Finding Love in Bubble Wrap

Sailing to a new country across the seas,
  She's a girl simply trying to appease
   An aching for meaning to life and for Love
  But not anymore from some man above,
   But from one man down here.
Where's this Yahweh now?
  It's time she try another way now.
Too far removed from old family and friends,
  But this man's love compasses to a more solid end.
Feeling reborn in this new time and place,
  There's only acceptance reflecting in his face.
What she sees ahead with him
   Looks better than what she left behind her.
Yet every odd day, it's the
  Ordinary that stands out to remind her
   Of all her yesterdays.
Today it's bubble wrap,
  And with every pop and snap
  She releases a tear for every year
   She remembers when life was different.

*inspired by a real conversation*

"Surrender is the only thing that is our own." ---Mother Teresa

God, why can't I do this?

Why's it so hard to just get it right?

I keep thinking I'm ready so I jump in mid-flight,

and all I seem to do is fall

when faced with the sight

of myself.

God, why can't I do this?

Why's it so hard to surrender?

I try something else and all I engender

is more of the cold, hard pain I feel.

Another man a pretender, and defender

of what? Of Polo and Cee Lo?

Crack Cocaine and Lil Wayne?

More fly sedans and retirement plans?

Lifestyles of haste, our style of life is just waste,

and in the fiscal year of 2010

our budget of Defense was surpassing 285 billion?

What are we defending?

What is it here that's so precious that makes us think

our money is best spent on protecting it?

But me, nah, I got this down pat.

I know Your plan so I spit out the facts

of what it means to do this and that.

As far as being a Christian goes,

I know how to act

and play the game,

but I have no clue about the stakes of this poker match.

It seems like every day I'm gambling and I'm donning a new hat

to try to look the way I feel I should for You.

And I get it. I get it.

I get my life on track,

and I can see a higher path

of love and what a life of devotion

looks like. As a matter of fact, 

I start feeling your presence thick around

and chasing the sound of your music.

Life starts making sense,

with my time spent in your midst

in the presence of the poor and lonely,

those you bring to my attention.

But why is it that my prayers of praise soon turn to contention,

and all of my efforts and time and energy

result in only another invention of just more dissension,

and with three steps forward I turn back

in the wrong direction?

God, why can't I do this?

Why can't I get this right?

Somebody is always trying to fight
for my time,

and since I feel like I have to do it all,

I make nothing the priority

and always give in to what the majority

says I should be doing.

It's not until later that I remember the Authority,

or what should be in my life.

I'm too afraid of what being the minority

means--lonely, unhappy, desperate, lacking?

The fear's too strong and the lows hurt too long

for me to sit back and just wait.

Isn't that what you say trusting is?

Just.
waiting.

God, why can't I do this?

When will my good be good enough,

and my desires end for all this stuff

I keep carrying around in my wallet and closet
and wearing on my face? I know it's time to deposit
all this in You.

But, this conceit lives the life of the leech sucking deep.

My pride works against me, and my mind just conspires

and plays games of vampires--draining my soul.

Everything we ever worked for,

sucked...out...slowly...

God, I feel so lowly

when faced with myself.

Why can't I do this?
Worry's hills are the only ones my eyes look towards.

Not knowing the future
and never to be sure, it's so hard
when my trust is so immature.
It's time I conjure up something new.
My mind and my thoughts in the end point to You,
my soul and my spirit lined with Yours finally true;
my will and my desire,
my possessions and dreams all turn to fire,
all bow down when my self is faced with You.
God, my air, my time, my blood, my life: it all belongs to You.
The only thing you seek
is the one thing that keeps me free
of You and inadvertently the one thing
keeping me back from being me--the me created to dwell in You.
So why's it so hard to give up that one thing,
that one thing you ask of me?
Surrender

What Teachers Make

One of my friends showed me this poet. He's quickly becoming one of my favorites. The poem I've chosen to highlight by posting it here is the one that speaks to me the most. If language offends you, I apologize now. Try to see past and get the message. Imagine the difference if we were all so intentional and deliberate, especially our teachers.



What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school

By Taylor Mali


He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you¹re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a g-d difference! What about you?

