Thursday, June 2, 2011

Trusting (for) 5.31.2011

I am afraid. 
Afraid for him, his soul. 
If I hold onto him tightly
Maybe I’ll save him.
But I can’t. 
I can only speak into his life. 
I have to leave it to God.
It’s so hard to see God’ll work
Because he’s so stubborn. 
But God can save him. 
I must trust. 
But I’m afraid.
I’m afraid to lose him. 
He means so much to my life.
I realized recently how much I love him.
And then I realized how important his soul is. 
I must show true love by preaching the Truth to him. 
I am trusting. 

(I know it's not real poetry.. but.. it's my 100 words for the 31st. :) ) 

My Head Hurts (for) 5.29.2011

My mind is so drained. So much knowledge is being stuffed into it, it’s getting a little cramped up here! 
So many amazing speakers and such amazing interactions with the Holy Spirit during worship.
The conversations flowing around the conference center are not flippant everyday conversations. They are discussions of the messages, sharing of how God is meeting with them all. 
The Holy Sprit is working in NEXT in amazing, powerful, revealing ways. 
Late night conversations with friends, deepening those friendships and sharing in thick voices how God is revealing things to us that we were not aware of. 

Colours (for) 5.28.2011

The artist looked at her empty white palette and then back at her almost white paper, the beginning of her panting drawn in careful lines. 
She looked back at the palette and hesitantly took her paintbrush, a tube of colour. This was a colour of her happiness, the sky, and the ocean. And then she grabbed the colour of rich dirt. Steadily gaining confidence she continued to mix her various paints, ready, she paused, smiled and wet down her paper. 
WIth steady strokes her brush moved across the paper. Her colours blossomed and spread, creating a vibrant portrait of life. 

Car Trips (for) 5.27.2011

Car trip.  [I find pretty much everything funny on long car trips. I also think I’m hilarious….]
Four in the morning. Sleeping. 
Traffic. Empty highway. 
Cool cars [A ferrari] 
Massachusetts, Connecticut. New Jersey. Delaware. Some of Maryland. All on one tank of gas. 
Funny signs.
“AT&T are proud supporters of the Yankees” [Up at the corner of the bill board said “Rethink Possible” I find that intensely amusing] 
“Picking up or discharging passengers is strictly prohibited” [I also find that amusing] 
“Congested Area up ahead” [Poor area… all stuffed up all the time]
This is the trip to NEXT.

There's Always Next Year

Well, folks, May is officially over. It's been a fun ride. I've loved reading your drabbles. The precision of language and the beauty of finding the exact right word has been so fun to see. I hope you'll join me next year in DrabDayMoMay 2012. I am so proud of all of you for writing whatever you did. I hope that you all use your writing talents to do amazing things.

Job well done!!

5.31.11 luminous - a drabble of 100 words

Sixty-two years is a long time. Did you always hold her hand the way you are right now? I wish I could see her with your eyes. When I look at her I see a frail, fragile woman, with wrinkles and sagging skin. I see an old woman confused, who doesn’t even remember that she’s in the hospital and still thinks it’s 1972. What do you see, when you look at her? Do you see the girl you married? The mother of your children? Your lover? I guess you think she’s still beautiful.

Did you know you’re making me cry?

5.30.11 gossamer - a drabble of 100 words

The little fairy fingers in the little fairy grove are full of winsome mischief so it’s best to be careful. Don’t speak too loudly for they don’t like clamor. Don’t speak too softly either, for they don’t like being surprised. It’s best to come confident and calm, assured and aware. Don’t frighten them for the fairies are marvelous jokesters but it’s very hard for them when the joke’s on them. However, if you speak kindly and carefully, they may just peek out and giggle with you. It might help, as well, if you bring gifts.

Remember, they delight in avocados.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

5.28.11 Colours - a drabble of 100 words

Show your colours. Show your bravery or cowardice. Show your mercy or judgment. Show grace or anger.

Raise up the flag on the mast. Define your allegiance. Tell me, stranger, who you are. Identify your side. It’s a war, soldier, and you can’t sit on the sidelines. Run up the white flag if those are your colours. Just remember, it’s hard to change sides in the middle of the battle, brother.

