Maleficent seducing

I read today.
Men crawl through their lives cursing the darkness.

And we do.  So often.
Curse.

Under our breath.
In a fit of rage.
With body language loud.

And sometimes.
We don't even recognize it.

This cursing. 
This crawling through life.
This darkness.

And sometimes we do.
Recognize it. 

And celebrate it even.
Writing books.  Making movies. 
Darkness romanticized.
Sinister titillating.

The mysteries so deep. 
Of spiritual worlds.

A bogus sense of beauty.
Evil disguised as good.
Alluring. Tempting.

Requiring less of us.
We think.
So enjoying the ride.
Believing the lie.

This celebration of maleficent.
Lives misaligned.
Appearing beautiful.  Enticing.
Seducing our weary souls.

But then.

A day arrives. 

Personal darkness.
Like never before experienced.
Disappointment deep.
Drowning.  A black vortex.

And we do.
Find ourselves crawling.
Terrified.
If we were to admit it.

The evil, the tragedies.
Our own lack.
Unfairness and ugly of life.
Getting our attention.

Because the enemy; darkness.
Dressed up so well.  Disguised.
Tempting.  Seducing.
And beautiful.  For a while.
And we.  Thinking it loves us.

It doesn't.

And we.  No longer celebrating.

Anything.

But the story continues.
In what happened on that tree
when the nails hammered
and the Man hung.

And the sun disappeared.

A violent upheaval of the heavens.
A battle for good against evil.
Played out.  In real time.

Rescuing our own virtuoso attempts.
To decipher life.
To mitigate darkness.

Because.

When the Man hung.

The curse came undone.

Because too often I forget

 

 

God.

Filling my empty with His full.
And giving grace where there is lack.
Showing up with exquisite kindness.
And whispering His love in the wind.

And I stand on tiptoe.
Trying to see.

His Presence.

And what I do see.

Mist covering a field at dawn.
The moon full and white.
Catching my breathe; ethereal stillness.
A holy moment. Stumbled upon.
In the early nearly dark.

Sea and sky having no end.
The stretching of blue in all directions.
Earth a canvas filled; 
this jaw-dropping vista.
Early autumn on the vineyard.

 

A snapshot of sunset.
Brush strokes all over the sky.
Back and forth.  Capricious tinting.
Reflection of stunning in the water.
For just minutes.  Fleeting.

And not really having to stand.
On tiptoe.

So apparent.  This.

God writing.

Above the din of broken and fear.

His Presence.

Because.

Too often I forget.

 

 

 

What it's not

Not just pretty pictures.  Grace.
Or happy moments.

Because.

What we call beautiful.

Is really
that indescribable something

of which for a moment
become the messengers.

Pointing.

Suggests CS Lewis.

To something beyond what transfixes. 
Temporarily.

Beauty smiles.
But grace transforms.

And it is not about pretty pictures.
And words on a page.

It is about the twenty-four/seven living.
In this fallen world we call home.
The ugly stuff and the breaking stuff.

Because.
There is not a scholar anywhere.
In any field.
Who, being honest.
Cannot help but say
there is something seriously broken.
This life.

And the messengers pointing.

To the stuff beyond a church building.

God redeeming.

In the reality of this hurting world.
The fleeing of genocide. Rwanda.
And the life lived in orphanages.
And the hungry in slums.  All over.
Crying out for help. 

And here in this country.
The same because.
Brokenness written all over our lives.
And we live desperate.

Sometimes for food. 
Or shelter.  Or Safety.
And sometimes for love. 
And acceptance.

And here's where grace comes in.

It is available.
In this broken place.
Full of beauty fleeting.  Pointing.

To Redeemer God.

And relationship with Him.
When and where.
He covers our broken with Himself.
And fills our lives with HIs love.
Undeserved.

And in receiving.

Offering to others.

This grace.

Choosing to help.
And to love and forgive.
Hard stuff.
This.
When we would rather not look.
Or see.  Or give grace.
Inconvenient often.

And to those around the world.
Suffering so greatly.
Not leaving it to others.

It's not about a church building.
Or a pretty picture.
Or words on a page.

Anything but ordinary

 

It's in the simple beautiful everyday ordinary.
That life happens.

Life at it's best.

Connecting with a friend who has suffered a loss.
And giving a hug.  And listening.  And laughing.
Because there is always something good.
In life lived with God.

Despite the heartache.
Despite the loss.

And we celebrate.

His love.

And the love of community however flawed.
However much we mess up. 
Loving one another and extending grace.
Always. 
To ourselves.  To others.

Because of Him.
In our lives.  Filling us.
Transforming the inexplicable.
Into something we can hang onto.
When answers do not come.

Extending a hand.  A smile.  An understanding.
Bringing the most important part of ourselves.
To another.
And making the simple beautiful everyday ordinary.
Anything but.

Ordinary.