Hands

My brother called the other day his voice cracked with a deep saddness I couldn't carry for him or take away. It happens at times. My spirit crumbles at these notes and I often reflect on them after I've already said all I can say about loving him and God's immeasurable love for us all. My spirit radiates this "please come and make your home in the harbour of Jesus's hands" to him, but I don't know if he notices. I don't know why it is that his suffering and struggles worry me so much when I consider God's in control and will do what he will do whenever he wishes to do it. And along with the worry that my brother's world may come tumbling down again I worry that mine will too through all these afflictions and then there will be nothing left to say. He tells me he needs to learn to love himself and I say I have Jesus for that. Jesus holding me up from the inside out telling me I'm beautiful, though I'm trajically fallen and my faith seems so immeasurably small. I don't know why I feel this nervous wrentching tension at times as if one day I'll break. It's all a terrible lie of course I know this but I have to keep pushing back the lies.I realize why I love the book of John so much. He is the vine I am the branches. I need to be rooted everyday in God. When did the lies ever mean anything to me anyway? I can only surrender all that I am. I do feel his clean, strong, steady hands cradeling my soul whenever I ask for his help. His presence cuts the tension as he tells me one day I will be whole, to never tire of doing good and to keep pressing as if this pain will brandish golden pearls I just can't see yet.

Slug

I'm not sure what it's been about today but I seem to be fighting a sluggish down spiral into sad. And I know by the morrow it will have passed me by like the movement of shadows climbing across the face of silver trees leaning against the setting of sunlight. It's not that I'm even aching over Karma today. It's this awkward loneliness....like I miss hearing the sound of God's voice whispering in my ear as if I hadn't heard it in so long I wouldn't remember it. Its the wondering if all this passion regained will really mean anything at all in the end. On one end of the spectrum I feel I could burst into flames and fling myself across the earth like a maddening comet and on the other end I want to walk in silence among stone bridges and fragrant gardens. I work in a grey cubicle in a grey building and today I feel trapped as if I know a part of me is not living somehow. I'm writing a novel that's light and fun and keeps my engine jolted in a direction but is it my calling?

I have a job,I'm not sick or begging on the street, I'm not cold or hungry or homeless. The other day a homeless person I passed on the street, bundled up for the coming winter, asked me for food. I looked them in the eyes with love and brought them a hot meal. For now I shall hold my tongue and hold of this sadness and keep watch because maybe I've helped angels unawares. They long to look into these human affairs don't they?

Wild Colts and Rivers of Jordan...

When Jack had stopped dreaming of roaming Gypsies...I dreamt of a wild, fiery colt and setting him free. I kept walking into different elegant rooms with high vaulted ceilings and white walls and mahogany furniture, leather chairs and crown molding and there would be this beautiful, sad, creature looking out the bay windows longing for the elegance of the sun and the pure joy of grass. I lifted my hands to touch the black coat and the long mane as if in slow motion, then before I knew it I was flinging wide doors open and setting him free. We ran past the garden, past the hedges and down a valley. Him all grace and strength. Me in wonder and happiness. The colt bucked once and stood on hind legs letting me know his joy as he flung his neck and dashed away rustling up the dust as he went. I smiled and awoke wondering if in heaven God would let me have a horse to ride like a lightening bolt. I've been writing steadily again though its pure silliness but I've found a heart for it and I rather like slinging my words around again even if the depth is not there at least its become fun.
The other day I kept thinking in poetry. The moon so full and bright hung in the sky while the sun rose. Two heavenly bodies clashing upon the same horizon. And I wondered why I toil so much when the world is bathed in such significance. I feel stretched sometimes trying to give myself to those who need me the most. I travel and work and wonder when my schedule will slow down...when I will slow down enough for me to fall deeply into God like falling into a river of Jordan.

Making Me....

