To the Gate

Me and the unsurpassedly lovely Addy T. Photo taken by the unbeatable and unmistakable Dally.

Autumn leaves kiss winter’s frost.

I wait.

The breath of the morning is frozen

And my chest aches with a cough, but I run.

I run.

Just to the gate, not beyond,

For it looks lovely, sparkling in the bright sun.

Gently, gently, gently,

Says the morning with a laugh.

But I am young and stupid

And I would rather save gently for withered hands and crippled feet.

To the gate, then, I stumble.

Oh, aching lungs, would that you could breathe a little deeper of this purity,

Would that you could laugh a little longer,

Or sing a song to the Maker of this abundance.

But gently, gently, gently. You’ve reached the gate now.

These farmers’ fields spread out before me,

At the end of their bounty, but not the end of their beauty

For God has painted them in earthen gold,

Not to die, but to live and proclaim the works of the Lord.

I think my heart is full to bursting with their life,

Where my own had shriveled in the fear of loneliness and the dread of emptiness.

But now my weary, cold-weakened body drinks deep the cup of holiness,

And it is enough—Oh, God, you are enough!—

My being cries out in deep-seated hope,

For my resurrection eyes will always see fields full of gold, and I know,

I know that the Beginning is nigh.

The West Peak

Dawn was on fire.

The flames licked the golden grass and set the meadow ablaze.

The air was thin and cold and quiet,

My heartbeat was the only sound.

The mountain was bare and still, and my will quavered at its height.

Conquer it, conquer the peak, I muttered,

But within one step I knew that I, not it, was conquered,

For my ankles were weak and my lungs were heavy,

And the mountain stood, unmoved.

Oh, that I would have the faith to say to this mountain to remove itself, and yet—

I do not want it to be moved, I realize.

I want to climb it, not to say I conquered it,

Not to boast my strength,

But, Oh God, to see the view.

But now I stumble if I look around, so I must watch my feet,

Head bowed, like prayer.

So I step forward, and I slip backward,

At moments, I crawl.

I trip, and I fall.

And it is good.

The grace of God is unfailing, I say, with hands gripping rocks and eyes lowered,

Even here, on the stones of trial and injury,

Through strife and weakness,

I call upon the Lord and He answers me.

If I had wings to fly up the side of this mountain,

I should not now know the nature of my God,

I would not believe that He is near to those who are weary in spirit,

I would not feel His love for the least of these,

I would not comprehend the promise that even David prophesied in his distress,

That I may not hear your voice in the silence of the wind,

That I may lay awake at night in fear,

Yet, you are holy.

Even on the barren side of the mountain I am not put to shame,

For my hope is in you. Indeed, my hope is you.

So with trembling legs and aching lungs, I set my foot upon the heights.

The summit is mine, for a moment, but I surrender it back to the One who made it,

Who formed every stone with care, and who placed my feet there.

And I look out, Oh God, to see the view.

I behold with wonder the immensity of the sky,

Stretching to the North, South, East, and West,

Breaking upon the distant horizon carved out of mountain ranges,

An ocean of blue, and barely a cloud to break the endless sea.

Wonder does not cease with the sky,

For the valley is seamed with the gold of aspens ready, born ready,

To be sown in anticipation of resurrection.

What joy they have in their death,

And what glory they bring to their Father, knowing full well of His goodness

And proclaiming it to the world with all the might that flows through them like refined gold.

Is this, then, why we burn? Is this why the mountainside is rocks without end?

For to be like the aspens, ready to die for my beloved,

And, even more so, ready to be resurrected to eternal life with Him,

I must first be sanctified, clothed in His righteousness,

Bathed in His blood and wrapped in His garments,

Like a babe, born again,

And these are the labor pains.

But behold, I have looked out over the Promised Land,

I have seen its glory, and when I die I shall enter there and its splendor shall be more than I could ever imagine,

Because my King is the lamp; my God is the light that defeats all of the shadows.

So I wait in hope and in joy for what shall come with the dawn. 

Photos taken by my Papa

Oh, Breathless Autumn

It's here. The wind is turning to ice and the leaves are turning to gold and red for one last burst of glory before they fall. The air smells like ripe apples, crunchy leaves, and coolness. It's autumn.

I love each season for its personality, and the way it arrives just in time. Autumn is no different. She is gentle and shy, takes a while to open up, and doesn't stay for very long around here. But hers is a breathless beauty, as she slowly but steadily lights the forests on fire, a blaze of color before the barrenness of winter. As Autumn comes, you can't help but walk a little slower, admire the scenery, as you try to feel the depth of the essence of the wind as it tries to braid your hair. 

For me, Autumn has come in good time. The heat of the busyness of summer left me with the need to rest, to heal a bit. Autumn whispers that it is time, and I agree. It is time to sit back. It is time to process, to reflect. It is time, in some ways, to let go. And it is time, in other ways, to hold on. 

It is time to take long walks. To pray. 

I took once such walk the other day, and on that walk I realized something quite incredible. I was thinking about how often I felt like I wished that I could go back to when I was first saved, and that week or so of bliss in the joy of the Lord. But that day, I did not. That day, I realized the sweetness of the trials. How it only furthered my relationship with God, because I realized that I know Him so much better--and know how much more there is to know about Him. It was like I was standing on the top of a mountain and looking over the valley where I had once thought myself lost in, and seeing how every step of the way was a step toward God. And I realized just how grateful I was that I am not back at the first moment of salvation, for this joy that I have now is richer, deeper. Harder-won.

And I realized something else. I had prayed for a long time for me to understand the concept of praying without ceasing. Because at that point, I could not fathom it. I was struggling so much because to think of God, I had to set time apart out of the day--which is not a bad thing, but not something I felt that I could do constantly. 

Yet now--now the awareness of God is constant. God is always there. And I was realizing that. Every thought that passes through my head, everything that I see relates in some way to God, causing me to learn more and more each day. 

That is so incredible. It brought some crazy new meanings to when God says, "I will never leave you or forsake you." 

So Autumn is a good thing. That chance to step back and see the great work that God has been doing, for during the summer my head is often pressed down to the ground as I plow through the busyness. 

So thank God for Autumn. Thank God for rest, for quiet days, for auburn leaves that know that death is not the end, so they proclaim the glory of God, the power of the resurrection. 

Autumn always seems to remind me that this is not the end of the story, but the beginning. 

Amen, Autumn. So be it.