April 17, 2011

The last snow of the year falls on exposed grass.  The flakes are lush like rose petals falling in an ancient stadium, on a parade of kings.  The white flowers rest in the laurel crowns of noble men and women.  The ground quickly becomes covered by the frozen manna.  I perceive your hand shaking the snow globe, the breath of your mouth driving the confetti.  And the downpour rests as suddenly as it quickened.  Icing sugar on a gingerbread landscape.

July 8, 2010.

Exit: The door shuts behind them as they walk away and fade into the distance. Before I am tempted to look back I hand you the key.  Locked.  The key will remain in your heart for all time. 

Now, it’s just you and me in the room. You, me, and the star.  Glowing in the darkened room, the radiant orb draws me in.  It is conspicuously resting on the carpeted stage where the worship team had been; floor to ceiling, aflame.

I perceive the room is open with no walls. You show me it is open to everyone.  All they have to do is step inside, flat across the ground, not even a step up, just a step in. Some pass, some enter, but you are there, inviting, waiting, wanting to lavish your love on whoever enters.  Once inside, we are alone again, you and I.  It’s a deep place of intimacy. 

There are circles of light within circles of light. Yellow, white, orange.  I hear the sound of circles turning, like strobe lights, or planets orbiting the sun. This place envelops me.  Here, I realize that beholding heaven is not a spectacle, like watching a soccer game in a stadium, or looking at the stars from the earth.  It’s an experience from the innermost vantage point.  In heaven nobody has a better view of Jesus.  I don’t have to look over anyone’s head to catch a glimpse of him.  And there’s always the invitation to come closer, go deeper.  There is always something to be revealed, and new things to be discovered.  

Every step is voluntary.

This place is so lush with light and smells:  lemon grass, the dense, sweet aroma of an orchid blossom, sugar…  And he’s there, always inviting, drawing, with his love. I haven’t looked at him closely yet because he rests at such a humble distance, waiting for my approach.  But, I see his white linen clothing and smell the fragrance of aromatic oils anointing him. This is a gentle, Jewish man, and He smells of bread and wine. 

There is delicious wine there for me.  He lets me choose, red or white.  After pausing, I choose the red.  It’s thirst quenching, like juice. It intensifies my warmth, calmness, and joy.  He invites me further.  The brilliant yellow and orange lights progress to green, and a shoot of tender grass grows out of it.  A lovely purple orchid blooms, and its scent draws me in and intensifies as I come closer.  There are delicious things here to eat.  

A cherry pie.

And now, it’s time to leave church.  An infant rolling on a clean blanket looks up and smiles at me with bright eyes.  She reminds me of myself in your world, Jesus.

I walk into the parking lot.    


Jesus?  He’s a genius.

Jan 28, 10.

The sun breaks through the grey haze of cloud that blankets this January day.  Light falling snow is whisked to the ground by a chilly wind:  Not the kind of lush fairyland snowflakes dreamt of at Christmas time.  These flakes are small and tight, steadily falling without ostentation.  It’s January.  It is seriously cold.  I no longer wear my hat and mitts just to look cute.  But there is a brilliant glow in the cloud cover. It is almost blindingly white, with a hint of rose, like the heart of a flame.  It keeps me from losing hope today, looking out over the sleeping foliage, brittle in the wind.  There is a stack of job postings on my desk.  I’ve rewritten my resume so many times I feel numb to the meaning of the words.  

The stark winter sky is a luminous void, a showcase for anomalies, like the vivid billowing clouds suspended in it.  I see them while driving on the 401, deep purple and brilliant pink, like huge pieces of cotton candy floating in the atmosphere. It reminds me of that song I used to like when I was a child about "ice cream castles in the air."  I’ve looked at love from both sides now…  and I’m looking through those eyes again, remembering the things that once stirred my heart.  Even as a child those dreams were just fairy tales to me. But, now that I’m older they are everything I believe will come true.  So, I must persevere in this winter landscape.  

Where were you that day?

I was beside you, like I always am. Patiently observing, feeling, reflecting in my heart, waiting. I know the amazing plans I have for you, but I stand by and watch. I hold the hands of my children and warm their hearts in my hands. I long to give to them but I understand they are in a refining process, and they are not always ready to receive what I have to give. I long to give to them, but I am also patient, so patient, like a faithful friend, in a hospital room. 

My beloved was pulled from the ice. I jumped in to save her, when she was unconscious below the ice, drowning. I dove in and pulled her out of the black, when her breath and hope were gone. I dove in and rescued her. And I was standing by when they wrapped her in a blanket and the paramedics came. I held her hand in the ambulance. I waited by the hospital bed, sipping coffee through the night, and the day, while she slept, returning from death. And I was there when she opened her eyes for the first time. I was there the whole time. I was patient through her recovery. 

I remember that you are dust, but long, and wait for the glorious end, the full recovery, the bride I rescued from death, literal death, thriving. I long for that day and wait tenderly by her side.  I never leave. I was there when they put in the IV, and smiled when you didn’t need it anymore. And I understand when you take a step back and need it again. 

He knows how we are formed. He remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103: 14)

In the moment of my disobedience, he looks down and the clay crumbles in his hands.  The clay is dry and useless, already fired.  It can't be remodeled like moist clay.  

