Happy Birthday, Dad
“She did not stand alone, but what stood behind her, the most potent moral force in her life, was the love of her father.” — Harper Lee, Go Set a Watchman
Happy Birthday, Dad. I know I am early but in heaven, time has only eternity. I hope heaven is having a month-long birthday party for you. 😊 And a parade for that matter. I can still hear your embarrassing belted out song, “I LOVE A PARADE!”
I miss you, Dad. Every day, I look at your little leather jewellery box that holds its treasures. The smell of the leather is still here, as are the memories of playing with it as a little girl…gently picking up each cuff link…the shiny gold ones, the office black ones you wore with your crisp white shirt, and the fun terra cotta sparkly ones that I loved to hold up to reflect the sun's light.
The leather now holds your rosary, Dad - the one you said for me for so many years. It also holds the picture of me that I found in it, and recently, the ring I won for mom on Mother’s Day. I can’t wear it right now – the pain is still too fresh. Your leather box contains all the treasured memories I need. It even has the soft piece of suede that I would hold gently against my cheek.
I confess Dad I am not doing the greatest lately. I have tried so hard over the years, but I mess up. I need your prayers up there, Dad. I'm sure God gave you a sparkly new rosary on that holy day you met him face to face. Or maybe his mom, Mary did when you met her after all your Hail Marys to her over the years. Please use your beads for me today.
I miss seeing your rough, callused hands as you held your beads. Your hands are forever inked on my heart. I wish I could pray like you did, Dad. – My prayers are sporadic at best, and probably contain more tears and swear words but in my own way I try. I am afraid I did not turn out to be a very good catholic, though.
I miss the Pinery, Dad – putting up our big old green tent and collecting sea glass with you along the shores of Lake Huron. Oh how you loved the lake, you were always so at peace there. I miss our walks – trying to keep step with you as you quietly teased me to mess up my steps. I miss those Sunday nights where few words were spoken but you always filled me with your quiet peace as we skipped together, home.
Our crab is hanging-in – still delicately taped together after all these years. That day at the kitchen table, when you patiently cut it off the cereal box and taped it together, Christmas Day when I gave it to you in a Kleenex box – and you teared - and then the Christmas so many years later when you gave it back to me and I teared - are memories I hope will see me through my forgetful years, when all I will want to do is sing Christmas carols in July.
I miss your holy strength, Dad. You gave me quiet life lessons that needed no words but they strengthened me. And you gave me your rosary beads that contained the promised prayers, that gave me life.
Thank you Dad, and Happy Birthday. I miss you but I am happy you are home.
"Silent Night, Holy Night", Love Jo
“All is calm, all is bright…”
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Resolved Forward
“How long O LORD?” – Psalm of Lament
A Dark Night's Moment
gritty
tears
heart
broken
Lament
a painful prayer
that veers down
the road of sorrow
but is the pathway
back to joy
if willing to pilgrim
through it
resolved
forward
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:18-19
“You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.” – Psalm 16:11
The Dark Night of the Soul (La noche oscura del alma) is a poem and journey described by the 16th-century poet and mystic St. John of the Cross. Today, the phrase “dark night of the soul” is used to describe a crisis of faith or a difficult, painful period in one’s life.
re·solved: to come to a definite or earnest decision, firmly determined to do something, intent, insistent, hell bent on
for·ward: toward or at a place, point, or time in advance, onward, move ahead, being in condition of advancement
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The Night the Stars Fell
The night the stars fell on November 12, 1833, was accredited to science and named Leonid. Ironically, the nomenclature of science is accredited to the Word that was in-the-beginning. Oh, such is the pride of man when we cannot explain such awe.
“There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.” 1 Corinthians 15:41
The Weight of Glory
“At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.”
"There will be a time when the weight of glory will shatter the pull of gravity…when we put on this, ‘greater glory’, we will know fully that the nature we’re now living through is only the first sketch." – C.S. Lewis
The Night the Stars Fell
A November night in 1833 quietly released the secrets of the sky.
The stars that fell held the ancient prophecy of the Lion who overcomes.
In his mercy, he restrains the weight of Leonid's glory.
For us to behold such splendour, he knows we must ready on our knees.
