The Bear and the Mountain

Like the bear upon the mountain,

Like the wind upon your back,

Without a fleeting glance of worry,

Without ever looking back.

Up the mountain I shall move you,

Up the current you shall ride,

And when the waters seem to crush you,

Further still, your heart shall rise.

For here I never will forsake you,

I am the strength above all time,

So give your all into this journey,

And your heart give unto Mine.

Do not absolve your resolution,

Do not waiver from this course,

But open handed with this journey,

You cannot take your dreams by force.

I am the bear upon the mountain,

I am the wind upon the sea, 

For everything you seek to triumph,

You will do so unto Me.

I am the ruler of the nations,

I am Holy, I am King,

And where your heart seeks destination,

If you are willing, I will bring.

Running.

Running, always running,
Rising high on skinny stilts of resolution.
Rickety,
Rackety,
Running, sliding,
Too afraid of falling,
Too afraid of falling,
Too afraid of stopping,
Too afraid to still.
Running, always running.
To a place no one can follow,
Searching,
Shifting,
Slipping, falling,
Higher, still, the stilts are rising,
Slippery footholds are my purchase,
Seeking steps I cannot fill.
Running, always running.
I am running, running still.
All around me desert places,
Locked up kingdoms.

Running, always running,
Places slipping through my fingers.
Too afraid to stop.
Too afraid to dream and dare,
Too afraid to step foot there.
Running, always running.
Though my heart would wish to follow,
Beating til my lungs are hollow,
Pleading "back!"
It cries, "Be still!"
It stretches far beyond my body,
Where the longing is fulfilled.

Running, always running.
I am running, running still.
When will this running cease,
When will there be a sweet release?
These stilts will crumble to the floor,
I will rise and run no more.
Fling wide the gates,
Behold the morning,
All from which I once was running,
Too afraid to stop,
Too afraid to dream and dare,
Too afraid to step foot there,
Here my heart returns to me.

Beating swiftly in my chest,
Swelling,
Lifting,
Singing,
Rising,
I am running,
But at rest.

Believe

"Believe in me, Believe in me,"
Implored the apple from the tree,
Where, cloaked, in leaves of gold would call,
Until the height of man would fall.

Believe in me, believe, believe.

Believe in me, across the sky,
A serpents ear who hears this cry,
And slithers, slow and low in height,
To whisper evils in the night.

Believe in me, believe, believe.

Believe in me, the price to grieve,
Awakens, in the depths of eve,
From whom man could not walk apart,
Entwined, as one, in flesh and heart.

Believe in me, believe, believe.

Believe in me, she asks of man,
Her words ensnared about his hand,
To feast where wisdom is contrived,
So here, the dawn of truth arrived.

Believe in me, believe in me.

Believe, Believe!  The harvest nears,
They stretch their limbs beyond their years,
To pluck from where it all began,
The birth of truth and death of man.

Believe in me, believe, believe.

Believe, they said, as teeth sunk deep,
While wisdom shook them from their sleep,
The world unveiled, they knew of lies,
Perceived anew with trembling eyes.

Believe in me, believe, believe.

Believe in Me, the God of Old -
Who sent His son as was foretold,
Deep in the hearts of man will burn,
Until the Son of God returns.

Believe in Me.
Believe.
Believe.

Being Wrought Anew

Definition : Wrought


1 : Worked into shape by artistry or effort.


2 : Elaborately embellished : Ornamented


3 : Processed for use : Manufactured


4 : Beaten into shape by tools : Hammered


5 : Deeply stirred : Excited

....

Perhaps a mountain can be an anvil block with only the appearance of being a mountain...Or perhaps it really is just an anvil, simply clothed in mountain-esque features.  At any rate, mountains are hard to climb without the added confusion and disruption of being something they are not.  No logical mind runs forth with the thoughts of climbing a mountain any course other than the practical and accepted course -- practical because it works, and accepted because this is the way it is always done.  Why challenge a process that needs not be changed?   Why tamper with the inevitable laws of gravity and tested proof held to dearly by those skilled in the art of mountain climbing?  These processes and rules are set in place for a reason, designed to escape the dangers in scaling these earthly giants.

