Ann Voskamp & 7 years

This made prayer from Ann Voskamp made me smile. By the way, 11/16/05 was my 7 year Inasmuch anniversary. Goodness! I won't say time flies. This blog has chronicled the ups and downs (more often the emotional venting downs) of seven years (a quarter of my life!) The new beginnings. The passing of dear ones. And I hope it will continue to, for as long as it should. 

Oh God, thank you for 7 years of expression. I do pray every keystroke would be for your glory, not mine. And thank you for Ann and other wonderful bloggers out there, what a gift. Soli Deo Gloria. 

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A Prayer for Bloggers

I am no longer my own blogger, but Yours.

Refine me with each post how You will, rank me how You will.

Put me to service, put me to suffering.

Let me be a follower — instead of seeking followers
Let me post for You —  or be put aside for You,

Lifted high, only for You, or brought low, all for You.

Do with me and each post whatever You will, because You alone know best.

Let me not strive but submit
Let me not compete but care
Let me not desire hits but holiness

Let my blog be full of You, and let it be empty of me.
Let me crave all things of You, let me care nothing of this world.
Let my words be focus only on the greatest of audiences: You.
And You are enough.

May I write not for subscribers… but only for Your smile.
May my daily affirmation be in the surety of my atonement not the size of my audience.
May my identity be in the innumerable graces of Christ, never, God forbid, the numbers of my comments.
May the only words that matter in my life not be the ones I write on a screen — but the ones I live with my skin.

I freely and heartily yield every sentence, every title, every post, every comment… or no comments… all to Your pleasure and perfect will.

My only fame is that I bear your name
My only glory is the gift of Your Grace
My only readership, Your eyes that seek to and fro to find
Make this so. Lord…

Yawhew, you alone are my God, not Google
Jesus, you alone are my Savior, not sitemeters
And Holy Spirit, you alone are my Comforter, not comments

So be it, today, yesterday, and every post to come.

O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
thou art mine, and I am thine.

This is my prayer I have made on earth, over thie keyboard…
let it be ratified in heaven.

In Jesus’ Name…. Amen.

By Ann Voskamp

Stones

Tears for the mourning,
Two departed in one week is more than I can hold.

This grief, it comes and goes.

Like walking on old paved stones
brick laid a century ago
fired in a kiln, then
a kneeling workman sized and placed in the ground
now in this afternoon light,
I gaze, snap, and pass over, leaves collecting in the seams. I feel the weight of history. Then I move on.
They are moving now, too,
their feet are treading a paved way,
in a city I've only read about,
where the streets are paved with far better stones,
their eyes see with a far better light.

Sister Ruth, brother Jack.
When they met Him, did they run? Laugh and bow?
No over-shoulder-looking-regret
in this new city, no.
Only a Sun to look upon, only a King's arms into run.

I hold onto the hope that they are home.

Sadie, by Joanna Newsom

Sadie, white coat, you carry me home
And bury this bone and take this pine coneBury this bone to gnaw on it later
Gnawing on the telephone

Until then, we pray and suspend

The notion that these lives do never end

And all day long we talk about mercy
Lead me to water, Lord, I sure am thirsty
Down in the ditch where I nearly served you
Up in the clouds where he almost heard you

And all that we built and all that we breathed
And all that we spilt, or pulled up like weeds
Is piled up in back and it burns irrevocably
And we spoke up in turns 'til the silence crept over me

And bless you, and I deeply do
No longer resolute, oh and I call to you
But the water go so cold
And you do lose what you don't hold

This is an old song, these are old blues
And this is not my tune, but it's mine to use
And the seabirds where the fear once grew
Will flock with a fury and they will bury what'd come for you

And down where I darn with the milk-eyed mender
You and I, and a love so tender
Stretched on a hoop where I stitched this adage:
"Bless our house and its heart so savage"

And all that I want, and all that I need
And all that I've got is scattered like seed
And all that I knew is moving away from me
And all that I know is blowing like tumbleweed

And the mealy worms in the brine will burn
In a salty pyre among the fauns and ferns
And the love we hold, and the love we spurn
Will never grow cold, only taciturn
And I'll tell you tomorrow
Sadie, go on home now
And bless those who've sickened below
And bless us who have chosen so

And all that I've got and all that I need
I tie in a knot and I lay at your feet
And I have not forgot, but a silence crept over me
So dig up your bone, exhume your pine cone, my Sadie"

Poverty

A material definition of poverty harms both the materially poor and non-poor. -Steve Corbett & Brian Fikkert

Poverty
sinks in between the cement cracks and weeps
into soil compacted
every particle; saturated
with broken relationships
to earth
to fellow human
to self
to God.

Nothing stills the gaping lack
until the blood spilled
right through the cracks
overtook the thoughts
with light
shone in: mending
every broken relationship: pending
reconciliation with their Creator


with earth
with fellow human
with self
with God.



Righting every wrong
Adjusting every song
so every lung praises
every breath raises
 the Name of Jesus
from every people.

Simple? No.
But status quo will only show
cycles of pride and destruction
Only One Hope- not in a dollar nor a heavy yoke
Only One Hope- in turning and forgiving
Admitting my own poverty is the seed that can break the cement lies
Son-rays grow and fertilized in the blood of truth

joy in restoration
in earth
in fellow human
in self
in God.