Hear the trumpet call and take up your arms. Because they’ll wrap you in those colours and ship you back to Eden when your number is called.

Get ready.

5.29.11 aerial - a drabble of 100 words

Twinkling lights, like a diamonds on the earth’s surface, sparkle up at me. The blues and the yellows shine forth against the darkness. They sparkle, wink. My heart sings with them, breaking in the midst of so much beauty.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that each house, just barely a pinprick from this height, represents a family. Each car, with their headlights illuminating just the tiniest bit in front of them, is at least one human life. Hello, all you people down there, with your diamond lights shining up at me. Do you know how beautiful you are?

El Fin (5.31.11) * sniff *

No more the music plays. No more the audience laughs and weeps. No more the actors act. Empty is the auditorium, everyone is gone. And alone I sit upon the empty stage. Reliving and replaying the play that’s said and done. Stand I now, upon the stage, where the actors once did. And take I a gracious bow, with not but space to see. The clapping crowds and cheering multitude now have all gone home. But here I am upon the stage, bowing all alone. I spring off the stage, and run through the door.

The thick red curtain on the stage has fallen, once more.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

[for 5.6.11] 5.31.11-bugs

[note: awhile ago i posted a drabble called silence. the day i posted it i didn't think i would have time to write a drabble. but my pride got the best of me tonight and i wanted to be able to say i wrote 31 drabbles in the month of may-one for every day (without cheating with a previously written drabble). so, without further ado, here is my final drabble]

"You know it's buggy when you can slap your arm and kill 3 mosquitoes"
"Ah!! There's an ant on my napkin!!"
"You have a spider on you!"
"It's hot, the middle of the day and breezy and there are STILL mosquitoes!"

"I was just pulling a couple weeds and there was a tick crawling up my arm"
During the winter I always forget how itchy mosquito bites are, how annoying it is to walk through a spider web and how surprising it is when an ant appears on your napkin.
This is a New England summer.

5.31.11-ECHO [my last drabble (*sad face*)]

"Good morning!!!!!!!!" *good morning good morning good morning good morning* the little girl shouts cross the lake.
"Where are you?????" *where are you where are you where are you* she shouts again.
"Sssshhh, sweetheart, it's only 6:30, you'll wake everybody up!" her mother gently scolds.
"But mommy," the little girl pleads, "someone said 'good morning' back, she said it over and over again until I couldn't hear her anymore. And she asked where I was. I think it's a lost princess. She might need our help."
"Oh, my darling. It's only your echo."

An Accident?!?!

I feel the power of my horse through his saddle. I feel the thrill of the ride through his feet. I feel his excitement in the rhythm of his movements. His power makes me bold; his thrill makes me exhilarated; his excitement gives me the urge to go faster.

His mane and tail fly with the wind and the steady thrump of his hoof pounds into the ground. We gallop across the open field, free as the breeze rolling over the distant hills. I feel the power of my horse through his feet. And some say creation was an accident!

Summer! (for 5.29.11)

With my feet dangling in the ice cold pool, I wait for my victim. The pool is so calm, so smooth. I swish my feet back and forth, causing ripples and little waves to run from my feet. The velvet of the water cools my legs as I sit on the deck. With a flick of my feet water spays over my body. At the sound of the creaking door, I fill my squirt gun with the freezing water. I aim and fire the cold water at my sister, who just walked out of our basement door.

Don’t you just love summer?

5.31.11 Red – a super drabble of 1000 words

[Note: a super drabble consists of 10 drabbles together resulting in 1000 words. I thought it would be fun to do a little something different for the last day of drabble month]

Red. Red is the colour of danger, warning, and trouble. It is the colour of the disunited, of the insubordinate, of the rebellious. It is the colour of havoc, chaos, destruction. Red is the colour of the commoners, the colour that sets apart the elite from the trash, the glorified from the weak. Red is the colour of suffering, of pain, of torture. It is the colour of labor, of toil, and of agony. Red is the colour of those who are hated, forgotten, and abused. Red is the colour we shun, the colour we hate, the colour we kill.