But if a mountain is not simply just a mountain.... What then?  What if a mountain can exist dually as a place of rest and a place of ascension?  An internal excavation yet a climb that is backwards and upside down, breaking all the laws of gravity and normalcy? If a mountain is dually itself and an anvil block, if none of the rules in the physical world apply to it's ambush, how do you approach this anomaly?  What is the purpose of something so divinely messy and seemingly impossible?  Surely, this is the stuff of bedtime stories.

Yet we all have an anvil that is a mountain at some point in our lives.  The question is whether or not we have the integrity to recognize this contradictory place, to seek it out with purpose and ascend it no matter the sacrifice.  This mountain is an altar built on which we sacrifice ourselves, though it appears to us at first as the journey on which we sacrifice everything else.  It does not inherently occur to us that the sacrifice does not consist solely of our perceived belongings, but is all encompassing of our very beings.  Even still, this mountain is also the metal block on which we are melted down and reformed.  It is a birthing place, a temporary dwelling place, a growing place, all under the guise of being an object at rest, though inwardly living a volatile recreation.

This is the place of vulnerability at it's sharpest, most cutting moment, unveiling a courage hidden deep in the candor of our hearts.  If not for this anvil, this mountain, this sacrificial journey, we may never take the detour into ourselves to be reformed and find the integrity and courage of our lives.  We are hidden, far away from the world and far away from man, hidden in a God who sees and knows all.  In this hiddenness, we are blinded even to ourselves, until the time comes when Father God pulls Himself up to our bedside and reads us to sleep.  As we fall asleep His words steal deep into our core and we are transformed through the visions of His words bore into life. We are taken into the stuff of bedtime stories, but also into the realization that these childish bedtime stories may have a deeper root of truth than many things in our adult lives.  Upon waking we have suddenly passed from youth to adulthood. The bittersweet sting to our pride is that outwardly we were doing nothing, because all the transformation, the rebirth, the shifting, molding and momentum building was taking place inside.

This is the unseen journey preceding outward motion, and the only way to achieve true maturity on this journey is to be conceived through it with a child like heart and faith.  An entire life is lived in this secret place before even an inch of ground in the physical is claimed.  An entire heart is re-birthed and revealed in the seclusion of adoration and sacrifice before being dispelled into the world with the momentum of a fire.  Before the anvil, we exist with curiosity, wonder, and disheveled desires .  After the anvil, we truly inhabit ourselves because we are no longer in ownership of ourselves, and in this disowning we can see with new eyes the integrity of our own creation.  We suddenly exist with a fiery purpose and clarity unexplainable, and in this moment we blazon down our mountain anvils in the weight of glory, captured in Love and all it entails.  Love is so much more than simply "loving God" and "loving others" - without a love and understanding of the integrity of our own hearts in God, we cannot love the most essential part of God He wishes us to know... the portion of His being He reformed to be Us.

This metaphorical journey is a spiritual reformation, a drawing out and a pouring into of our flesh, our hearts, our understanding of God within ourselves. It is to be wrought anew, and as we traverse up this mountainside in our hearts of hearts we are really just objects at rest being heated and hammered into a new shape.  Every bit of us that existed before these moments still exists - but our composition is different.   We have been reshaped into something more beautiful than before, ornamented and birthed into something of more effective use, more face value, more visual splendor.  Our very particles have been stirred deeply into an active existence with a designated purpose and we can no longer claim ignorance to our actuality, our true desires or our longings.  We are wrought anew within so we might display our integrity without, and live forevermore empowered by and immovable from what is true.  It is a worthy and noble sojourn, though paradoxical in nature and all encompassing of our hearts.  It is true purification through relationship with God, it is deeply personal and vulnerable, and it is deeply beautiful.

It is the stuff of bedtime stories and being sung to sleep so we might undertake a journey to the inmost part of our hearts.   It is a mountain that is an anvil, and we are the weaponry and artistry passing through it's midst.

....

