Least of All

Am I really good enough?

Am I really strong enough?

I'm not.

I know I'm not.

I know I am not worthy.

I know I am not a leader.

I know I am not a healer.

I know I am not meant to be anything.

Because if I was,

Wouldn't I be stronger?

Wouldn't I be kinder?

Wouldn't I be wiser?

Wouldn't I serve better?

Wouldn't I do better?

Wouldn't I bring people together,

Not push them away?

If I was meant to lead,

Like I have been told all my life,

Wouldn't I be able to stand for those who follow me?

Shouldn't I be able to smile at them,

Give them orders whilst helping them?

It shouldn't doesn't matter if home for me

Feels like hell on a good day.

They are more important to me.

I need to lift them up

If I am to lead.

If I was a healer,

I would be able to stand the darkness within people.

I would be able to love them

Despite all the horrendous ways they live.

I would be able to actually help people,

Not make them hate me even more.

There is no way I am worthy of anything.

Not a crown.

Not love.

Not heaven.

Not with the person I am.

For I am broken.

I am selfish.

I am rude.

I am angry.

I am bitter.

I am scared.

I am torn apart.

There is no way I was meant for anything.

Least of all healing.

Least of all leading.

Divinely Appointed Friends

It's the friends you have not the successes that you are given, that give the world color and make the flowers bloom. They make the long winding road straight. And there is that one friend whom you know was sent to you by God, else they would have checked out long ago. Instead, they held on even tighter, made the sun shine brighter, and put the world back into its orbit. It's because of them that you are who you are today. God sent them on a special day long ago; and we will never let them go. No matter if we live a thousand years without them for they are divinely appointed friends whom we always have in our hearts.

The Somber Serenity of the Aftermath

Everyone talks about the calm before the storm, and the devastation that occurs whilst the storm rages. But there is never any discussion of the odd, somber serenity that is the aftermath of a battle. 

No one ever speaks about the drizzle that follows the flood waters; the calming tears of a sun-streaked cloud barrier. There are never words penned about the whispers that follow an emotionally scarring shouting match; never a literary picture painted about the droplets falling down from a storm-soaked tree. 

The same can be said about the Battle at Gettysburg. A thousand Homeric epics can be spun about that trio of blood-bathed days, and yet not capture it all. But there are no epics to describe the aftermath of those three days; the weeks to come where none could open a window, and each person became a doctor, nurse, or assistant. 

Even now, a hundred and fifty two years have gone by. Several wars have been won, and even more have been fought, but saying "I survived the battle" is not the same as saying "I lived through the aftermath."

The end of a battle, be it literal, metaphorical, mental, or spiritual, is never the end. The end is the eye; the second, "false calm". Anyone can fight a battle; anyone can win or lose; anyone can sit in the doctor's office and receive the diagnosis; anyone can stand up; but who is able to deal with what comes next?

Fools at the Table of the King

Lord of my heart,

King of all Kings,

All nature praises you!

The ocean's frothy waters rise up 

For your feet;

The sands of the desert 

Give way for you.

The song of the stars' 

Silent crescendo tells your story.

The rise and fall of the heavens 

Gives you glory.

As you have made 

the heavens, and the earth,

And silence, and song for your glory,

So you have made man 

For that purpose. 

Why then, do you allow us to squander that role?

To play a fool in the court of the King

When we have married the Prince?

You have opened the door 

To your glory and given us an

Invitation to dine at your table. 

Why then, do your children refuse

To dine at the King's table

Where food is plenty?

Or do fools simply 

Ignore what is offered

For their own desires?

For who else refuses to dine 

At the table of the King?

A Heart of Steel

Is it fiery?

It has scorched your soul,

Does it still burn you?

Does the cold freeze?

It stung you, it has touched your face,

Can you still speak?

Is it full of want?

Does it long to caress your face 

Or to hold you in its arms?

Does it comfort you?

Do its words sing sweet or sour notes?

Or does its silvery tongue enrapture you?

A life of worldly pleasure throws your heart into a furnace, turning your heart of gold into scorched steel. 

Are your pleasures and your passions, your lust and your lies, worth a heart of steel? 

Life Worth Living

Why is life such a painful thing? People get hurt, they get sick, and they die. People are abused, shamed, and killed. Why is there such pain? Why can't life be a fairytale, where we live happily ever after?

It's because pain is what makes life meaningful. If we don't know loss, how would we know how to value something? If we don't suffer, how will we know how to thrive? If pain and suffering make lives meaningful, then why do they only seem to destroy?