Someone to Follow

As past blog entries have perhaps indicated, this semester has been rough. Emotionally, I've been driving on empty, and every other aspect of my life--the physical, the spiritual, the academic--has been overwhelmingly influenced by my empty emotional tank. The cool thing? God's really been working. Like a lot. Like a lot a lot. I'm gaining a little more peace and clarity every day. However, some days are still steps backwards; but for the majority, most days are small steps forward. Sunday was a leap forward. Sunday, one of my friends gave his initial sermon at my church (Palmer Grove Baptist), and his message was simple: "Stop letting your history dictate your destiny." I needed that message. I needed to be reminded of God's healing, God's redeeming of my history, and God's vision for my life. I think what I needed the most, though, was the reminder that I'm not alone. I needed to see a young man of God stand up before 800 people and cry. I needed to see vulnerability and passion. I had lost a vision God has given me for my life, and I needed someone to point me back. I needed someone to follow.


People crying people dying
People stealing people killing
People raping people hating--
All this hurting.

And that's how life goes

Everyone working everyone fighting
Everyone trying everyone striving
Everyone slaving everyone straining--
All this hurting.

And that's how life goes

The cycle continues,
Everyone alone.
Humans keep hurting and pains keep persisting,
Aching, crying, working, dying,
Everyone Alone.

And that's how life goes

Always reaping, never sewing,
Reaping and perpetuating
All this Hurt.
Because the examples provided--
Killing and Hating--
Are all we have to follow.

And that's how life goes

But,
All it takes is one--
One leader, one model,
One example,
A new example--
To begin a new cycle.

Just one example,
Someone to follow--
Promoting Peace,
Inspiring Hope,
Leading toward Love--
All it takes is one.

Just one solid example,
Just one to show,
It doesn't have to be like this;
There is another way.

And suddenly,
We find the stinging has weakened,
The suffering diminished,
The hurting assuaged,
The pain outweighed.

By what?

By love:
Shown in example,
Lived in words,
Spoken in actions.
One solid example,
Pointing us back,
Starting a new cycle.

Because what we really need,
Is someone to follow.


Thanks Donnie for being one of the few examples out there worth following.

"If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you." --John 13:15

The Secret Life of Keith

I wrote a poem a couple days ago. I love to write poetry, but I think I'm a prose person. Poetry really isn't where my talents are, so I won't post my poem on here. I will, however, at least prose about it (learned "prose" can be a verb. go figure.). I have this thing where I don't title my poetry. Maybe, if I give a poem a title, it boxes in the words and ideas, smothers them beneath some blanket, keeping them from breathing. I just don't like titling my poetry. (To be ironic, I now have to title this blog, I realize that.) The first line of my poem says, "this life's about hurt." For so many people, that's all we feel, that's all this life is: hurt. Living is overwhelmed by it--by pain, brokenness, grief, betrayal, lies, bitterness, guilt--hurt.

About two weeks ago, I started The Secret Life of Bees. (insert little superscript footnote "1" here)(insert little superscript footnote "2" here) Essentially, the book is about the life/development of a 14 year old girl, Lily. Gosh, the girl's been hurt so much and carries way too much for a child, for anyone, to bear alone. At times, Lily is heavy, at times withdrawn, at times bitter, at times angry, at times depressed, always broken, always hurting. The whole story is about diving into all of that hurt. Because that's what life is about: hurt.

It's crazy that I actually believe that sometimes. I've had some moments even just this break where I've been stuck in that. God always has a funny way of mending that mentality, though. I finished The Secret Life of Bees a week or two ago, and it spoke a lot to me then, and I mean a lot. Some of those moments of "life's about hurt" have hit me since finishing the book, though, but that book still has such a strong hold over me that it keeps changing me, refocusing me all over again. God has really used this book a lot to draw me out of those moments where I feel all depressed.

By the way, sometimes, I hate that I can't stay depressed. Sometimes, I just really want to be depressed and wallow in self-pity or self-loathing or self-whatever. Whenever I get depressed, though, and start thinking things like "life's about hurt" or whatever, I start to feel really melodramatic and pathetic. I mean really melodramatic and pathetic, so much so that I end up forcing myself to get over it and smile or dance or sing or eat or do something wonderful--something probably melodramatic and pathetic on the other end of the spectrum, but I like that place.