Heaven's fire balls reveal the hidden glory of the inner glory created in-the-beginning.
A baptism of fire awaits Eden's beautiful ones, to create anew.
Longingly, I whisper a cry of lament, to behold a small glimpse of such splendour,
Holy Holy Holy
Purify my heart Oh Lord, to be worthy to receive your baptism of fire.
Purify my eyes to see the hallowed blue incense hidden in your glory.
Purify my ears to hear the song you scored in the stars,
and purify my mouth to utter praise in awe of your glory.
In your mercy, pull back the veiled pride within,
On bended knee, remove the burden I carry so I can fully behold the weight of your glory.
Whisper your Ephaetha, and open my spirit to clearly hear your song of the night.
Awaken me in your dreams to see the fullness of your Leonid choir,
and with outstretched arms, release my lips in a song of praise.
In chorus with the stars you both named and know by name,
let us sing our doxology of praise to both the Lion and the Lamb, 'Holy, Holy, Holy'
#beholdlisten
Leonid will once again fall in the fullness of splendour and the glory of The Lion of Judah will overcome, and a new song will be birthed.
“While the morning stars sang together, all the sons of God sang for joy.” – Job 38:7
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The Whispered Song
“The Birds of Heaven, sing among the branches.” – Psalm 104
Amidst the bones, I pause to listen to the tree's heartsong. Her branches cradle the home of the songbird who sings to heaven, indifferent to the wide-eyed gawk and bark that hover below. The seasons change, and the wind carries the flame igniting the nest's chlorophyll. The ruah flame sparks the melody and lights the leaves with the fired colour. In the surround sound of the cathedral beams I behold the beauty of the blue, hidden deep within the wood's womb and listen to his whispered song, in chorus with the soprano wind and the alto leaves. The home of the songbird magnifies the creator’s splendour and echoes the psithurism hymn. In harmony with his home, he whispers his homily to the beautiful one, who painted him from within his wings to reflect the holy blue hue. The breath that imprinted score in the blue bird releases the benediction: ‘Holy Holy Holy’ I behold the deep beauty of Cyanocitta Cristata who was painted blue with light from within. With thanksgiving I listen to his whisper song 'Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus' His song awakens those who slumber, Ruah awakens the sound of the bones to a standing ovation. The army of dry bones rattle in the wind and in one breath the bones whisper , 'Selah' - I bow in honour to the blue symphony and whisper, 'Amen' #beholdlisten
The Blue Jay vocalization is the “whisper song”
“The evocative sounds created by the wind flowing through trees” – psithurism
Although blue jays are widely recognized by their bright blue colour, they are (surprisingly) not actually blue. Their bright blue plumage is the result of a unique inner wing structure that distorts the way light is reflected; making them appear blue.
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Wrestling with God
“So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.” – Genesis 32:24
Wrestling with God Alone, I wrestle I don't need God, to do battle Wounded, I bleed on the ground in the dirt from the very mud I sling My heart's agony bleeds for the bloodshed from one small incision blood stained hands drip with the Ephesians 6 principalities I know not But they know me intimately They strike at tarnished armour, and know how to wound pride jealousy self-rightousness lanced peace is the final blow of defeat the Screwtape Letters next chapter is complete the demons laugh with glee as Lewis sadly shakes his head another one bites the dust Dead in the darkness too weary to wrestle with the only one who can heal Hidden from the hands that spar The scarred hands that fashioned my own dejected, I limp away in the darkness but the humble light from holy hands insist on guiding me home "I will not let you go until I bless you!" Not how the story goes but the author knows the Truth of his own story so He can write the final chapter any way he damn well pleases The day light consecrates the darkness and He blesses undeserving, he empathizes with the limp I carry The Peniel wound stays to forever remind me of the face that both blesses and forgives part 2 - to be continued
“When he reached a certain place, he stopped for the night because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones there, he put it under his head and lay down to sleep. He had a dream in which he saw a stairway resting on the earth, with its top reaching to heaven, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.” – Genesis 28:11-12
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Kairos
“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil” – Eph. 5:15, 16.
