High Divers

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In the lab, coffee seeming to be the fad in this place of creating, but I can’t deny His creative tendencies yearning to free through speech that I share with each of you listening, please heed this invitation, going back into the memories as a child, when I used to climb that high dive somehow perfecting my wild desire to be free for that moment, seemingly freedom was the only thought that I had as I swan dived into the unknown, only hoped would match my expectation…

As I grew up, I loved the rush of the adrenaline, present in the passion I would ignite with whenever doing things that commanded my attention. Alive and awake was the only intention, somehow driving away the mistakes I’d forget to be letting set a correction, or maintain a connection when times became filled with tension, I disconnected and hoped to find boards to dive off of or courts to run on, give me a different challenge to battle instead of the ones that lied in my head, denying any and ev, ery strength to face the present, somehow buying into the shame, I reacted with attacks of detached presence, playing the victim I would latch onto other perspectives, to justify mine… Just to find time, chasing moments rather than finding my embrace in life, emotional as a child because my motions denied connection, caught in this repeating message of self-protection inter personally, but publicly I channeled attention, whether internally resting in the presence of the many in attendance, I found freedom in the sanctuary of the swimming sessions.

Climbing the ladder as onlookers may have watched with apathetic anticipation, I stepped attentive and found rhythm as I ascended out and down breaking through the crest of each wave… and then you do it again… or until you get the use of the session… i’m good now… I guess I always was but eyes rest reminded as return to field, wondering what I would wield as adventure was temporarily appeased, delaying for one day, a larger leap. High Divers.

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I lift up my head

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Heavy set sight making a lethargic vision, leaving my movement to the sprinting in producing, hoping it stays in tune with something that’s long lasting. I sometimes bask in the asking of questions that pile high like a queue of tickets until I service them one by one and remember the frivolous dimensions given out of frantic positions, I think it’s an addiction. To stress. To worry. It’s more predictable than this un told or finished story, I’m sold on the author but not on the blurry implications in chapters to come, accompanied by this deep desire to leap into the adventure of the hidden, blind folds on and all I can do is listen, believing above all in the mission which is to know Him and believe, so I trust in His lead and anticipate the meet of deep dreams and the surface… And what surfaces comes in surges, culminating in churning mixed with purging, working out what was fixated on the past while calling forth an activation. Application, this morning is in the act of patience. Remaining focused on Him despite any lack I’m facing, trusting and staying.

Even more…

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Praying through the next season… recently, rest been the reason for my meaning, but a waking is beginning, taking from what’s missing in the ache of my grinning, knowing there is more than meets the eye, and the disguise sighs from the wincing- it isn’t built for digging. Only covering, until the smothering leads to a rumbling, shaking from the subtleties, slowly feeling that muzzle squeeze, crying out for the turn of free people, walking and standing, but the pause is demanding of the fidgety nature, working out the weak to present mature, strength and grandeur is revealing a standard ignored by our habits, adorned with un-pursued passions, weighing down with their asking of a life poured out, but the I brings fear and doubt.. While Love, calls us out, of ourselves, encountering winds that overcome the dust from our shelves and demand more. What we yearn for…

Concerning force and power, but more is our inheritance because it bares a sense of humility, the ability to lay down your life in the face of He who did it first brings about a sense of agility that shakes all obstacles. Trusting in Jesus makes strength possible, because it is fueled in our weakness, making the worthless… profitable. Instead of your shame you will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace you will rejoice in your inheritance. And so you will inherit a double portion in your land, and everlasting joy will be yours. (Isaiah 61:7 NIV). In definition of more, He puts back from the attack what was made lack to act prior to any reaction, tacking the distractions upon the cross, crucified with Christ, gaining His passion…

More

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Praying through the next season… recently, rest been the reason for my meaning, but a waking is beginning, taking from what’s missing in the ache of my grinning, knowing there is more than meets the eye, and the disguise sighs from the wincing- it isn’t built for digging. Only covering, until the smothering leads to a rumbling, shaking from the subtleties, slowly feeling that muzzle squeeze, crying out for the turn of free people, walking and standing, but the pause is demanding of the fidgety nature, working out the weak to present mature, strength and grandeur is revealing a standard ignored by our habits, adorned with un-pursued passions, weighing down with their asking of a life poured out, but the I brings fear and doubt.. While Love, calls us out, of ourselves, encountering winds that overcome the dust from our shelves and demand more. What we yearn for…

Call to prayer…

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To Solomon, after plagues hit the land….

“if my people who are called by my name #humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land” 2 Chron 7:14

The Shadow of Betrayal (Surely Not I, Lord?)

Blog, Faith, Poetry, Topic

 

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Surely not I, Lord… Surely not I…

My hopes of being counted right in the sight of the One who gives me that right… And as I think through my, own plan to attain this legitimate stance, I look at my steps and how everyone around me approved of my chances to be glanced upon and noticed, for what I did, how I showed this qualification… in the midst of this place, I see only His face, reminding me that my space of control cannot attain the whole, I remain with this hole, that needs to be filled…

Only He will be what I lack, but I must see myself as they saw Him, no form or majesty that we should look with eyes naturally, seemingly lacking the very thing that we aim to be grasping, our desire is His despising, our acceptance is His rejection, our comforts are His sufferings, and there is nothing I can do to change the path… Only Jesus, Shepherd and lamb, Whose rescue plan led His own life into the enemies hand, overcoming by this sacrificial stance, even the closest would recant and push Him away, while others scattered watching Him be bruised and tattered, as the enemy lurked in the shadow, waiting to betray…

And so I pray, Lord, that my words hold weight. Birthing this surely not I, not as a question, but as a statement of praise, because I did not make the way, but will forever remain, because You are the Lamb on the throne, who paid for the sins of the whole, by not exalting Yourself, but by going low. So I know the path and trail, but trusting in my own self is what leads us all to betrayal.