The answer is simple. We let them. We choose not to learn. To let the pain change us, to embitter, to mold, and to freeze our hearts into people we can't even look at in the mirror. We give into the darkness that is in all of us, and refuse to acknowledge and accept healing from the light.

People who haven't ever suffered haven't lived. No matter your station, your job, your family name, people feel pain. It's an ingrained part of us to ignore the light, because the light challenges us to do something about the pain, and the loss, and the suffering. It demands that we look for healing, for love, for life. And it demands that we set aside our pride, our self esteem, our lives, us. It asks us to give everything to someone else, because if our heart doesn't clench at another's pain, then we haven't suffered enough.

Those that accept the light, they give their pride, their suffering, their success, and their shame. They give it all. They give up their life, their name, their fame, who they are. They cast down that which they idolize and they say "No more!", because they have suffered, and the people they see everyday, those whom they pass in the grocery store, who work at the mall or the car wash, those people they just glimpse in the bookstore, because those people have suffered, and who needs grace more than those who have never known undeserved, voluntary love.

So they give. And the suffering that they found in darkness gave them a purpose. It tore them down, and allowed the light to reach down and pull them up, hand over hand, as they were raised up. The darkness that hardens man's heart does not raise people up. It kills, steals, and destroys. But those deaths, those stolen things, and obliterations, those brought them to their knees. And instead of screaming at the sky and holding on to the comfort of darkness like so many of us love to do, they gave a plea. "Help me. I cannot help myself."

Not a cry of self worthlessness, but of utter humility. They do not make much of who they are. They do not dare. They simply say yes to the light, and to the challenge that awaits. Bad things don't happen to good people. Bad things happen to people shrouded in darkness and in hatred, in self love and in idolization.

Instead of asking yourself "why me!", ask "What can I do with what has been done to me?" Because that will give your life meaning, and the pain meaning. It gives you a life worth living. And that, is the most precious thing of all.

Can You See?

Can you see the wind?

Can you see gravity?

Can you hold love in your hands?

Can you touch loyalty?

Can you measure grace?

Can you taste mercy?

These exist yet are invisible to one thing or another.

You can see their effects.

You can see how they divide,

How they build,

create,

bind,

heal the broken,

give rest to the weary,

help the poor,

give mercy to the merciless,

humble the proud,

and love the unlovable.

But these things are untestable,

unprovable,

inexplicable,

illogical,

They make no sense.

Science can’t explain them,

politics can't explain them,

philosophy can’t explain them,

life can’t explain them.

Many deny their existence.

So they don’t exist.

But they do.

Life is not logical.

Life is not explicable.

Life is incomprehensible to science.

But love does exist,

Just as gravity does.

Love does.

You just have to look.

Rain Will Make The Flowers Grow

Rain falls

It beats against the world

Trees,

Houses,

Roads,

They all feel its unrelenting pace.

The world screams

“I want sun!”

For they can only see that which is wrong.

The sea when it rains is beautiful

The sky when it rains is joyous

that which it gives is life giving

Struggle gives life meaning

Rain makes the flowers grow

From the pouring rain comes

Waterfalls

Fields

Gardens

Trees which bear fruit

From the storm comes the waters of spring,

the floodwaters comes rich soil,

the soil comes new life

So while the world rages against the rain

I will rejoice in the storm,

because of the fruit the heavy winds

and the pouring rain

Produce in me.

I will give praise for the kindness,

love,

strength,

and wisdom,

That is nurtured by the rain

For rain will make the flowers grow

Musician, Commander of the Free

She breathes in, eyes scanning, ears listening to the tick tick, fingers splayed, finding their place. She breathes out, the first note is played, her ears recognize it as correct - finally - her fingers move to the next key as if it was a part of her. It is. Her mind is constantly open. Her eyes rapidly scan. Her ears are always moving. Her hands are always flowing. Beauty comes from simple movements of the body. (They are anything but ordinary.)

She winces as she - again - hits a wrong note. She scowls at the page, notes written upon parchment in a time long past, only remembered in novels, paintings, architecture, and song. These are their words, their emotions, their memories, (their lives), written upon a page in a code many see as nonsense. But to the trained eye, these lives are played out on keys, in notes, and in rhythms. The song spins a tale of love, of loss, of joy, of sorrow, of peace, pain, laughter, tears, of a life lived. (Of souls yearning to be free.)

And to the trained storyteller who needs not words, but is sometimes aided by them, these lives need to be told as they were meant to be. Measure by measure, beat by beat, note by note. It must be played to perfection. Even though she is not a perfectionist, nine long (and hard fought) years of playing through these lives has given her that trait. Everything must be as written. The harmony must sound right. And heaven forbid she have to play anything with an oom-pah-pah beat in the harmony. Waltzes were the bane of her existence.

