Humanity keeps scratching graffiti identity
into wood and bathroom stalls . . .
Settling for surface tattoos,
when I engraved you in the palm of my hands.
(Isaiah 49:16)
Humanity keeps scratching graffiti identity
into wood and bathroom stalls . . .
Settling for surface tattoos,
when I engraved you in the palm of my hands.
(Isaiah 49:16)
Before the swell of gospel melody,
The steady scales of scripture
Are plunked out daily in practice.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crowd of miracles,
Prayer plods through lonely deserts
noting life’s measure.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,
Lessons in theory reveal the authentic
character of the world’s composer.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crescendo of resurrection,
there is a garden path of surrender
where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,
I close my eyes and listen to the master play.
Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Romans 12:1 Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. 2Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.
For the next 4 days I will be fasting from media.
Suicide took future pictures of you
So I open the locket of my soul wide.
And share who you were
Not who you will be.
I trace chubby cheeks, as the rhythm
of the rocker sings you to sleep. Breathe
deeply your baby scent.
I squeal with delight at first steps and words.
Bandage scrapes, wipe tears, and kiss bruises.
I listen to life beating hard with
challenges no child should bear,
and ache for God to heal you inside and out.
God, I try to understand why you allowed this unfinished
work of art to be painted into my life.
Today, I have no calls from your college dorm, no
laughter as you burst through the door for Christmas.
No bride on your arm, for me to share funny stories with,
and no grandchildren for me one day to cherish . . .
These are the things I can’t quite release. I long
for them. I had hoped for them. So I open my heart
wider still, until joy paints a new picture into  the
empty memories of where you should be.
Love and Be Loved! Love holds out gifts to the darkest soul and has a way of transforming hearts of stone!
Ephesians 3:…16 I pray that out of the riches of His glory, He may strengthen you with power through His Spirit in your inner being, 17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and grounded in love, 18 may have power, together with all the saints, to comprehend the length and width and height and depth of His love,…
Grieving Christmas is a list of juxtapositions. We are celebrating the birth of our savior, but we have lost a child. We are connecting with family members, but there is always one missing. We are opening gifts, but feel guilty for moving on without Jonathan.
God shaped the tangled vines of grief into beauty, by coming into our brokenness through Jesus, and he means for us to do the same. We display His identity, through joy, in the harshest of times. I’m not suggesting a forced, faked happiness, but a love that bubbles up in your pain, not in spite of it.
Christ didn’t come when everything was hunky dory in the world. He came in our desperate hour, when our losses outweighed our gains, and when the boot heel was on our throats.Israel was crying out for a savior, and as God in flesh took his first cry of humanity, our grief was changed to worship. Hope was born to the wise and the lowly, to shepherds and kings, to women and children, and to the poor, sick and needy. He was born in grief and raised us to new life in love.
That love enables me to shape grief into a new story. Not of what is lost, but what is gained. I fix my eyes ahead because Jonathan lived. His life is still changing mine. What I see as I grieve with hope:
Open the gift of grief and allow beauty to be formed from the ashes of those things we cherished most on this earth.Loosen your grip on what isn’t and open your hands to the gift of what is and will be. What hope do you see this Christmas?
Beautiful heartache as I pulled out memories of Christmas past.
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/