Like I said, God has really used The Secret Life of Bees to heal me over and over again the past week or two. The book really isn't about hurt. It's more about Lily discovering herself and her world and her hurt and dealing with all of those things. In the end, Lily finds love and belonging and peace and healing through mothers--all black mothers I should point out-- and through God--who in the book is also a black mother I should also point out. It's made me start seeing God in that light, too, as a mother (hopefully a black one, but I suppose I'll be okay either way). I just saw Avatar, and it did the same thing: make me think about God as a mother.(insert little superscript footnote "3" here)

But anyway, I've really needed the message God gave me through The Secret Life of Bees in this season of my life. Like I mentioned above, the book's not about hurt, but about healing. I think that's a message we all need to hear and be reminded of from time to time. Of course, I can only speak for myself, so that's all I'll do, but I hurt so much sometimes! Sometimes, the hurt is overwhelming, and for a time, it's all I see and feel. And like Lily, sometimes I feel alone, and I know I can't do this alone. No matter what I feel, though, I know I'm not alone; I have people in my life to help me, people that won't leave me even when I screw up big time, even when I bring hurt to those people. That's a gift from God, I realize that; and I realize that more than those people, I have a true Mother protecting me, forming me, loving me. I hurt this Mother so much, but the beautiful thing is that She isn't going anywhere. She'll always be there, always loving me, always healing me. Because life is about hurt, but it can be about healing, too.

I wasn't sure how I would end my poem when I started writing it. For a long time, I ranted and ranted about hurt and how cruel and painful life is, but, like always, I couldn't stay in that place. I began marinating thoughts of healing in my mind, because that's what was consuming my heart, and those thoughts flowed out into my poem. The last line is, "yeah--life may be about hurt, but living? living is about healing."

"Behold, I will bring it health and healing; I will heal them and reveal to them the abundance of peace and truth."
Jeremiah 33:6

*(insert little superscript footnote "1" here) --I decided that the best thing I read in 2009 was this book. In the words of one of my favorite people, "It is beautiful and soul touching." I strongly recommend it, and it has established itself in my all-time top 5 books list, a list that includes the 7th Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia and The Shack and Uncle Tom's Cabin, a list that's very competitive and has lots of books fighting bloodthirstily for a place.
*(insert little superscript footnote "2" here) --dear blogger, please add a superscript option. sincerely, Keith.
*(insert little superscript footnote "3" here) --I decided that the best thing I watched in 2009 was this movie. It was crazy awesome.

Broken Bird

Ok, I'm totally breaking my commitment not to blog during exam week. I really just want to post a poem written by one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. It has brought so much healing and encouragement to me, and I want to share that. Shout out to my girl, Nikki Raye Rice.

"Broken Bird"

I read a story once
where an angry man
crushed a bird in his hand.
And lately I've asked,
"Am I the bird, God?
And you, the wrathful palm?"
Because I'm feeling out of
flight, broken, and grounded.
I hated that part,
that a man so merciless
would crumple a creature
so meek in his fingers.

But, You are not just a man.

And like balm on a broken wing,
your mercy is spread thick over me.
I am not caught in your clutches
or crippled by my circumstances.
I am held.
And I know that there is no better
place to break
than in the hands of a healer.

*Footnote to All Prayers*

He whom I bow to only knows to whom I bow
When I attempt the ineffable Name, murmuring Thou,
And dream of Pheidian fancies and embrace in heart
Symbols (I know) which cannot be the thing Thou art.
Thus always, taken at their word, all prayers blaspheme
Worshipping with frail images a folk-lore dream,
And all men in their praying, self-deceived, address
The coinage of their own unquiet thoughts, unless
Thou in magnetic mercy to Thyself divert
Our arrows, aimed unskilfully, beyond desert;
And all men are idolators, crying unheard
To a deaf idol, if Thou take them at their word.

Take not, O Lord, our literal sense. Lord, in thy great
Unbroken speech our limping metaphor translate.


--Clive Staples Lewis