and the shame.

I remembered the grubby face of a child peering in at me through the taxi window in Delhi while we waited at a stoplight.  I thought of the exhausted mother holding her eerily silent child outside a temple, bending to touch my feet and beseeching me with her eyes saying, “Food, food, food,” over and over again.  I recalled a flock of Indian children, crowding around us in the bazaar pawing at our clothes and begging for something.  An old man sitting by the Walmart exit, holding a cardboard sign asking for a little money or some work.  All faces of people I didn’t help.  All people that I turned away, and sometimes even physically pushed away from me.

I reviewed all my excuses, all my reasons for turning away: they probably wouldn’t use the money well, and even if they did it wouldn’t help them in the long run.  Maybe they’ve made terrible decisions in their lives, and they don’t deserve help (yes, I actually thought that).  But even if they did “deserve it,” I thought, they may not even get to keep the money I give them.  I shuddered as I remembered hearing about the begging syndicates (cue Slumdog Millionaire music), and how I’d been told by countless people not to give to beggars at all.  I thought of the books I’d read and the courses I’d taken that addressed poverty, outlining its causes and how to help… the books I’d read that had also advised not to give money to beggars.  But none of the excuses and none of the advice or wisdom helped me in that moment of suspended time as my eyes locked with those of the smiling man in Meechok Plaza.

There’s one thing I remembered in that moment, Jesus’ words that have been haunting me ever since.

I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’
He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
Matthew 25:42-45

So, wait…that’s Jesus I ignored.  Jesus, to whom I refused the few coins I could easily spare. That was Jesus I walked away from.  Jesus that I physically pushed away from me.

Which leads me to the burning question:  what can I do to help those in need?  I can’t help every child knocking at the taxi window, every widow begging outside the temple, every crippled person I pass while shopping.  But what can I do?  What does God expect of me?

Sometimes I help, sometimes I give.  But I’m ashamed at how little I do when I do decide to assist in some way. The rest of our meal to the boy pressing his nose against the restaurant window, a bed for the family sleeping on the dirt under a tarp, hiring an auto rickshaw to get a sick man to the hospital.  But it never seems like enough, it never seems like it will effect any lasting change in their lives.  How could my little act of charity make their very difficult lives any better in the long run?

And then I remember the story of the Good Samaritan.  A man who took care of the problem in front of him.  He didn’t go looking for it, but along his way, he encountered someone who was hurting and considered it his duty to help. He was prepared, and he made time. He didn’t think it was someone else’s job, but he also didn’t think he had to help fix everything that was wrong in that person’s life.  He helped with that immediate need.  He sacrificed his time, energy, money and comfort.  He did what he could.

That’s what I need to remember that when the crushing magnitude of poverty presses down on my spirit and squeezes out my hope, when my heart grows calloused to all the pain I constantly see, and when I feel so helpless to affect any change in the world around me.

Maybe I can make a difference for one.

Maybe I can bring a little light, a little hope, a little love into someone’s life.  If only for a moment.  Maybe that’s all I’m supposed to do, especially when it’s all I can do.

Maybe God will use one act of kindness, one gesture of love, one effort to help to change a life, or at least to plant or water some seeds of hope.

Maybe it won’t be convenient, comfortable or even safe.  Maybe it will take sacrifice, not just of my money but of my time, energy, relationships, and love.

I don’t know the answer.  I can only hope and pray that as I grow closer to God’s heart he will give me his eyes to see every person I come across the way that He does.  All I can pray is for a deep sensitivity to his Holy Spirit, and for wisdom and discernment to deal with those I encounter on the road from Jerusalem to Jerico.

And I can pray as the Brandon Heath song goes:

Give me Your eyes for just one second
Give me Your eyes so I can see
Everything that I keep missing
Give me Your love for humanity
Give me Your arms for the broken-hearted
The ones that are far beyond my reach
Give me Your heart for the ones forgotten
Give me Your eyes so I can see

What is your heart toward the poor in your community?  How is God leading you to love them as Jesus does?

Feature photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash
The Vessel

Poetry

The Vessel

Dry, like an empty jar
Nothing to bring, nothing to offer
Empty hands, empty heart
Knowledge unsought, talents buried
Unworthy vessel, deserving dishonor
He lifts up from the lowly place

His face filled with unfathomable love
He knows my weakness, knows my name
One command, just one request
“Just give me your all, your everything”
Unworthy vessel, he chooses to honor
And fills with beauty from the holy place

The jar now filled with unbound joy
Bringing hope, offering peace
Hands full of blessing, heart full of love
Wisdom seeking, talent investing
Unworthy vessel, given over to God
Pouring forth His blessings– with a smiling face

 

This poem was inspired by 2 Kings 4, Proverbs 3:5-6, Luke 1:26-38, 46-55.