Definition : Integrity

1 : Firm adherence to a set of moral or artistic values :  

     Incorruptibility

2 : An unimpaired condition :  Soundness

3 : The quality or state of being complete or undivided : 

                                                  COMPLETENESS.

The Illumination of Belief

A light turns on 


in 


    the


       darkness 


                and 


  finally you can see.


 But what darkness is there that can overtake and suffocate us, pressing it's belly down upon our heads to make us believe we are so small?  Only the darkness of doubt and the oppression of worry, twining their fingers through our hair and pulling on our heart strings with malicious intent.  This darkness is thin like film exposures, and it's imprints reflect the small traces of life where we have not stepped into our Curators hands to be found, cleaned, and exposed for all we are truly worth.  These imprints bleed with disbelief and are the shadows of our discontent.  These imprints exemplify the negatives of our every experience, hardly defined by lines of clarity or reality, but so easily indulged. Our imaginations are magnificent birthing places, chalk boards of God within our thoughts - but sometimes our greatest assets can be our greatest crutches.  Our strength is also our weakness if allowed to crawl in the wrong direction and open the wrong door.  If allowed to sneak it's way into hazard, this strength is left standing alone without the company of it's family and without proper covering, in a land where it has no home and it's occupation have never been necessary or even heard of.  It is suddenly useless and all of the heart which flushed it with vitality is sunk into the desolate hollow of "irrelevant and worthless."  No strength, no dream, no man, can thrive in a place where they are unwanted and unneeded; it is the quintessential place of death for all things with a fleeting hope.

This is where the darkness of doubt and the oppression of worry awaken and prowl.  This is where they feed and grow in gluttony.  These dirty creatures, these dark clouds, huddle and hang in the in-between spaces of our breaths, in the wake of our new ideas, five footsteps behind us on our journeys forward.  They do not live in the places we are traveling, for we have not yet arrived in those places as we create them with our Father.  They do not even live in the present moments while we dream and imagine what could be, perusing through our memories and pulling out small details to build a better future out of the past.  They do no exist in our smiles, in our laughter, in our joy.  They cannot be in the presence of Holiness; they are not borne of our hearts. The darkness of doubt and worry only exist in the moment of looking back.  They find life in the moment of abandoning progress and losing focus on the promise land. Darkness swells in the moment of forsaking light - what a simple concept so easily forgotten.  A light can be of no use when our backs are turned from it, just as a photograph can tell us nothing if we busy ourselves trying to decipher the negative imprint of the real image.  


These dark things only suffocate our hearts when we turn from our dreams and forget to believe in ourselves while we pursue them.  So what is stopping us? Surely, it cannot be ourselves. 


A light turns on in the darkness and finally you can see. We are the lamps to our destinies if we would only believe it is so. The light is belief in the promises spoken during solitude, in the dreams stirring where none can see, in the journey forward that has yet to unfold.  It is the illumination of belief.  


The light is to sacrifice looking back, to shed the drab garments of disbelief, open our eyes, and  live.   

By the Light of the Sun

Always learning the art of trust, this messy, joyous, painful, colorful, all encompassing and all demanding part of life.  Without trust, where can we go? Without trust, who can we be?  And always we move forward learning about this one thing, this faith, this ability to be in the unknown and be perfectly content, perfectly peaceful, perfectly happy.  And every time we settle for a moment, we think "Aha! This time I've figured it out!  This time, I trust with everything in me, I have WON!!" And we run forward, shouting like joyful children, waving our hands and wiping our faces, eyes bright with the adventure of conquering new land and the knowledge of success - and it is absolutely glorious - for a time. Then we stumble upon the next gate, the next door, the next path, and it's a little bit harder than before, a little bit different, a little bit strange.  And we think "Oh shoot... I don't know where that one goes... I didn't sign up for this new thing..." and after casting our glances here, there, everywhere but this NEW road, this new thought, this fresh and very dark looking path, we suddenly remember Trust, that old companion whom we had thought to have had all figured out, who must be learned anew and re-appreciated for all of the intricacies which make it irreplaceable.  So with renewed vigor and determination we pick up our tiny suit cases, our dolls and our blankets, leaving behind the lesser important toys of the past; we pull out our tiny flashlights of trust and walk forward into the great unknown.

