The Pursuit

I ran on the hill,
Swerving in and out of the darkened path
In pursuit of my brothers and cousin.
Never give up, I pant

As a girl I lived for chases
Yet now the joy’s obsolete,
An artifact up on display.

I’ve seen the hillside of my youth
It is an once-upon-a-time
From the inside looking out

Yet prayers of energy
Yet prayers of pure hearts
Yet prayers of immense joy
Cry out from within me

What if the energy is dampened?
What if the purity is clouded?
What if the joy is buried?

Unleash
Unfog
Uncover

What if your inner-child’s suppressed?

There’s this hillside, located in the foothills of the Southern Rockies and the side yard of a dining hall. I wish I have a picture. It is not anything special, but a hill with a building on top and a tree-covered path in the middle of hill. It was to the side of the building, you will reach the spot by exiting the doors closest to the restrooms. As a girl, in the late nineties or early 2000s, I used to go out to the spot with my older brothers and cousin (as the adults finish eating and/or talk grown-up stuff) and we will play. Usually it’ll be a tag game (which I now know to be a smaller version of The Blob) where I was always “it” and it brought me such joy to catch everyone else, particularly the two oldest. I mean, I was the littlest and smallest, so if I was able to catch someone 7-10 years older than me, it was a big deal.

That game never got old for me. I think back to that time fondly. Recalling how it made me feel. When I worked at that place, sometimes I will stop and look out. I will remember everything. I will remember chasing after my brothers, the purple hood of my jacket falling off (the purple hood was a very important factor of the game, I can’t believe I almost forgot that part. I won’t say the whole reason but that I was obsess with the color purple and family members would remember a certain vowel sound I liked to hold). I will get sad though, because I have grown up and my child-like wonder and joy had faded like my girlhood.

Sometimes I think we think once we pass through the threshold of adulthood, childhood is gone and there’s no turning back. That we easily grow wearisome of the pursuit to do God’s Will. But Jesus said that the greatest is one who has faith like a child. Doesn’t that mean that we can go back to that time of our lives? Why can’t we have the same joy, energy, and purity like I had as a child chasing after my brothers?

What if we still have that?

What if the responsibilities of adulthood suppresses that child-like faith?

What if we pursue God with the same joy like we have had as a child?

Glorieta, New Mexico
The gazebo to the right and the cross in the middle reminds me of Jesus’ life. He was born a king in a stable and died a king on an old, rugged cross.

Glorieta, New Mexico
I have a distinct memory of climbing up these stairs to visit Granddad and Grandma. I think I even stayed in the same room in the summer of 2014. I could be wrong, but in my heart it is forever true.

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A Bird Flew

A bird flew,
wings outstretched,
soaring through the blue skies

A man weeps,
for a place setting is gone.

A bird flew,
wings downward,
diving to the green grass

A woman weeps,
for traditions deemed to be useless

A bird flew,
wings flap,
spiraling up to the white clouds

A child weeps,
for childhood is fleeting

A bird flew,
wings outstretched,
a seed falls.

A man arose,
catching the seed,
and goes inside.

A woman arose,
catching the seed,
and goes inside.

A child arose,
catching the seed,
and goes inside.

An empty place setting can mean
“not today, but one day.”
A broken tradition can mean
“remembrance.”
A fleeting childhood can mean
“live a life like they would’ve wanted.’

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

Seed means growth, because out of a seed can grow fruit and vegetation. It can grow life. Christmas is upon us and there are some who would not be celebrating with a loved one, whether it is because the person greeted death or a thorn was wedged between them. It is a sorrow regardless. It is not a tragedy, because sometimes hardships have to be endured for the seed to take root.

This poem is for all those who won’t be celebrating Christmas with a loved one. This poem is for all those who are hurting, to be reminded that grief is good and that it is okay to think of them.

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Fearful and Awe-Inspiring

I stood overlooking a canyon,
Completely in awe at the wideness
Completely in fear of crossing
How could someone so small,
Face something so big?

God comes up behind,
Speaking in a whisper –
Not a booming voice –
For God is gentle.

You took your first breath
You took your first step
You spoke your first word
You had your first fight with siblings
I was there.

You were small, oh so small,
When you first asked your mother about Me.
You were small, oh so small,
When the water washed over.
I was there.

You were bigger, yet so innocent,
When you left home.
You were bigger, yet so innocent,
When the tassle moved over.
I was there.

When you feel down,
Opportunities falling apart before it begins.
When you feel down,
Loved ones leaving the world of the living.
I was there.

All you need is a first step of faith
Take My hand,
Step over the cliff
You won’t fall
I am there.

There are so many Bible verses about fearing the Lord, and how it brings wisdom and longevity. I have always found that phrase (fear of the Lord) to be a bit difficult to understand and if I am being truly honest, I still do. However, I think this poem speaks what “fear of the Lord,” particularly with the first stanza. The Lord is great and mighty, He is a jealous God, and He can do so much without even thinking. He’s like a canyon or a waterfall or maybe even a hurricane, if I dare to equate God to one in this time, because He can cause damage if He chooses. He is awe-inspiring like a canyon or waterfall (like the Grand Canyon or Victoria Falls), but He can cause storms (like tornados… I probably shouldn’t use hurricanes as an example right…). But God is also a God of grace, of gentleness, so He keeps us close when we honor Him. He sees that we love Him. I believe that “fear of the Lord” means to show God the respect that He deserves, and if we do so then we can walk over canyons (side note: wit would be terrifying, but so awesome!). Fear what God can do, but be in awe of what God can do for you.