Stupid and naïve as children are, we know the consequences for our actions. We know the danger of tree climbing and running. Of digging and riding. And fighting. Ha! We even know the danger of gardening; curse those dreaded thorn weeds! We have learned that even the smallest cut, the tiniest prick, can result so frighteningly in the colour of the commoners. And the anger that it would bring from every adult was enough to crush every bit of creativity that swelled in our infant minds. We would be locked up alone to contemplate our soiled clothing and damaged skin.

But my dear nursemaid (whom I loved, despite the rules against it) was always there to clean me up, to wash away the colour. She would mend my clothes and fix my hair and present me to my enraged parents. And they would smile cold uncaring smiles, perfect examples of what society wanted me to be. As I grew, through the maturity of age and failure, I learned that the only way to avoid such childish mistakes was to do only respectable adult-like tasks like sitting and walking. No more running, no more playing. But that was before the revolution.

Oh, revolution. Stupid revolution. So much worse than the insignificant naivety of children. Worse even than the most efficient underground organized crime. Revolution was the worst in the world. Revolution used weapons, it challenged the practice of our perfect society, it sought to topple the principles on which our very own feet rested. Strangely enough, no one tried to stop it at first. I suppose they thought the young citizens, the ones just now mature (the ones like me) would rise up and squash it. But we didn’t. No, we did the most reckless, foolish thing imaginable. We joined it.

It was dark when I left. I could hardly breathe. My heart was beating so fast it felt as though it was suffocating my lungs. But I escaped that cold colourless house with the impassive parents and heartless edicts. I was free; I had escaped that adolescent repression. My amazement only grew when, after my acceptance into the ranks of the insurrectionists, I was shown the instruments of retaliation. Never in my life could I have imagined all the glorious colours. Brown, green, blue, and the most beautiful colour they called yellow. It was amazing and I couldn’t stop looking.

That was the thing that the others had not counted on. They had never seen the mystifying and incredible number of colours. They had, like all good citizens, cut colour out of their minds. But when they scraped away that colour, they destroyed what colour meant. Colour meant living. Colour meant seeing. And we embraced it. We, with our newly opened eyes, saw the glory in sensations that colour gave us. Green made me smile, blue made me shiver, and yellow (oh magnificent yellow) made me warm from the inside out. Colour gave us minds which gave us rebellious ideas.

Revolution, however joyous it may seem at first, is truly an agonizing and painful choice in life. I saw so much death those first few months, so much devastation and heartbroken pain. And I saw red. Real red. Not just the trivial red that I had seen as I child when I scraped my knee. I saw pools of red by broken bodies, cuts of red so deep they looked like they would never end, burns of red so sickening I closed my eyes and wept. It was the first colour that frightened me. So I tried to avoid it.

I could not avoid it forever. After one horrendous battle, I found a child. There was red streaking his chest and flowing down his cheek. He was crying. His mother was dead. As I wrapped him in my arms that colour transferred to me. It was the first time I had touched real red. I couldn’t pull myself away. It melted me, burned me, broke me. I felt for the first time the sensation of red: anger and passion and love. I learned the meaning of the colour, even as it covered me. And that was how they found me.

I woke in a room of blinding white. The walls were white; the floor was white, the ceiling, the counters, the cabinets, the instruments. The brown and green and red of my clothes were the only exception to the spotless room. A man entered. A colourless man, with colourless hair and colourless coat. He told me I had seen too much; I would have to die. He held a dripping needle in his hand.
Oh, to die in colour, to rest my body forever in a bed of downy yellow. But no, the last I would ever see was white.

White. White is the colour of silence, isolation, and emptiness. It is the colour of the cruel, of the joyless, of the barren. It is the colour of seclusion, oppression, futility. White is the colour of the privileged, the colour that sets apart the elite from the trash, the glorified from the weak. White is the colour that chokes passion, vision, and enthusiasm. It is the colour that kills creativity and smoothers the ideas of the thoughtful. It is the colour that is colourless. The colour that kills colour.
They used white to oppress us. They used white to exterminate.

5.31.11 The body of Christ.

The hands which worked, the body that was baptized, the back that was whipped, the face that was spit upon, the feet that burned when they walked across the stone path which led to the hill, the hands that were pierced, the back which held the weight of sin, the body that was resurrected, the face that was glorified by the father. Christ, who despite the fact that he loved his father, felt the merciless pain of nails in his hands and feet, the wrath of the father, and the crown of thorns.