Kairos interrupts tallied Chronos A precise moment where Truth slices time in two, anew, the clock stills at 11:11 Chronos: finite numbers Kairos: eternal destiny Choose the interruption of Kairos And leave behind the Chronos clock that enslaves. Time wasted with foolishness, He redeems time forever lost in Chronos. He sets his clock to stand still at the perfect time. It's the eleventh hour...Kairos.
Chronos: fleeting time
chronologically measured, ticking, quantitative time.
Kairos: the fullness of time
God’s time, the right, critical opportune moment, permanent time.
11:11
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Fish and Chips Day
“Now from the sixth hour until the ninth hour there was darkness over all the land. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
Fish and Chips Day In the midst of the beauty of Spring, on a religious day of lament was our fish and chips day. I remember my dad’s cuss words as he blew out dozens of eggs to hang painted shells on a freshly cut pussy willow tree. We ate a lot of scrambled eggs and went through crates of farm fresh Mennonite eggs. It was also the long church day that I dreaded and all I wanted to do was ride my bike and listen for the sounds of Spring and see the robin’s arrival. I did not want to go to church. But off we went, cuss words and all, in my newly stitched dress by a Nana who was nimble with her thimble. For a few days the annual Easter church dress masked the scabbed knee and concussion tom boy who always seemed to be up the wrong neighbour’s tree at the wrong time. This year’s Easter dress was white and covered in blue flowers. But the flowers quickly wilted with the showered holy water from the man of God who prowled the aisles. I made the mistake of sitting by my dad on the end of the pew. After the holy water shower, the holy man came back with his holy smoke. Waving around the thurible was trouble for a little girl with asthma at the end of a pew where the smoke billowed and the funeral incense dust blew up my nose and a-a-a-chew, I sneezed all over my little blue flowers. I inherited by Dad's sneeze and its a good thing he always had a hanky in his pocket for the kid who always seem to need it most. “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I earnestly listened to the word of God, but I was hopelessly lost as to why God the Dad did not grab his son off the cross and just take him home. I assumed there would come an understanding when I became a grown up. The painted ancient white-haired God on the church ceiling looking down on his son surrounded by his holy angels put a deep fear in me. The holy man of church was not a very friendly one either especially when he went behind the heavy velvet purple drapes in the back that closeted the darkness called the confessional. I learned how to sin in there. I simply made up sins I did not do so I would make a rather grand first confessional. No, I did not find comfort and joy at church, nor a God I could know. I found fear there. After church, we piled into our worn-out station wagon to pick up fish and chips, wrapped in yesterday’s news. The sweet smell of ketchup and malt vinegar covered the funeral stench of the blue flowers, and I felt safe back at home on our front porch munching fish and chips. I saw my bike out on the front lawn and looked longingly at my Mom. Mom nodded, knowing full well she wished she could also escape her adult fears for a while. As I pedalled under the budding trees that would soon canopy the sidewalk, the dusk sky suddenly darkened. As I watched the swirling clouds, the sky turned a deep indigo and thunder rumbled as the deep blue blurred the line into purple. A shiver ran through me and a deep sense of awe overcame me as I watched the infinite sky change colour. The creator God of this sky filled me with longing to know him. The fear of the church God drained out of me and puddled beneath my feet. In my soiled blue flowered dress, I bowed my head on my bike’s little white basket and felt his stillness. ‘Truly, this man is the son of God.' Peace flooded over me as the sky released holy drops of rain. I raced home on my bike as real holy water gushed from the lit purple sky. A baptism of joy washed and cleansed the stench of the holy man’s incense renewing the blue flower. It was on that fish and chips day that I met a God I could know. The God of this sky, the creator of the beauty of Spring, the God who put his longing in the blue flower was the God I wanted to know. And on this fish and chips day I know him. I pray you know him too. Happy Good Friday!