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Breathtaking

Life begins
with Your breath in my lungs.
Then, nestled in the warmth of Mom’s arms,
Sleep will overpower
as Your faithful watch prevails.

Tho’ at times our breaths are taken
You snatch it up,
Restoring it to its intended place.

You’re the Giver
I’m the Receiver

Then the light fades,
My lids fall as the distant light grows.
Tho’ my eyes are shut, there’s a beauty
too powerful to be seen by mortal eyes.

In the beginning, You gave me breath.
In the middle, You restored my breath.
In the end, You will be breathtaking.

This poem’s dedication is in two parts. The first part is to us all will find God to be breathtaking when it is our turn to enter the Kingdom. The second part is for our dearly departed loved ones that have had their breaths taken away by our Lord. And, if you so desire, I invite you to comment below those loved ones’ names who were so amazed at the breathtaking beauty of God.

(This part was added on October 21, 2017)

Allow me to start with the list of loved ones who had the breaths taken away by our Lord:
Jim and Ann White

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An Imperfect Hero

Go deep, deep to the depths of your mind.

Think of a hero, a hero of flesh.

You are five years old, barely old enough to remember. Tiptoe to the windowsill, a hand to the glass, as you watch him come home from his 9 to 5.

You are thirteen years old and the world’s out to get you. School day ends and there he is waiting in the car, waiting to ask about the tumultuous day of a junior high student.

You are out of the house. Realize that perhaps he’s not too bad; perhaps he’s not too weird. That is until he writes you to “come back taller.”

One night though, just like tonight, a clear and beautiful night, you see the world how he saw it in the reflection of the stars. You are five and he’s at his 9 to 5 to provide for you. You are thirteen and he wonders what happen to the child who was the little helper. You are out of the house and he does not have anyone to tease (except for the wife, but he can’t very well do that) so he writes.

Writes to catch up. Writes because he may not have Little Legs or his child, but he does still have something. He is still a father.

Go deeper in your mind. Close your eyes, fall into the abyss of otherworldly realms. Remember of the one who made him a Dad.

Not a father, but a Dad. A father is a title; a dad is a gift.

A time before you were born, before a thought, a man became a Dad. He taught his children from right and wrong. He taught his children about God. He taught his children to make time for their own.

That Dad became a grandfather, yet the title rendered useless shortly afterward. Just like once a father, now a Dad. That grandfather dropped the title for a new name of Granddad. He taught his grandchildren from right and wrong. He taught his grandchildren about God. He taught his grandchildren that family’s important.

Pull out; pull out from the depths of the depths of your mind to the clouds. Yet maintain the images of those men’s heroism. They may not be perfect. Maybe the Dad in your life did not sire you or maybe the Dad struggled quite a while. Within the clouds, form the words in which you call him.

Dad.

Say it again.

Dad.

Somehow this imperfect man was given the name Dad, a name of heroic legends. For it is not a name bestowed upon by priests or saints, but a name only you can give.

A father is made. A Dad is given out with careful consideration.

***
Here’s a few Father’s Day well wishes to a few men I know:

Happy Father’s Day to Luke, my big brother, who is nothing but a great Dad to his kids.

Happy Father’s Day to Grandpa, the Dad of my Mom. Many call him “sir” or by his given name. Many respect him and he is fair and kind to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am to be call his granddaughter.

Happy Father’s Day to Granddad, the Dad of my Dad, the one who taught my Dad what it is to be a Dad. The one who recently passed, leaving a fairly good size hole. Many call him “doctor,” “sir”, or “pastor.” He was gentle to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am be call his granddaughter.

Happy Father’s Day to Dad, a man who showed me what love and grace is. I am proud to be called his daughter.

And a happy father’s day to all the men I know who are fathers. Whether through marriage, adoption, or by blood, I hope you know you are indeed honored by having the name of Dad gifted unto you.

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To The Moms

Surrealism clouded the air
Vision gone blurred,
Except for that plus.
There is something growing inside

Shaky hands, shaky voice,
Excitement surging in and out.
Papers have arrived
Someone to love is out there

A phonecall, a rush of memories,
Revisiting those days of old.
Remembering first steps
Anticipating more first steps

Every morning when they arise
Every midday when they slow down
Every night when they rest
Prayers are sent to the Heavens.

Surrealism turns to realism,
Never imagining anything different.
Excitement turns to life,
Knowing that the best was given.
Anticipation exceeded expectations,
Joy whenever two meet.

So with these words,
Close your eyes
Don’t forget
For they love you first.

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Kindred Spirits

Pocahontas asked if you can see the colors of the wind. I ask if you can see the color of life, the colors of your friends. I am an artist and there are some colors that seem like they don’t go well together. Yet if you add a bit of white or black, the hue changes, and suddenly the two colors are absolutely perfect together. This poem is to thank all my friends for contributing to the dusk in my life.

Oranges and pinks colored the sky,
Washing the pastel blue away.
Then the mighty brush stroke it black
With twinkling stars above

Slumber overtook me
Calling me to Morpheus’ realm
And yet I see the paint strokes of before

The colors of dusk reflected in the Irish sea –
The wind in my hair
My soul resting on the mountain of Orme

The colors of dusk sounded in Victoria Falls –
The thunderous roars echoed in my ears
Mist raining over me, reviving my soul

The colors of dusk follow where I tread –
A color attaches to those close
Igniting a bright, colorful painting ahead.
No two hues are alike.

Symphony of colors composed up above –
Taking two mismatched shades,
Two shades that many will dismiss as together.
Yet with the right coloration
It is a beautiful artwork.

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