The body of Christ that was broken for the world.

Monday, May 30, 2011

5.30.11 Death of the Young

She sat on the sofa, holding her husband’s hand. In her other hand she clenched a tissue so hard it was turning to paper shreds. Two military men in immaculate uniforms were slowly telling her the story she had dreaded since the moment her son had told her he was joining the marines.
“His helicopter went down during the rescue operation…”
She stopped listening; she couldn’t bear to hear anymore. All she could see was the little boy with the missing teeth. The little boy who had hardly become a man was dead before he had a chance to live.


Suddenly the molding shoots up and runs perfectly perpendicular to the floor, it then turns sharply to the right and runs parallel to the ground until it turns left in a sharp perpendicular line heading straight for the floor where it meshes with the baseboard and travels peacefully around the room. Doorways can seem random sometimes-awkward openings in an otherwise perfectly smooth wall. But they always have a purpose. Solidly marking the difference between kitchen and living room, bedroom and hallway, doorways are unquestionable ends and beginnings. They hold unmistakable opportunities and always lead somewhere. Where does your doorway lead?

Memorial Day 5.30.2011

He looked out the window, drinking from his dark, black coffee. The eyes that gazed out the window were empty and haunted.
 All the celebration. They didn’t really know what went on in those wars. 
He did, he would never forget. He had lost brothers . The guilt rode heavily on him throughout the years. 
There was a small knock at his door. He opened it, staring down into the bright blue eyes of a blonde little girl. She smiled and handed up a small white daisy. 
“Thank you for serving, sir!” she said, meaning it sincerely.  
And then…  He smiled. 

5.30.11 Memorial Day

The man slipped into his grey uniform and cap and a shadow came over his face. So many painful memories flooded into his mind.

Memories of the field in which they had fought, side-by-side, through the long hours of the day.
Memories of the gunshots, the screams, of the hard gun pressed against his back, forcing him to go into the cell.
Memories of the cold floor, where he sat, alone, waiting for any sign of life, of a rescuer.

Those were hard, cold, awful memories, but he pushed them aside.

It was Memorial Day, a time to celebrate.

He had survived.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

5.29.11 Bad News

The piano tapped out its melancholy tune in the corner almost oblivious of the old musician sitting beside it. But its heartbreaking melody was only second on my mind for my eyes were riveted instead on the two men by the fireplace. They spoke rapidly in hushed tones, one held a piece of crumpled paper between them. Then suddenly the ballroom went silent, the dancers swirled in slow motion, and the lights dimmed. They turned toward me and I shivered in my seat. My hands were shaking, spilling red punch on my gloves. They frowned. One of them was crying.

5.29.11-good morning

Traveling through the surreal and strange land of dreams, I attend parties, fight wars, observe weddings and executions, visit buildings and beautiful woods. People are not who they were and there is no reason to time. All the sudden a bird chirps and my sense awaken-calculating the time. Slowly the characters and places I had been traveling fade and I embark on a strange journey. There is no definite moment when the dream becomes a disintegrating memory and the world becomes reality again, but somehow my mind awakens and I remember time, somehow my eyes open and I
wake up.

5.29.11 Fever

Fever swept through Philadelphia that summer of 1783, during the hot, humid, scorching, sweltering summer months. The bells that hung in the church tower tolled ceaselessly, an awful reminder that thousands of people died daily. Many children had been stripped of their parents and children had been mercilessly taken from parents. Everyone lived, stricken with the fear that they too would be victims of the awful fever. The city streets once crowded and bustling with merchants and shoppers now stood desolate, abandoned by the outside world. The fever combed through the streets of Philadelphia, ruthlessly killing everyone in its path.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

5.28.11 Colour

I love to look up and see blue floating above me. I love to stick my nose out and smell the sweet fragrance of red. I love the feeling of green between my toes as I skip barefoot. I love the prickly warmth of yellow on my skin and the taste of pink on my tongue. I love to hear the whistle of orange and the creak of old brown when I walk. I love the splash of grey on my head, the flash of white in the night, and the taste of sweet chewy black.
I love every colour.