Category: Word Paintings

a dream… or a nightmare – where is God on the path to healing?

Word Paintings

a dream… or a nightmare – where is God on the path to healing?

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Her feet drag with every step, kicking up clouds of dust.  Something is dragging her backwards, backwards, away. But her feet force her forward; forward on this rugged path, laboriously forward to the unknown.

But her heavy steps slow and finally stop.

The narrowing path leads into the shadowy depths of a forest.  Skeletal trees leer at her, their white barren branches jutting as if frozen as if in mid-seizure.  Fear wraps cold, sliming tendrils round her heart.  Nausea sweeps through her gut.  Her body trembles. Her shoulders slump. Heavy, weary.  How long?  How far down this path must she go?  Where will it lead?

A solid, gentle presence at her side. A strong hand brushes across her shoulders and pulls her close. Protective.  Gentle. She leans into the embrace and his tenderness floods her being.  Fear’s tendrils ease their grip. “Don’t leave me,” she whispers, “just don’t leave me, okay?”

They step forward together onto the shadowy path, his arm tightening around her shoulders. It doesn’t matter anymore how long or how painful this path will be.  All that matters is that he is with her.  She can do it if he is with her.

The trees, the path, the arm around her shoulder melts like wax and turns to swirling darkness.

Three threads: one checkered black, one blood red, one earthy brown.  Seemingly separate yet bound tightly together. Brown callused hands tug gently but firmly at each thread, unraveling them, untangling their connections, tracing them back to the source.  Tender, insistent, but unhurried, his fingers work at the knots.

What’s left in his scarred palms seems like tangled mass, more frayed and ugly than before.  His hands melt away and in their wake there a hint of order and beauty—as if the threads have begun to be woven into a dove.

But it is just a flash, perhaps an illusion; a mirage melting away to nothing.

It stretches into nothingness all around her, a vast, dark ocean.  The blackness of the night blinds her, but she knows there is no land, no shelter, no escape.  She can feel the raw energy of the sea seething beneath her, around her, within her; from the depths, the raging tides cause the surface of the water to churn with unease. Dusky gray clouds roil the turbid skies and the wind holds its breath.

She is so small in this immensity; so powerless in the midst of such intensity. Lost. Alone. Overwhelmed. Drowning?  Why isn’t she drowning?  No boat, no land, water surging around her ankles. But wait… she realizes, wait… below her feet is something firm.  Something solid and deeper than even this ocean.  Something stronger than the raging tides. Something steady in the midst of this uncertainty.

The ocean tugs at her feet, rushing around her ankles, almost imperceptibly rising.  Peace seeps into her bare toes.  It spreads upward from the rock, engulfing her heart, warming her fingertips, relaxing her shoulders. Clouds roil in the turbid sky, the waters seethe, the wind holds its breath.

But not for long.  A storm is coming.

She spreads her feet wide, settling her weight onto this firm foundation—invisible, but so very present.

He didn’t leave her after all.

No Stone in His Hand

Word Paintings

No Stone in His Hand

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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.

Wintertide Dawn – A Montana Memory

Word Paintings

Wintertide Dawn – A Montana Memory

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I awaken just as dawn casts its quavering blue light over the valley, chasing away the shadows of the night. Pink tendrils of radiance spread hesitatingly from behind the craggy, snow capped peaks in the east. The thermometer is stuck at zero degrees as I step out into the icy cold morning and my breath fogs in front of my mouth. The crisp snow crunches loudly beneath my boots in the pre-dawn stillness. I see mist hanging mysteriously above the softly gurgling creek as I approach the corral. The gate creaks noisily in the quiet of the morning, and I balance the milk pail on my hip as I latch it shut again.

I stifle a giggle as I see the brown and white spotted Julie standing there, gazing through the fence at me with accusatory brown eyes, whiskers of ice coating her nose and mouth and sticking out crazily in every direction. I grin as I swing the barn door open and set the bucket on the grain bin. I pitch some hay in the manger, amused by the serene pile of snow that as accumulated on the straw from the cracks in the roof. The hens scuttle around in the rafters, sending dust to fly everywhere and choking my breath.

Stepping outside again the frigid air burns my lungs as I inhale. I make friendly conversation with Julie as I open the makeshift gate, thankful for my warm leather gloves. She lumbers out, and I rush to open the barn door, bowing deeply as she walks past, as graceful as a ten ton elephant. She puts her head in the stanchion and tears at the hay as I latch her in and take the stool from the wall. I move the bucket down next to me and pull off my gloves, sucking in my breath as my hands are exposed the frozen air.

I soak a rag in the bucket of hot water and wash and dry her udder. Squirting a few times onto the ground, I pull the bucket under her and hold it in place with my feet. As I squeeze the warm streams of creamy liquid into the bucket, I lean my head against her hairy flank and inhale the fresh smell of milk. The foam in the bucket rises higher and higher.

Julie crunches her hay, and I feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. My hands continue the rhythmic motion, right squeeze, left squeeze, right squeeze, left squeeze. I raise my head and look out through the chicken wire covering the window, just in time to see an eagle as he glides through the ever lightening sky. I stare down into the bucket again.

My head snaps up suddenly as the sun bursts over the mountainous range to the east. Golden sunlight pierces through the gaps in the walls, bathing us in the glow. Light filters through the window, shedding flecks of gold that dance brilliantly on the log wall.

I smile as the golden warmth of the sun seems to reach into every corner of my soul.  My hands coax the few remaining squirts of rich milk into the bucket. Julie strains forward to lick up the last bit of grain. I set aside the full bucket and reach for the balm. I scoop some out and rub the frozen crystals between my fingers to warm it up, making haste as the cold seems to burn me. Then I rub it on Julie’s teats, onto the skin that is chapped and sore from the bitter cold. I wipe off my hands and screw the lid back on. I take the water bucket to the window and toss the soiled water through the chicken wire.

I pause a moment to gaze at the misty creek, crystals of sparkling ice lace the bank. Turning back inside, I heave the bucket onto the grain bin, noting its weight. Much more that yesterday, I think with satisfaction. I release Julie, commending her on her production; she nudges the door with her head and tromps out. I check to make sure everything is in order, and follow, latching the door behind me.

I am dazzled by the light. The sun glistens on the fresh snow, making it sparkle like a thousand diamonds. The geese dip and frolic in the creek, mesmerizing in their gracefulness, I could watch them for hours. The willows, bent over the water, frozen in state, waiting only for the kiss of spring to burst into color. I walk slowly to the house, basking in the beauty. When I open the door to the house I face a wave of welcoming wood heat, and I eagerly warm my frozen fingers before the blazing wood fireplace.