black and white all over; brush and mask and stars

We're commanded to be in the world but not of it. 

It can be pretty tricky to stay cool in a pot of boiling water, though . . . because the world has this voice that's both loud and persuasive.  Uncommon . . . but humanly plausible. 
Now, for having a lot of low standards, the world sure has some nigh-well impossible ones, too. 
What is this voice yelling at us?  You need to be perfect.  You need to be successful.  You need to be happy.  You need to follow your heart.  You need to spend your life on yourself.  The world is all about
who we are. 

So, who are you?  Oh, I’m a pilot.  I’m a dancer.  I’m a photographer.  I work at London Zoo, beat that!

Who I really am . . . isn’t actually what I do.  It would have to be why I do it. 

I may write, but I am not a writer.  I am why I write. 
Who I am is not 'one who goes to the sea'; I am why I need the sea.

I am why I fear, and why I remain silent.   
I am why I laugh and why I fight.  I am why I give up.   I am why I dream,  and why I believe.

 

So what is the why?  

I was born separate from perfection.
Stuck with futile why’s that sounded good enough,
but whose results weren't getting me anywhere. 
The world's voice was all I had to hold onto, because it was my own.
 I knew I needed to change, so I try and  I scheme and I can’t make better myself. 
I can work my whole life and not get out of this. 
I can’t even stop the strongest things I can claim as my own from, one day, dying. 
I can’t stop my love from bending with time;
it was born flawed and doomed to grow cold.
I'm trapped. 

I was doomed with my eternal separation;
I owed God a perfect life, and I didn't have one. 
Freedom could only be bought; and I had dead leaves to offer.
I had no way.
Then. The best, most amazing thing on earth.
Jesus bought my freedom for me.
This beautiful thing that can't just 'happen'; it's God's actual plan for you,
this love that has to wait for us to answer the door;
this choice that looks like me, unable to walk to God, unable even to crawl to Him,
just asking Him, "Change me."
He saved who I was,
and who He is makes up for what I'm not.

God never owed us anything.  But He did everything!
Now freedom can be received. 
Now we have a Way.  Access. 
I have been crucified with Christ.  I'm not my own! 
I rely on an outside Source
who chose to be an inward One.  That means that when I rose,
I rose as a new person, with a new fate, and a new Master. 
New why’s.  One’s that aren’t my own. 

Of course these ghosts remain, these old why's of mine that wrestle for control,
the ones I sometimes listen to.
I'll forget all about how free I am
and start building these little kingdoms,
these cages trying to make me someone I don't need to be.
But once again I'm freed when the voice of Truth reminds me
it's not about who I need to be;
God freed me from that, too.

These are things we have to keep fighting against as long as we breathe,
but they are not what's meant for us.  They are not our future.
(This is the gift of mortality, folk.)
They will not remain forever, because Jesus rose over all sin.
Sin is fighting a battle that was lost two millenniums ago. 

Who I am simply comes down to
a trusting heart and a doubting mind
but also a soul that is now the asymptote between. 
A soul that's alive all because of Jesus. 
 
The cool thing is . . . I'm not the only one. 
God will redeem; just ask. 

Spare an Orange?

Things get stashed away.  Forgotten. 
For just too long.

Sometimes we still want to give them the time of their lives.

Sometimes there's only one way out.

Some days, we have fun.

And other days it has us.

By the throat.
("This one's for Alena!" shouted Derek inexorably.)

Spindrift

There is something about a storm,

About glassy spray and scrolls of surging foam-
something that leaves you breathless;

And makes it easier to stare at giants without blinking;

And maybe remember

Just how close God is.