just words (second incarnation)

Yes, they’re just words

Just words can kill you if you let them

Just words are the bullets that spin and ricochet through your heart

Dragging shrapnel through your skin and making the blood travel

In rivulets and streams down your chest

Just words are the clubs that beat you senseless when you least expect it

That bruise your arms all black and blue and yellow and raise goose-eggs on your head

But they aren’t all pain and suffering

Just words are the springtime flowers that cheer you up

After a winterlong of doubts and fears and grey skies

Just words are the cool hand on the fevered brow

That rests gentle and strong and smooths away the sickness

Just words are the Olympic medal that you kiss in your triumph

And hold high above your head while the music rings out

Just words are the strength and the power of a tornado

The silence and the mercy of the snowflake

Be careful when you speak

For you speak just words

just words

Yes, they’re just words

Just words can kill you if you let them

Just words become the icicles that stab your lungs

In the winter when all you wanted was your morning coffee

Just words are the bullets that spin and ricochet through your heart

Dragging shrapnel through your skin and making the blood travel

In rivulets and streams down your chest

Just words are the clubs that beat you senseless when you least expect it

That bruise your arms all black and blue and yellow and raise goose-eggs on your head

But they aren’t all pain and suffering

Just words are the springtime flowers that cheer you up

After a winterlong of doubts and fears and grey skies

Just words are the cool hand on the fevered brow

That rests gentle and strong and smooths away the sickness

Just words are the Olympic medal that you kiss in your triumph

And hold high above your head while the music rings out

Just words are the strength and the power of a tornado

The silence and the mercy of the snowflake

Be careful when you speak

For you speak just words

waking up

It should be as easy as pouring a morning cup of coffee

That burst of energy that comes from something outside yourself

Or maybe it’s that slow turn as the sunlight comes through the window

Gently tugging at your eyelids, reminding you that the day is come

Perhaps it’s the leap out of bed, like Christmas morning as a kid,

Or when you realize your alarm didn’t go off and you’re late for work

Whatever it is, it isn’t happening for me

I’m vertical, I’m out of bed, I’m awake

But not really

[the fog in my brain has attacked my taste buds

and more importantly, my heart, and it’s not going away]

a very sick muse

Shhh. Don’t talk. My muse is in that room. She’s hooked up to a ventilator which keeps the air moving in and out of her lungs. An IV was inserted into her right hand days ago. She’s getting fluids through that which are keeping her hydrated. They are thinking about inserting a central line to give her nutrition intravenously because she’s not eating. She has tubes going in and tubes coming out. But they said her vital signs are strong and her numbers are good.

I hope she gets better soon.

The next big thing

My friend Chad posted recently about something that has taken up a large amount of my brain space in the past few years. He brings up the example of Mark Zuckerberg and how he changed the world with the invention of Facebook. That got my mind churning again.

I've wanted to change the world for a long time now. And, goodness gracious, does the world need changing. Though we might not all agree on what needs to change, indeed we are possibly diametrically opposed in our ideas of how change needs to happen, we can all agree something's gotta change or something's gotta give.

My question is, very simply, how? How can I change the world? I'm one person with a very small realm of influence. Within my immediate circle of acquaintance, I hold very little sway and outside that circle, I hold even less. But that doesn't change my desire to do something, to be someone.

I wrote a poem when I was much younger. It was rather awful in terms of poetry (and I haven't improved much when it comes to poetry) but the feeling behind the poem has only grown. In the poem, I talked about how I didn't want to fade into oblivion, being just another shade of grey in a sea of it. Or, even worse, a shade of grey next to a brilliant orange, overshadowed and overlooked.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that I probably will never amount to anything much in the world's eyes. But, then again, I'm not looking at the world to approve of me. I'm looking to Christ. I'm looking to Christ to change me and then, through me, change the world around me. And even if I only ever change a small piece of the world, even if I only ever truly affect one person, even if I only give a glass of water to a small child, then it was still worth it.

I never said I had to change the whole world, although I'd like to. But, in studying world-changers, there seems to be a common theme. They weren't necessarily out to change the world. They just did what they were good at and happened to know the right people and be in the right place at the right time. It seems to be a matter of fate, or if you're Reformed like me, a matter of God's sovereignty.

So that's my master plan. Keep doing what I'm good at. Keep serving Jesus wherever I am. And if I make a difference for the better, if I change a small part of the world, then I'm a world-changer. Besides, I serve the true World-Changer and He does a far better job of it than I do.

valetudo

Like strokes of blue across the morning sky

When the gulls went freewheeling in their flight

Trying to soar past the clouds

Heedless of the way back

Conscious only of the here, the now

Watch them soar

Watch them fall

I sank down into the pit

Too weak to move

And my body fought against me

The little soldiers inside laid down and died

Afraid to even make a stand

There is no light at the end of the tunnel

There is no morning at the end of night

There is no joy at the end of sorrow

Watch the gulls, listen to them call

Brave and fearless against the morning sky

Come back to the land of the living

Be well

And the strokes of sky blue

Meet up with the waves of ocean green

And somewhere in the grey is where I shall be found

Little Lantern Bearers - a drabble of 100 words

My throat was dry with sawdust. My left thumbnail was bruised from all the times it had been accidentally hit. All around me was the pleasantly confused chaos of construction.

I closed my eyes. Imagined for a moment what the church would look like when it was completed. Solid, sturdy, comfortable, purposeful.

I could hear the laughter of the children through the windows.

“We build this for you,” I thought. “For you. For your children and their children. That the Light may still be shining through you when I am gone and dead.”

Outside, they began a game of tag.

childhood memories

i left my childhood memories on the porch

i drove off into the future, bright and shining,

leaving a cloud of dust and pebbles behind me

but, to my surprise, i couldn’t outdistance the lump in my throat

and the tear in my eye stubbornly trickled down my cheek

despite my best efforts to sniff it away

we say it will never happen - a drabble of 100 words

The ground was shaking.

We sat in the corner coffee shop, drinking tea.

There were fires and explosions everywhere.

Someone handed out elegant lemon bars and dainty petit fours on satin napkins.

The plaster on the walls around us began to crack.

Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 began to play over the speakers.

The people on the streets outside were screaming, crying, begging for mercy.

The walls started to crumble. Suddenly, they crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust and smoke and ash surrounded us.

We watched the world collapse around our ears.

“One lump of sugar or two?”

Hugs - a drabble of 100 words

“Mummy, Trevor gave me a stinkbug hug today.”

The woman on the couch didn’t even turn her eyes away from the television.

“I told him I didn’t like spider hugs or mosquito hugs or stinkbug hugs. But he gave me a stinkbug hug anyway.”

The woman stuffed another handful of potato chips in her mouth.

“Do you know what kind of hugs I like, Mummy?”

The woman turned up the volume.

“I like ladybug hugs and dragonfly hugs and butterfly hugs and firefly hugs.”

The little girl sat on the floor and the mommy-doll gave firefly hugs to the baby-doll.

inspiration

it grabs you in the belly

and forces you to write

like there was a gun to your head

and all your other thoughts flee before the avalanche

keep writingwritingwriting

until the thoughts are all out

and you can breathe again

auld lang syne

[january 1, 2011

i am a great sinner

and Christ is a great Savior]

i don't know where i'll be a year from today

[1 year

12 months

52 weeks

365 days

8,760 hours

525,600 minutes

31,536,000 seconds]

so much time

so much opportunity

so many chances

for good

for evil

will there be more joys or sorrows?

more laughter or tears?

pain or health?

[january 1, 2012

i will still be a great sinner

and Christ will still be a great Savior]