I am filled with an inexplicable joy at this new road.

It is slightly comical, upon entering this dark and foreign land with the brassy, stubborn assumption that you know your way around, to realize that you can't see anything and all you have to navigate with is a flashlight. I mean really -  to dialogue with God and be handed the flashlight of trust, to stumble upon these gates that lead to the foreign lands you have heard about for so long, which you have been promised to be granted access to, which you have so desired to explore and which for so long you yelled to the top of the skies, shouting to Him, "I'm ready!! I trust you!! I've learned everything you wanted me to... I can't wait any longer!! Please!! Please now!! I'm dying to go!!!"  And then He chuckles and suddenly there it is, everything you've been wanting, everything you knew was coming, that very THING you were dying to have and to endeavor, and it's... odd, confusing, unfamiliar.  And so... big. And all you have is your little, dinky flashlight to see it by, until you remember that it's not by your own plans, your own knowledge, your own doing that you can make this dark, limitless land into the empire you wish it to be, the empire you were building with twigs in your bedroom, the one you were King of before you got to this new place. It's the same room you used to have sleep overs in, where you made pillow forts and wore onesies pajamas.  There was probably also a nightlight, because secretly, you were afraid of the dark unknown. The twigs were practice for the real thing, which is not really like twigs at all, but like cement. Rocks. Weapons and resting places. Like wooden beams and iron rods, light rays and vast amounts of un-plowed ground. There is the sudden realization that building this real city is not like making a town of twigs by the glow of a nightlight at all. Then the sun comes up and suddenly you can see everything - every hollow of the land, every material you need to build, every thing you wondered about to begin with, and the flashlight becomes a relic of the adventure it took for you to see by the sunlight instead.  You put it away and start building until you reach the end of the land and the next gate opens.  This time, you have been building play models of a city with yarn and toothpicks.  This time, your flashlight is bigger. This time, so is the unknown land.

Trust, that funny thing. God, you funny guy.  And on we walk, into these brilliant adventures, and I don't know why we have ever feared, why we ever doubt, or why we ever look back.  Everything unravels and unfolds with beautiful timing, with inerrant measure to our trust in these promises and dreams.   We cannot be tied to the things of the past, the things which we thought we understood of a previous land, as we walk into the new.  They are wonderful things, to be celebrated and remembered, which prepare us all the more for taking the dreams we form in those places and making them realities.  But they are not all life has to offer, they are not the essence of trust.  The gates will open and on we will march, into the dark, with our trusted flashlights and our bright ideas.  The faster we learn to run to these paths with all abandonment, wielding our flashlights like swords, the faster the sun will rise.  Everything will be illuminated, in time - every word, every breath, every promise.

We are alive in our journey.  And the more we trust, the more alive we will be.

I think I am ready for this adventure.

I think I am ready for the unknown.


Because my flashlight needs using, and I fully intend on using it until there is nothing left for God to do but swap it out for the sun.

This Dancing Man of Light

There is a small girl in a white dress, hiding beneath a tree.  

She is scared and so, so young, barefoot and vulnerable, clutching dirty rags of comfort which are stained with tears and the pain of living.  Her eyes are wide in fear and wonder and she plays pretend in the shadows of the branches, never moving past the shady reach of their fingertips.  Here the years pass and she grows, huddled in the crevices of the tree which is her safe haven of exposure; the branches are too tall for her to reach and she is not strong enough to climb up the trunk on her own.  She has seen the meadow which expands far beyond the perimeter of her tree, gazing out at the horizon, desperately wanting to search out the vast land before her but too afraid to move beyond where she feels she is bound.  While she dreams of freedom decay will slowly creep through the dirt, the winter will come and the tree will be barren, and with each season of hardship and loneliness she will grow harder and harder, clutching closer the dirty rags of her comfort, which grow more tattered with every passing year. 


But she has seen the shadows of a man.