But then I recall:

God formed a man out of the dust of the ground... Genesis 2:7.

I remember how he calmly wrote in the dust before the adulterous woman and her accusers.

.... then, neither to do I condemn you.  Jesus said.  Go now and leave your life of sin.  John 8:11

He looks down, but not in despair.  Having borne the cross, released from death for all time, he lowers himself to the ground to gather the fallen dust into his hands and considers the masterpiece within the ashes:  In slow motion, he drops to his knees and begins renewing the brittle, fired dust, his preferred medium.

He is the great artist (Song of Solomon 7:1) 
            the architect (Hebrews 11:10) 
               the author (Hebrew 12:2) 
          the carpenter (Mark 6:3).

He smiles broadly with calloused hands and dusty clothes.  His sandals don't look like a cartoon anymore: softened leather, white with dust. The white of his garments and the sun-lit debris are a cloud.  He revels in this place.  The genius at work. The Creator.

He Waits

He has been waiting for me a long time, but his face is pleasant and unstrained as I appear at the door.  I can see, this man never wilts or withers.  His patience is like a glacier, ancient, immense, solitary.  It shines majestic and towering, transforming continents, sculpting mountain ranges.  

He has endured more than this wait. 

He stands as I enter, and I’m lost for words.  I barely recognize him from his picture.  In the photo he had looked manicured with delicate skin and shiny hair.  It really didn’t do him any justice, this earthy, confident man standing before me.  I am surprised but not at all disappointed.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t recognize you.”

My words do him no justice either. 

A classic Bob Dylan song plays in the background:

“My clothes are dirty, but my hands are clean,

and you’re the best thing that I’ve ever seen… ”

There is not a woman in this place who has not noticed him. This man who could have known a thousand lovers before me, yet somehow waits.

He has steady eye contact, not staring but attentive, self-assured.  There is an unapologetic honesty about him, as bold as it is true.

Ancient text:

 “I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war.”  Revelation 19:11

But there is no arrogance in him. This man doesn’t need to boast.

With one look I see his strength is immense,

                           but he only asserts it on behalf of the weak.

His mysteries run deep,                        

 but they are all good. 

I might feel threatened, exposed in his unyielding gaze, if it were anyone but him.  But his gaze only invites, affirms, embraces.

He looks down to stir his coffee and catches a glimpse of me in the reflection on the liquid as it settles, and smiles.  (He never takes his eyes off of me.) He is content to take a short sip. 

His expression has many layers, like a rich painting.  Beneath the immediate joy, there is a tone of sadness, set in compassion, fierce and resolute.  Humor and intelligence burst forth, tempered by calm delight.  The playfulness in his eyes attracts me.  And he seems to know a secret so good, so delightful, that it can barely be contained.  He is bursting with it, what he knows, yet he waits, embodying self-control.

He is obviously experienced at keeping secrets, holding confidences in the vastness of his heart - a space so wide it contains oceans, and ages.  I can see them, wild turbulent seas in a face so calm. 

He doesn’t fear the storm. 

I imagine he could sleep through it on a wooden boat for a thousand years, unshaken, waiting.  I wonder if he would ever feel lonely, out there on the boat, perhaps waiting for the voice of a friend.

Smitten, my heart sinks. There is poetry in this man too.

But as if he knows, he reaches across the table to take my hand, and the self-doubt melts away.  I can see he wants to be here.  He is so present with me.  It’s a vivid presence, almost luminous.

And now I see it.  I see, how he felt out there, alone with the storm.  But it’s not quite loneliness.  It’s a feeling much deeper, more complete. 

Desire. 

Not the kind of longing that grows from emptiness, but the kind birthed in wholeness. 

Love. 

It takes me a while to label it, because I’ve never seen it so pure before.  It’s the kind of love that takes nothing but requires everything.


But as I continue to look deeper still in his eyes, smoldering, like cool water, the memory of loneliness pierces through.  It bleeds from him, naked and vulnerable.  The comfortless loneliness of complete love completely scored. 

It is too much for me to bear, but somehow, someway, he does.  His shoulders bear it like a dignified robe.  And as he puts it on he is as majestic as the sun.

Ancient text:

…like a bridegroom coming forth from his pavilion, like a champion rejoicing to run his course. Psalm 19:5

I understand now, it is the garment of the king pursuing his lover.

Ancient text: 

 “On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:  King of Kings and Lord of Lords.” Revelation 19:6

Exquisitely vulnerable, a handsome groom, standing before his guests and the bride waiting for her appearance, then hoping and praying she won’t turn back.  The vulnerability of this king takes my breath away.

It has taken me this long to notice his face is deeply wounded. The swath across his eye and forehead is severe and disfiguring. (Is 53)  At first I am startled by it, but it doesn’t make me look away.  It adds to the depth of his beauty.  He wears it like a laurel wreath, a crown. 

I don’t dare to pity him.

And I begin to understand.  He is waiting out on the sea for a voice to wake him.  He has been waiting there for me.  He wants to be woken because at that moment, when he responds to my voice and I look into his face, I will realize that it is not he but I who have slept and been so utterly alone, and that his dreams are more real than all my waking moments without him. 

Ancient text:

“Your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:16

He dreamed a dream of me.  And waits.