Shadows fall between the time when night turns into day. As moon beams fade and dreams dissolve leaving empty space. The recessed walls surround the place where memories are hidden. A sanctuary of the heart, the entrance forbidden. Cloaked in shadows, pierced with pain, beneath a sky of blue. Frozen clips provide a sacred glimpse of me and you. Fragments filter like grains of sand, held in capsuled time... Tumble through the chambered halls of a heart once known as mine. Each grain of sand, each teardrop shed, is filled with something sweet. Moments spent in careless fog that flood the whole of me. When daylight dawns as daylight does, and lifts the sleepy veil. All that's left behind the mind are scars that tell a tender tale.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Friday, July 10, 2015
For several months now, and for reasons unknown to me, all things broken have been on my heart. It started in January with a broken cookie jar that belonged to my grandmother and it continues today.... It intrigues me. Multiple x-rays could not capture the image of my hand that was fractured in two places. All the kings horses and all the kings men, could not put my broken Nissan Cube back together, forcing me to buy another car. This week I bought a decorative jar for a friend's birthday. The jar reminded me of the woman who anointed the feet of Jesus while he dined at the home of a Pharisee. The Bible doesn't specify the disciples were present, but in my mind I can see them huddled together with horrified expressions as this woman of questionable background not only washed his feet, but did so with costly perfume. The Pharisee himself (as all Pharisees do) questioned the judgment of Jesus for allowing this broken one to touch him in such an intimate way. It seems that everyone involved, with the exception of Jesus and the woman, failed to understand how intimately important her act of humble worship really was. My catnap at lunch was a mosaic dream of broken pottery, broken glass, broken mirrors, and broken people. Why do I find beauty in the imperfect? Probably because my own brokenness constantly bubbles beneath the surface of my quirky self. I never have to look farther than my own imperfections to be reminded that Christ died for one such as I.