He dances through this meadow and flings His arms wide, beckoning her out from beneath the shadows of her tree to dance with Him.  He is dancing for her, all around her, in freedom that she has never known.  Her heart beats in exhilaration at the thought of touching His hand, at joining Him in this dance of freedom and life, but her mind burns with the shame of her condition.  She clutches the dirty rags of comfort closer, yearning for the glance of His eyes to match hers and devour her, to seek her out and find her, but she keeps her eyes low for fear of finding what she so desires.  But in the shadows she watches Him dance, and all the winds and the waves and the tremors of the earth could not match the burning ache she has in her heart to run with all abandon to this man who sings life into the bones of the earth and there dance with Him until all of time disappears. She watches, hungry, and clutches the rags of her comfort close, trying to press them into the spaces between her ribs to fill the longing she has to know this man, to sing His song.  


He steals glances in her direction, dancing and spinning, but does not come too close.  He steals glances in her direction and flings His arms wide, beckoning her to join Him.  And she grows and grows, clutching her rags and tip toeing towards the edges of her safe haven, watching with wild eyed wonder as He leaves gardens of life in the wake of His steps.  Tears stream down her face and water the roots of the tree which is her home - they are tears of pain and longing, of wrenching beauty that she cannot put to words, they well up from the deepest parts of her soul and come, flowing like rivers, slipping through her fingertips.  Still He dances, stealing glances at her and weaving through the gates of time, springing up mountains from His footfalls and oceans from the sweep of His hands.  He beckons her and dances closer, breathing His song like embers of fire that float to her outstretched hands. 


He is weaving Himself into her heart, though she does not yet know it.


She takes one step further, and her body quivers with the desire to be free.


He is dancing, and as His body moves all the earth begins to sing.  The rhythm of her heart begins to speed up as He dances faster and faster, all around her, and she clutches her dirty rags of comfort close, screaming for freedom from her invisible captors, wishing the roots of the tree could be dug up and the great beast torn down so that sun might shine through it's thick covering, so that she could run from it's grip.  He dances, faster and faster, and she watches with painstaking breaths, her lungs expanding with every glance of His eye, her grip on the rags of comfort loosening with His every step.  She takes one more step and looks back at her tree, back at her home, and finds that she is just outside the reach of the branches and she is safe.  He is dancing faster and faster until she catchers her breath in wonder at her nakedness before Him - and suddenly, He stops. 


All of the air is still and the earth silent, the wind hangs in the caverns of the mountains and the blades of grass that swayed with the movements of His dance freeze in perfect harmony.  The dirty rags of comfort she has held for so long slip through her fingers, finding home in the dust.  They turn to ashes and flowers begin to grow out of their remains.  She turns her face to the sky with eyes closed and all of the dirt falls from her skin as new life soaks through her being.  When she opens them, her eyes are locked with the fiery eyes of love, the fiery eyes of the man who danced for so long, beckoning her into freedom.  He holds His hand out to her and she steps forward in joy, wild and free.  Her hand finds home in His and as they dance all of life begins again and the sun rises anew, pouring light through the sky and into the world, illuminating the hollows of every shadow. 


Her only longing is always for one more dance with this man who will never let her go, and on and on they make melody with the world, dancing for eternity.  It is only after she has danced with Him for many years, learning His shape and His body, feeling His every move in her own being, reading every expression in His fierce gaze and letting Him lead her with His heartbeat, that she looks back to her own tree and sees that it has grown tall and strong, bearing fruit that is laden with gladness, watered so long ago by the tears of sadness and longing from her youth, but fed with the sunlight of her victorious freedom.  This place is now full of peace, a place of rest where she can stop beneath the branches and run her hands down the trunk, now lifted high by the strong arms of the one she loves to grasp at the fruit she could not have reached on her own, that could never have been born had she never caught sight of the shadow of a man, dancing in the light, beckoning her into His arms.  She takes this fruit and it's seeds, giving it to the winds, burying it in the sand, letting it be swept away by the sea.  Then she turns back to the one she loves and His beckoning eyes and they dance, across oceans and mountains, each day more beautiful than the one before, each melody composing creation in it's rarest, purest form, singing freedom over every heart.  


Throw down your rags of comfort, they sing together, and come into this glorious light.