Winter

Waking up each morning.
Life is a kaleidoscope.  Ever changing.
The colors.  The shapes.
Making something beautiful.
Sometimes out of pain even.
But changing.
Like the seasons.
And we.  Hanging on.
Looking hard for goodness surrounding.
And counting.  Thankful.
That God.  In control.
When the shapes change. 
And the colors morph into something.
New.

Beauty in the raw

 

Rain pouring down.
In the cold gray.
Beauty in the raw.
And in the cold.
A morning.  A season. 

Layers.  Of life.

And for a short while.
In the early.
Frantic slows.
And time morphs.
Into a river; slow and gentle.
By which to sit.
And be still.

And in the sifting.
Through the layers.
Of hours lived busy.
Cacophony of worry yelling.
Frantic attempts thrashing.  
And confusion filling. 

Raw.
Bubbles up to the surface.
And sits on my lap.
Staring at me.
And I laugh.  No longer afraid.
Seeing the truth.
Experiencing grace.
And it's all okay.

Needing nothing more.
Than the being still.
And knowing.

He is God.

Redeeming the madness.
And the rain.  And the cold.
And the seasons falling hard.

Layers.  Of life.

Giving us beauty in the raw.

And rain pouring down. 

Beautiful.

We are lousy gods

 

A new year.  We have celebrated.
And we all.  Hoping.
To do better.  A clean slate.
Finally arrange ourselves; this one life of ours.
Into something coherent.
Something.
To be proud of.

And so.
We make resolutions.
And stop eating and start cleaning.
Join gyms and organize our spaces.
The self-control god of January.
Rearing it's ugly.
Once again this new year.

But nothing ever changes.
Because.  The resolutions.
Riding hard upon our shoulders.

And the self-control.
And sheer determination.
Pulled on hard.
Like a pair of new boots.
Beautiful to look at.
But painful to wear.

But we wear them.
Those damn boots.
For a while.
Thinking we look great.
Feeling proud even.

Until.

Our feet hurt.
And the shoulders ache.
And we yell; from the trying.

And it all falls away.  Again.
Our weary souls crumpling in the exhale.
Of one more attempt.  One more try.
At being something we can't even.
Articulate.

Because.

We are lousy gods.
And we invent even more.
To bow down to and worship.

And we don't live beautiful.
But in pain.
And no one's kidding anyone.
About it.

And so.  This year.
Not pulling on those boots.
Don't have to.

Because.  All along.

Shame and the not measuring up.
The race for perfection.
Already won.

Freeing us from the tyranny.
Of self-improvement.  Gone awry.

And it is grace transforming.
Unfathomable Love. 
And that is the beautiful.

Not our weary attempts.