"Those little gold stars"

(Composed after House of Prayer,
October 27, 2009).

Head bowed, tears gleaming in my eyes
Shed for the pain of another, I was reminded:
Life is not measured in dollars and cents,
In titles, degrees, and lengthy acronyms,
Or little gold stars on the board;
Yet some days I struggle and strive,
Polishing those little gold stars,
Trying to make them shine brighter,
Reapplying the peeling adhesive,
Keeping them in a straight line.

I don't feel so bad with their glint in my eye,
Still over the years these mere stickers
Seem to simply fade and fall away,
Like the pale ribbon in the back of my closet:
A first place blue ribbon in archery,
Shiny and new the summer after fourth grade.
Actually, come to think of it,
I might have thrown that ribbon away.
Oh well. Nobody really cares about it now.
Old trophies aren't worth much in the end.

Praise the Lord He looks at the heart,
Not our paycheck, job title, or resume,
Not our model of car or IQ,
Nor our number of facebook friends!
Praise the Lord for He is good,
And His mercies are new every morning!
Praise the Lord for His lavish love,
And His gracious provision for our needs!
Praise the Lord for His faithfulness,
And His tender mercies unto me!

"A new friend"

(Composed in cheerful reflection
on October 19, 2009).

A room filled with strangers,
Timidly I sit in my chair,
Trying not to look as awkward as I feel.
Glancing around the rows,
I earnestly seek a familiar face.

My eyes meet another's.
'Oh no! What was her name?
I just met her at the registration table.'
My lips form a tilted grin,
Quickly turning around in my chair.

Trying to assemble a new strategy,
I start to fidget, adjusting my sweater,
Then crossing my legs for the fourth time,
Flipping through the program again,
Checking my cell phone for "messages".

"Tori, is it?" the girl beside me asks,
Reading my scribbled name tag.
"Yep. That's me. What's your name?"
'Becky? That's not so scary.
She looks pretty nice.'

'Oh, interesting...I wonder if...'
Soon I lose sight of where I am,
Intrigued by her cheerful story,
Visualizing her life at home
And imagining her time spent abroad.

"Thank you all for coming,"
The speaker stands to welcome the group,
Starting the session and the retreat.
"It was nice meeting you," she smiles.
"You too," I reply.

Happy to have made a new friend,
I look at the lady at the podium,
Warmed by the thought of a weekend
Filled with lovely ladies to meet,
Many new friends to discover.

"Lounging at Laguna Beach"

(Composed amidst the fog
of October 18, 2009).

Lounging at Laguna Beach,
A lovely, foggy autumn day,
The mist floated in the air,
The gentle crashing of the rolling wave.

I was enjoying the peaceful beauty of the scene,
Delighting in the refreshing sea breeze,
When a flock of birds descended,
Surrounding me as I huddled on my towel.

Squawking and fighting over a piece of trash,
They nipped at a moldy slice of bread.
Nervously I glanced around.
They all seemed to be staring at me.

'I hate sea gulls, ugly diseased creatures.
What if they start pecking me?
So this is what Hitchcock meant;
And I was having such a nice time!'

Up the shore a little girl came running,
Maybe two or three years old,
Stumbling through the moist sand
In her little blue wetsuit with braided hair.

Joyfully she hobbled toward the birds.
They skipped and hopped ahead,
Then in one big rush, away they flew--
A thin white streak in the grey sky.

"What is in your hand?"

(Composed in reflection after a
retreat on October 12, 2009).

What is in your hand?
A pen.

A passion.
A love for my God.
A pain.
A heartache.
A longing.
I give it to Your service.

An eagerness.
A frustration.
A beloved friend.
A ruthless enemy.
I entrust these to You, O Lord.

A warmth.
A zeal.
A chill.
A fear.
A strength.
A wound.
A distress.
A delight.
In it all I will praise You

that they may believe that the Lord
has appeared to you

"Sparked"

(Candle ignited October 9, 2009).

The wind howls, whipping through the trees,
Thrashing leaves and scrawled branches pound,
As I falter in the darkness of the wood.
My thin coat is soaked and shredded.
Alone, cold, and vulnerable, I cower.

Dizzying torrents fill my mind,
Floods of doubt and terrors pummel.
'Is that a building up ahead?'
Leaping, a gnarled tree root catches my foot,
I flounder and fall in the mud.

Dazed I struggle to regain my focus,
While the rain continually pelts my face.
The ache in the pit of my stomach,
Drenched deeply to the very core,
I cry out in pain.

I cannot move any farther.
Muscles aching, worries overwhelming,
The throbbing is too much to bear.
A soft word I hear, yet I see no one,
As though a faint whisper floated on the wind.

Breathing deeply, I struggle forward,
Crawling toward the wooden structure
On my hands and knees on the forest floor.
One hand after the other I push on,
'Til I finally reach the rugged cedar planks.

Cold and shivering, I crouch,
Seeking warmth, shelter from the storm.
My vision blurred, I wipe the glass,
Desperate for hope, a ray of light,
On the other side of the window.

A tiny flame flickers in the frame.
Raindrops enshroud the surface.
Squinting I peer into the foggy pane.
Earnestly I pull on the metal ledge.
It does not budge.

Too dark to see, I stumble around the perimeter,
Tripping over stones and fallen branches,
Water pouring over my head,
My hands probing up and down the walls,
Fingers groping, searching for a knob.

At last I find the edge of the door,
As a cloaked and aged man appears before me,
Extends his hand, beckoning me to enter.
He pulls the door open, warmth sweeps over me,
Yet trembling, I feel my legs giving way.

Blinking, I slowly open my eyes, peering up.
Hazy at first, gradually my vision grows clearer.
His tender, shining eyes greet mine.
Deeply I breathe in the glowing air,
As he gently lifts me to my feet once more.

Surveying the room, I see not only a single flame,
But little lights scattered among the pews,
Each candle held by a weary traveler of varying ages;
Some are soggy and still dripping,
Others radiant and almost completely dry.

In his hand he holds my candle.
I had carried it in my pocket, merely frozen wax.
Ashamed, I bow my head before him,
And in his presence, it softens and ignites,
Sparked by the beatific twinkling of his eye.

"Hostages no more"

(Recounted October 3, 2009).

I had a dream this week that a man put a gun to my head.
Barrel pressing under my chin, I was instructed to walk;
Obviously running was not a viable option.

"Your life is worth more than all the money in the bank"
We have been told on more than one occasion.

Working for a financial institution, there is always the chance
That a crazy bank robber might take you hostage,
Attempting to break into the secured cash vault.

We've seen the training videos, but what can truly prepare
For the sensation of cold metal on your skin?

Fear so easily sneaks into the soul when you lie down to sleep.
I have not been up late at night worrying and counting sheep,
For it is not a rational, waking hour's fear.

The farfetched, terrifying scenarios that just might come true:
This is the stuff of which nightmares are made.

Yet we have been saved from much greater horror than this:
Christ has rescued us from life's supreme robber: Death!
We are hostages no more! So where is our great rejoicing?

It simply comes and goes, as our mood flows up and down
Like the crashing waves on the beach.