There are fragmented moments when I feel like that prophet Elisha. Double blessings being rooted in me somehow by the Holy Spirit. I wonder what it would be like the day God revealed to him the Army of Angels guarding the lowly tents. Don't be afraid (isn't that what was said?) beacuse what you don't know is that God is so alive and touchable and moving on this earth for your immeasurable good. I was reading about St Peter's Basilica. I was reading about it because I've decided I need to see the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo's Mary cradling Jesus in marble. A trip has been planted in my mind for the spring next year but we shall see what becomes of it. The church was built in Rome over the apostle Peter's humble grave and I thought about what Jesus said to him. How the church would be built on Peter "the Rock." I don't know what I had imagined but I wasn't thinking Jesus meant this so literally and it made my heart find faith in him more. Jesus seemed so real to me in the thought that my heart lept up. As if like Elisha something so immovable and solid of God worked its way deep down into my spirit. Reading the Book of John has a similiar effect on me. God draws me in with his gentleness and his truth. I want to live more fully now and have my lamplight readily burning up against the eve of dark. Whatever God has for me the lightness I've felt with my healing is starting to feel more solid its starting to feel like lightening. I'm not sure what God is up to but today its encouraging.

Joy and Fireflies....

It seems I've been neglecting my blog lately. The cup of joy I drink from in this life is overflowing this last week. God only ever gives us anything that's good so...hear me worship in my steps and in the air rushing into song from my lungs and in the words I write down here.
Saturday we took Karma's sons to Cincinnati. We spent the day by the shimmering river. We went to the aquarium and pet sharks and ate cheeseburgers at Johnny Rockets then walked across the height of the bridge to a red's game. Their first baseball game where they watched the fireworks burst from 2 home runs. We drove home late and sung them modern lullaby's off the radio regarding fireflies and mountains climbed,while they slept in the car. It was a beautiful day. There were football cards and church and playing tag around the kitchen table. I sent my mother a string of pearls in the mail for her birthday and when she called me there was a tender trembling note of beauty in her voice that I'd never heard before. I wrote Karma's mother a long letter with a few gifts wanting to give her something beautiful to hold within her hands though I know my words moved her more. When I went to my viola lesson my teacher said that I was so in tune with the instrument that I was making it sing. I took Kim out to a fancy dinner with white table cloths and soft white light while we plotted out a novel about time travel on our table top. Michele wants to take me to see Chihully later this month and a camping trip is on the horizon with God loving and highly creative friends. I'm reading Larie R. King's O Jerusalem before I mail it to my father to read. He sent me a card with one of my favorite paintings by Monet on it. There was also the waitress I gave a ridiculous tip to and told her manager how wonderful she was. There has been rain this week but not in my heart.

K.L. Knight

Steps....

Last night,

Restless and wrestling with the need for sleep and food but found I wanted to pray more. I let the tiredness drift down off of me. The stars were out and I mingled with them in the parking lot on the way to church. My footfalls leading me through quiet hallways. It's late but I don't care knowing the doors are still open. I slip into a room and flop onto the couch, long legs leaning and arms folded across my chest. Eyes closed not in sleep but in the awakening of my tired soul. There are other voices mingled in the hushed soft tones of prayer in the next room. The lamp light bends the darkness away from us. I pour it all out. My words drenched in my heart and I'm letting God in on what he already knows. It doesn't matter...at least I'm talking and thats what has the most meaning to him. My fear is that I've planted seeds of bitterness somewhere deep down. I can't seem to uproot it all on my own. I need God. It comes out in ways that God would notice. I am fearfully and wonderfully made but my doubts and fears tend to crush me, bring me low and tangle me up. I need God's tending the gentle hands of a gardner who knows how not to trample young vines. There is no life in me left for the I love you's and joys and encouraging spirit that I should have made more plentiful in my life. My soul stilled. Finding a peacefulness I had forgotten. I listen. The clock keeps ticking. A question arises in the back of my mind "How many days left for me to worship here?". We only have so many days left...it makes me thankful and helps me to understand Daniels passion a little more. I think Daniel understood. Life is a cornhusk. A season. Restore my soul giver of gifts. Furrow the hard ground and bring me back to life.

Wonder....

I wonder why in the midst of the melancholy I don't hold onto all the worn photographs of Jesus. Its difficult sometimes too see him so human aging and leaning against the olive trees. Light and lakes where there enough for man made photographs while Jesus lived. Did he amuse himself looking at his image while sailing and catching fisherman? But I'm sure there were tears running down his beard and I long to know what his voice sounded like. Was it ruddy and deep or light and soft like illuminating candles waking up the velvet darkness. I dunno I forget how he can carry our hearts and hands and hold them up against the tide that swiftly moves against us. Next time I lift up my fingers tips to praise him I'll remember to think upon the pictures he's made of me and I of him. Love is a miracle. Light is a miracle. And I can only hope that this miracle is still making me.