“When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”
Votary of the Blue Flower: “They taught me longing–Sehnsucht; made me for good or ill, and before I was six years old, a votary of the Blue Flower.” ~ C.S. Lewis
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Blue
“Speak to the people of Israel, and tell them to make tassels on the corners of their garments throughout their generations, and to put a cord of blue on the tassel of each corner.” Number 15:38
Hallowed hands stitch the silken thread Quietly the master weaver repairs the broken blue His indigo promise now hidden by the lure of the deceit tree The glamoured fruit clouds vision to see his majestic indigo that hugs the thin line in the genesis sign Jewelled indigo sullied with dirt-stained hearts cheapen the blue Purity less dignified, masked filters hide the truth of who, we have become We contaminate the sapphire treasure purposed with care so lovingly seeded deep within The solitary tree stands sentinel, rooted in its own strength The wood bends in honour from the burden of the one he carries Upon his limbs, bloodied see-through palms sew the mercy stitch The needle nails rust from bloody salted tears he weeps for his tarnished blue formed in him, through him, for him Lapis cries out for the gild of the Lamb The broken host bleats in compassion for his treasure The veiled gold vein reflects the bloodied blue spilled from the lance we shield Hardened hearts thirst for the glory to heal the exposed blue The blue blood sovereign king humbly offers cura through the blood of the lamb CURA! CURA! CURA! Imago Dei, now shattered glass mirrors who he formed from the dirt His image bearers hammer the healing hands deep into the humility tree carving both the limb and He, who mends our fractured clay hands Bloodied fists smooth the weaponed shards with fired gold Holy blue stained palms absorb and heal his splattered indigo HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! In brokenness, we still High above the rooted tree, redemption carefully lingers in his rise The canopied sky reflects the resurrected glory now pregnant with the rich indigo that drips down as rained dew magnifying the dust from which we came The risen heart overflows and bursts open with the sacred indigo blood restoring both sky and sea a mirrored reflection of the blue we were created to be Azure blows his kiss from high as the few kneel below And the wisdom of indigo opens vision to see anew the purity of his blue
Blue: the sacred, holy colour
“There they saw the God of Israel. Under his feet there seemed to be a surface of brilliant blue lapis lazuli, as clear as the sky itself.” Exodus 24:10
Cura: latin – to care – Our hearts put effort into who & what we care about. Our effort is where we find cura, our treasure.
“For where our treasure is; there our heart will be also.” Matthew 6:21
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Fallowed Bones
“Let it rest, and lie fallow.” Exodus 23:11
Parading through the tombs Osteon cries out, “dead man walking!” my stoic step trudges the graveyard path quietly echoing the dormant season of the hallowed dirt Fallow settles white dust blankets the plotted land of dry bones a cocooned season the earth must still Kairos quiets for the fruitfulness to renew the idle land sleeps for the dry bones to ready for the Word Fallow seeps deep into the bones unveiling the shadowed fruit that must be pruned, plowed under to nourish and renew my weary spirit A life’s foundation bulldozed, flattened exposes the rubble and becomes a public spectacle of broken skeletal remains The fallow season is upon and I too must sleep with the earth until his breath waters the dry bones awake that only He can renew I slumber in dreams that long for his breath to resurrect my spirit Kairos returns with the mist of his kiss that gently wakes the fallow His hand steadies as we survey the dormant mess of scattered dry bones that he created, living to house His home I see afresh, the burden of the dry bones so agape deep, I moan under the weight of his love for those he mourns awkwardly, I lift them high to see his love come down I mimic the ass that journeyed the bones from which I came the donkey was birthed a burden bearer I was born to see, but not to bear a gift of vision to point but not to carry home My heart could not hold their footing and buckled under the weight I had forgotten the husbandry yoke needed and collapsed at the dung gate scattering the dry bones He gently maneuvers through the graveyard of dry bones and brings us to the crossroad tree to behold, afresh the marker that gives life to the dry bones He visions me from the lens of his longing and asks, “can these bones live?” “only you know,” I whisper eyes wet, my vision darkly clouds of knowing the words to speak but not to bear He motions to see him bear the burden of the tree to know that he carries more weight than the ass his hands created to carry his own bones home He gives his living marrow in exchange for the dry bones that lie fallow "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!" He breathes his last I inhale the fragrance of his exhale and drink in his perfumed sweat that moistens the fertility of the parched fruit seeds His naked skeleton resurrects the fallowed dry bones a new sound rattles as the army clumsily rises the fallowed dirt mingles with his spit He gently soothes the manna paste over my eyes to see His Kairos Word I must leave the burden bearing to Him to carry the dry bones home
Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to Life. Ezekiel 37:4
So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet – a vast army. Ezekiel 37:10
HearJaneMuse 