Paint Your Soul {poetry}

I'll paint your soul with colors,

the brightest I can find, 

with sunsets and mountain meadows 

and afternoon sunshine.

I'll paint you the color of adventures,

of your hand in mine,

so in these winter months

you'll remember another time,

and even if you can't,

I'll remember it all for you.

I'll etch into your heart

my words of honest hope.

I don't know about tomorrow,

but I know as long as I have breath,

I'll face the dark with you,

just as I danced in the sunshine,

your hand always in mine.

I'll paint your soul with colors

when it grows too dim to be seen.

I'll sing you back your song

when your heart has lost its tune.

I'll add my favorite parts

--your laugh, your smile,

those long car rides

on deserted roads

in the early morning light,

and mostly, your hand in mine --

Those were all my favorite parts

because you reminded me what it means to be alive,

and now it's my turn

to decorate your world with brighter hues

and memories of perfect moments.

I'll paint this darkness with colors

Till it's so bright

your soul can't help but be light.

Your heart can't help but laugh

at the colors I've painted the soul-suffocating night. 

Something a Bit Rusty Like Hope {rambling reflections}

Love is a verb -- it's something we've been told many times and are consistently reminded of.  There are songs about it (*inserts 'Luv is a verb' by DC Talk*).  People teach about it. When you think of all the important relationships in your life, it comes down to 'choosing to love', and not just that, but also to do other actions propelled by this choice to love.

But you know that verse in the Bible about Hope, Faith, and Love? Because love is the greatest, often the other two words slip through the cracks. Hope more so than Faith, and yet, they are all verbs. They are all words of action.

Hope is a verb. I hadn't realized that until recently when I was reading a post on the To Write Love on Her Arms blog. This past twelve months, I've been disappointed, almost ashamed, by the lack of hope I felt. As a Christian, I should have all the hope in the world and my hope should be anchored on something untouchable by life, but I didn't feel hope. So what did that mean? Had I let my hope go?

And yet this blog post I read gave me a different image of hope. The author painted hope as something you do. You show up to life each morning, regardless of how you feel, regardless of the many times you ask yourself 'why', and you do the next thing and the next thing after that. Maybe like love, hope has little to do with how you feel and more to do with your actions.

Hope is more of a trust, and our trust is placed in God -- That He will make our attempts enough, that He will use even our most tired of actions to mean something, that tomorrow's tomorrow's tomorrrow will bring light and life and another spring. Hope is getting up every morning and still believing that someday, eventually, you'll want to try again and you'll have a hope you can hold in your disbelieving hands.

Hope, like Love, is not always dressed with perfection. It's a grittier thing, a stubborn thing. Maybe the 'feeling' is a bird with many feathers, but the real thing is time-resistant, two steadfast boots not about to budge, hands rubbed raw as they hang onto the end of the rope, taking care of yourself even when you ask, 'But why? What's the point?'

       We're imperfect humans in an imperfect world, and any hope less than the hope that involves clinging wouldn't be sufficient. So we will get up. We will lace up those boots, and we will try and try and try, and when hope in tomorrow and our resilience and those around us falters, our hope is 'built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness'.

Smoke Signals {poetry}

I'll send you a smoke signal

just so you'll know I'm alright.

It won't be much 

or nearly quite enough -- I'll admit it--

and you might even miss it,

but it's all I have the strength to do.

Sometimes...right now I ponder:

what's the point?

Do you even care?

But I remember what you've said

before it turns to ash,

and so that smoke signal comes

or is coming

as soon as I set this fire

or learn how to rearrange my words.

I'm trying to rearrange my words,

but written down,

they lack all meaning.

They're hollow. Too much. Too little.
Do you have the grace to see 

right through my confusion?

Maybe you can just read

between the lines?

Or will this smoke signal suffice?

Will it mold itself into an S.O.S?

Don't bother. 

It's just enough to let you know

I'm alright,

and I promise

I'll come back.

I won't know the date.

I don't know when 

I'll be happy again,

but you'll be the first to know.

Till then, look to the sky.

I promise I'll let you know I'm still alive. 

***

Hey there, I didn't intend to take a week off from blogging, but you know life. I actually persuaded my mom to write a guest post, but she hasn't finished it (she's a little bit out of practice with writing. Still -- I'm excited to share the post with you sometime this month). I've been spending more time and energy on writing stories again, and I've also been rereading some of my old favorite books. I haven't ever really been much of a rereader, but this year I decided to start. So far I've read The Magician's Nephew; The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe; The Gammage Cup and The Whisper of Glocken by Carol Kendall (I dearly love these two books, especially the second one. The characters are endearing, and I even chuckled a few times which is a rarity). Currently I'm working on The Horse and His Boy and Anne of Green Gables, too. I feel like I'm visiting old friends. It's so delightful. What are some favorite books from when you were younger that you'd consider your 'old friends'?