“Ugh!” The lovely, soft, French melody became a glissando as she resisted the urge to slam her hands on the keys, slam the lid shut, tear up the sheet music, and never pick it up again.

Breathe. In. Out. Seventy two beats per minute. Quarter note gets the beat. Three beats per measure. Go slower. In. Out. In. Out.

She placed her hands back onto the ivory. Her fingers went back to that key. Her eyes scanned again. Her ears opened. Remember, it's a story, not just shapes on a page. Emotion is what makes it music. The note came. Then the next. Her hands floated from chord to chord. Her body knew what her mind didn't. It knew where to go. It knew where to play. Her heart was full. The quiet life of the French countryside filled her heart, and the notes on a page became more than sound. They became song. “Ugh! Note after note! Can't I at least get this section right?” One note was wrong, therefore the whole song was wrong.

She wasn't a perfectionist by nature. She really wasn't. But flute, piano, choir, the nine years of emotion she had channeled into her music had sculpted her into one. Instead of dealing with her problems, she played them. She sang them. She sometimes got the notes wrong. Okay, a lot. But those songs were her life too. Not just the dead, (or on a rare occasion, not dead), composer’s life, but hers mixed in with it. Her life. Her anger. Her sadness. Her bitterness. Her joy. Her love. Her sorrow. Her delight. She had to get it right, as it was a part of her that needed to be expressed. Writing wouldn't do it. Dancing wouldn't do it. Acting wouldn't do it. Reading wouldn't do it. Nothing else could even compare to the freedom of expression that music gave her. (I want to be free.)

For that was what it was. Music was freedom of a sort. Not really freedom at all, actually. It was life. It was love, anger, despair, fear, peace, hope, sorrow, joy, any emotion thrown into it became its story. But it was free, beholden only to the musician. In the same fashion, life was free. One may live it in chains, but does not have to buy it. Music didn't take anything from you. It was a shelter from the storm, a way to transcribe emotion in a way other things couldn't. Your emotion. Their emotion. Our emotion. It was uniquely and utterly human. It was worship, at its core, of the one who gave freedom. It celebrated and at times demonized life after man fell. But it is life represented in a way that does not compare to anything but actual life. It was free, it was grace for the weary soul.

Her hands played the opening to a song she hadn't played in a long time. The soft melody flowed out of the part of her that yearned for hope, that yearned for faith, that yearned for grace. “Oh, my soul
Oh, how you worry
Oh, how you're weary, from fearing you lost control
This was the one thing, you didn't see coming
And no one would blame you, though
If you cried in private
If you tried to hide it away, so no one knows
No one will see, if you stop believing.”

My friend thinks I am arrogant. Her parents think I am arrogant. People think I am rude when I try to be kind.

“Oh, my soul
You are not alone
There's a place where fear has to face the God you know
One more day, He will make a way
Let Him show you how, you can lay this down
'Cause you're not alone

It doesn't matter. It shouldn't. If I am not arrogant, then this shouldn’t hurt. But it does. Why?

“Here and now
You can be honest
I won't try to promise that someday it all works out
'Cause this is the valley
And even now, He is breathing on your dry bones
And there will be dancing
There will be beauty where beauty was ash and stone
This much I know

One day. One day I will be free. Free as the notes, free as can be. I’ll live and love.

“Oh, my soul
You are not alone
There's a place where fear has to face the God you know
One more day, He will make a way
Let Him show you how, you can lay this down

But it hurts. It hurts that one of the few things that brings me joy should be banned. I can't speak of it. I can't sing. I can't play. If I do I'm arrogant.

“I'm not strong enough, I can't take anymore
(You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
And my shipwrecked faith will never get me to shore
(You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
Can He find me here
Can He keep me from going under

Oh God! Why must it hurt? Please Lord! Save me from my emotions. Save me from myself. I can't save myself! I can't be free. I long to be free! I long to be free like the notes in a song- beholden only to the musician. God please, set me free!

You already are. I freed you. I gave you your connection with song. I loved you before the foundation of the world. I took the fall for you. I died for you. I have already saved you. You are free.

“Oh, my soul
You're not alone
There's a place where fear has to face the God you know
One more day, He will make a way
Let Him show you how, you can lay this down
'Cause you're not alone
Oh, my soul, you're not alone.”

She had hope, and all the stories of the lives of all the composers to tell. She was not alone.