 

 

Strong Tower

Blog, Faith, Poetry

I guess I confess that I’ve let stress press upon my chest feeling stretched beyond regress, but beyond regrets be the pauses when He uses all the STUFF for His accomplishments, or presents using the present to present to them, an encouragement serving courage for discouraged men, ensuring them that He is surely purging all concerning His servants in this mission that isn’t ever a mimic of gimmicks, but a limerick to penetrate the penitent hearts, so I’m prostrate before the King whose remarks re-spark the weak heart and make it strong, colliding with the violent and rewriting their songs, I’m residing in the private where His whispers are psalms that minister calms even storms can’t wake, so I contemplate in this space where I seek more than just His grace, but His face.

To know Him, Jesus, Father, Creator, Author and Finisher of what I would like to call my faith. King of all kings, Lord of all lords, who rightly and will always hold that place. Yahweh, Jehovah, known through His covenant with His people… Good Shepherd, Redeemer, knowing his sheep and seeking out that which was once lost.

And this cost that He paid takes the profane and changes its nature to something of grace. In Him I am forgiven, chosen, redeemed, called for His purposes, child of God… As I seek Him for who He is, I find more of who I am. And the stress I confess puts life back in context, overcoming each contest to win each battle, because His peace is enough for the hassle. Grabbing as deep as I am willing, He pulls out bricks, that only He can use for building.

We ARE

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We ARE.

Meant for more than we are living. Bent for grace… not for limping. Carrying this unfilled void… Numbing pills silence the noise, but also require of the resigning of your voice. It all has a cost, this subtle settling, settlements we allow ourselves to sign-off on, memories of initials etched on pages that we regretfully scribed despite the pit in our stomach, knowing this just isn’t what we wanted… hoping it won’t plummet, but the eyes are prevalent and somehow this summit influences our actions more than the inner voice inside we wish we could still hear… I feel like I need to vomit, escaping into a sonnet or some form of expression, because this silence is killing what once was felt, like Your presence.

Here, is where we must remember who we are. There is a war engaged to rob you of yourself, stop you from knowing your strength inside, what is made in and for you to more than fight, but reside despite any storm or war waged, aiming to erase and bring a blank to the page where once was placed pictures, scriptures inking inspiration for the faces that gazed upon their embrace, warmly holding this space, because that is how we were made, created at the hands of a loving God, in His image we were grafted into His nature, and where we weren’t able to accomplish, He made a way, provided a grace to fill the gaps, so that we wouldn’t have to be good enough, strong enough, able or stable in tough times where all seems to only erupt, He made a way… and right now, He is making a way, because we… are. Here, present, alive, given this life to allow others to see how beautiful our reflections are, showing His glory, displaying strokes of Heart, so in the midst of the costs that provoke us to see all as lost, it is all dross that burns away in the fire of who you are.  Exodus 3:14

Withdrawal

Blog, Faith, Poetry

Why is it that I get to this place where I can’t move? Stuck . . . frozen, hearing “let it go,” but it’s so high on this pedestal that I can’t reach in this position of wishing to be not zoned on my reaction, but to have an open heart. I get stuck in this pausing… distance is its causing, nodding my head stopping any true resonating, glazed eyes just bent on waiting, for my chance to withdraw…

to run off and have that space of control, catch my breath, fetch the air to return to my chest, so wrapped up by this tension, escape is the only means of retention, maintenance, coping, dealing… not healing… that is found in the place where it all began… returning to conflict, learning to face what I have only endured until I could recede back into judgments, assumptions causing resentment, and intentions based on defensive strategies and self-protection as opposed to intentional relating, instead I’m aiding and abetting the abating of strength in my family and close loved ones… somehow these things grow alongside of the fruit, but it doesn’t undo the root… I look back to the places where hurt was introduced and it never seems to be as strong in reality as it does in the rear view… when it all began a new… when I chose to leave and get away and not stay.

Would you stay? The question to me asking the heart to override the wounds, and be honest. It was never too much to handle, truly. It was just my chance to return the gavel and pass judgement in my own way, returning pain for pain, justifying my stain upon the grain shown through the slicing, its so enticing, inviting you to return hurt for hurt, but you hurt yourself, denying the intimacy that is attained by intentionally staying in conflict, allowing yourself to be hittable, versus slipping away to a perch where your distance only snipes the peace from “them” whoever they may be, withdrawal is a nasty thing that can cut deep. Wrapped in a victim’s receipt, affirming and confirming the lies we believe when we justify our defensive behavior, protecting ourselves from our neighbors rather than allowing God to be God, in the regular day in and day out as well as in the not, overcome light? Darkness has not. But we must allow God to use the hot, temperature increased moments, to stop our retreating and perfect in His honing, our trust of Him to be our protector. Empowered to live new lives dictated by His call, and not regrets, wishing and hoping we could undo what is now missing by our withdrawal. VISTO.

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Exhale…. I’m practicing being more productive. Waking early and making fully the use of the time that is mine, like money, learning to budget the tics and the tock rather than just a list that I talk about, I hope to take steps to walk it out and watch how I can be a better steward of my days. My time. Taking ownership of what I see as mine, but my seeing doesn’t make it mine, it stays defined not by my perspective but by what it is, not mine, but given as a gift, so it’s still mine but it’s all His.