I’m razed-rebuilt upon the rubble

(reconstruction’s not so terrible)

Abiding clay not crumbling mortar

constructs new purpose as it ought to.

Being taken apart is frightening. A sense of fear and failure can overwhelm when only seen in the present.

We are told that we were made from clay, that from the earth we came and to the earth we’ll return. Our essence remains though the form changes.

I’ve allowed so many temporary things to hold my life together, to define its shape. I’ve been afraid when those things have been torn down in my life. But like a city razed then raised again, I see the essence repurposed even as the old constructs fall away.

The good bricks have been salvaged and a new build has begun.

Dark confines of that veil entrapped

my being and suggested that

my form and purpose were amiss.

What lies! Truth splits the chrysalis.

Change can be hard and much misunderstood. Disassembly of what was may invite lament, it may provoke derision. What is to come may be unexpected and unenvisionable. Only waiting will bring us to revelation.

A calling that condemned his place

in the garden, now he’ll face

boundaries widened where he’s cocked

to serve a more appreciative flock!

We keep hens. One became broody, so we brought her two fertile eggs from a neighbour down the road. The eggs hatched, and everyone delighted in them as they grew into themselves. Then one day one of them made an awkward crowing sound, which soon became a distinct cock-a-doodling. It began proclaiming each new dawn –  which disturbed the peaceful slumber of all around.

With a plumage that stood him out from the crowd and a voice that unsettled and affronted the clucky status quo, eviction plans began forming. There was quite a caffuffle around his removal, but soon he found himself in a spacious small holding. A whole host of hens welcomed him, along with ducks and pheasants and guinea fowl. His calling was fitting in that place.

Meanwhile in the garden a paltry grouping continued pecking.

Cloaked in pain I just grant licence

to more malevolent connivance.

Disrobe me! Let me dress as one who’ll

wear more gracious habitude.

I wear clothes that express and project something of myself. How I present myself has an effect, on me as well as on those who see me. There’s always a choosing about what I put on – the comfort, the vibrancy, the weight, the line. Last year I spent too much time draped in heaviness, which I’m now unpicking. It was a mantle that fashioned a bitter streak, which I’ve not admired in myself. But just as when I face my wardrobe each day, I have choice about what attitude I’ll put about me. I can discard what drags and dulls me, I can swathe my form in an uplifting silhouette. I hope you’ll like the cut of my jib!

‘You don’t belong’, ‘not one of us!’

waymarks my life, t’was ever thus.

Yet in their imposed wilderness

wild love claims us, coalesces.

I’ve had many forms of estrangement. This last year I’ve experienced it from the place that professes great acceptance and inclusion. People are people though, and we practice othering in every gathered group. But the wilderness is a place I’ve been before, a place I’ve reluctantly journeyed times, and always its sand is between my toes.

Its a bleak and blistering place. But I wouldn’t be without it. In spite of how isolating it seems, it is a place that God better has our attention as he sand-blasts the hard edges of our lives, and draws us closer. And then we find each other again.

Those who peddle

a cycle of grace

Have spoke – their mettle

shall malice efface.

I have friends who, in the face of great conflict, persevere with peaceable ways. They continuously allow for failings, and open opportunities for a new way ahead. They use words of gentle penetrating wisdom. There are many high profile role-models of people practicing non-violent resistance, but my friends live it out in overlooked ordinariness.

I have had times with  violence spinning within me. Pain and injustice do that. It threatens to be propelled out, away from a wounded core. I’ve learned to relinquish that urge – I can’t be contributing to the recycling of hurts.

Justice and grace are not an either/or. We can have and/both. Spirit and resilience will get us there I’m sure.

What’s meant for bad shall turn for good.

Dispel the dark, in light I’m stood.

Set down their spiteful litany,

now trickles through epiphany.

There comes a time when you’ve borne condemnation long enough, from without and within. It must not, does not, define me. I’ve laboured long and hard, and then find I transition unexpectedly – a small crowning moment that comes with quiet wonder. I find I am part of a circle of light held up on the eve of Christmas. I have promise.  I’m going to hold on to that.

Resolving to cut down on toxins

we offer mutual healing bolsterings.

I’ve been consumed and now am purging –

lighter life and love unfurling.

 

A few of us have acknowledged that we’ve been taking in to ourselves too much that is doing us harm. We have agreed to take better care of ourselves, each as they need. Food, alcohol, condemnations…

We’ve lent each other the motivation to take in less and be more. Cheers!

A friend is coming, collar-free,

we’ll have repast and repartee.

Feeding souls and raising spirits

unbuttoned feast of friendships merit.

 

She’s on her way, to not be rector,

come to let us resurrect her

sense of self – which does get buried.

Break the sod! Arise unharried!

Ministering to others full time is hard. Wearing a dog-collar means my friend can be a little choked by the demands on her, and in need of a breather. Ministry comes in many forms, including hospitality – and through it we find ourselves again. I don’t do puddings but I consider this the Sundae best.