Strength | pictured words

THE HEART OF AN OLYMPIAN

Dreams held within resist all hindrances,
As though an iron breastplate shelters it.
Equating fear and doubt as hidden sins,
It will not recognize them, nor admit

Susceptibility may lie inside.
It soundly strikes a metronome-like beat
That pulses toward the goal that it has eyed,
Where grueling pain and utter joy may meet.

But when a running water hose crimps tight,
The urgent fix outweighs the aim at hand.
The crimp must be relaxed … And this despite
Whatever lofty plan was in demand.

Olympic hearts are human, in the end.
They’ve earned soft hands to hold them as they mend.

THE WOMEN WHO WAILED

I wish I knew who to attribute this to.

Who were these women,
walking the path with Jesus,
this innocent man?

This One who showed them
they were not to be trampled –
thought as second class.

This One who showed them
they could learn and understand
scripture, and His words.

Who were these women
who did not turn away as
He was crucified?

Exhibiting strength
in their engulfing anguish –
strength I cannot know.

Facing the horror,
these women were not silent.
They howled in their grief,

but also in their
denunciation of this
slaughter of virtue.

Inconsolable,
but not without perception,
and not without hope.

As they witnessed His
final words, were they surprised?
This man that they loved

wasn’t just a man.
Even the centurion
who observed His death

exclaimed, “Certainly
this man was the Son of God.”
My Lord, and My God.

Through their mourning eyes,
did they sense that this dear man
was their Messiah?

Forgive me, my Lord.
I would not have had the strength
to attend to You.

Lamentably, I’d
have worried, crying to You
from my peaceful home,

averse to falling
apart with the sufferer.
(Forgive me, my friends).

2 Comments

Some days seem the longest long longer than a run-on sentence that fills her space with no breaks to grab a breath or bite or blink of rest and yes she’s blessed but stressed and pressed where tiny pupils move left to right left to right no end in sight no time to quench her appetite for slumber in what’s left of night just left to right left to right left to write what’s left to write …

(I do believe too many young moms in our midst feel just like this. 😦 )

1 Comment

May 4, 2019

SHE CALLS HERSELF AN ADDICT

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I suppose when cravings for poison
introduced in past moments of pain
threaten to pull you to ocean’s floor
and you remember the relief of
oxygen to your lungs,
you might find it irresistible, this temptation to
breathe –

even if it is one breath.
Even if it threatens
to fill your lungs with death.

But she –
she would rather not breathe

than return to the venom her body craves.
She would rather hold her breath,
while waiting for her Redeemer
to meet her in the depths.
To lift her face.
To breathe life to her very soul.

She calls herself an addict.

I call her a child of the God who Saves.
I call her brave.
I call her inspiring.

I call her friend.

6 Comments

February 13, 2019

UNSPOKEN

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PHOTO BY KEITH R. GOOD

She fights to connect.
Even her thoughts are wordless,
she says. And I nod

as if I can grasp
telepathically , and
put music to it –

noting nuances
in tune with fluent fretting –
non-verbal vetting

of elusive words
she only needs for we who
don’t speak her spirit.

3 Comments

February 10, 2019

THE VALUE OF FAMILY AND THIRTY FIVE DAYS

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One year ago, today,
we unexpectedly secured
a one-bedroom apartment for Dad,
and moved him into it.
It was just down the hall from Mom and Dad’s place,
where Mom had passed in the wee hours prior.

A back-and-forth blur
of family
furniture
clothes
drums
wood carvings and wood-carving tools
kitchen supplies
medications
wheelchairs
walkers
jazz,
and love,

until one space was empty,
and the other, full
of sunlight and life
that dared each other
shine.

Food followed.
A feast, really,
provided by cousins.
All of us squeezed
‘round a long table
with Dad at one end,
and Mom’s brother and her identical twin
at the other,
between which
more conversation and laughter managed to flow
than tears.

Who could have known
a mere thirty five days later,
the one-bedroom’s sunlight would be called to shine
alone.

6 Comments

January 27, 2019

MY STRENGTH AND MY SONG

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“The Lord is my strength and my song; he has given me victory. This is my God, and I will praise him — my father’s God, and I will exalt him!” (Exodus 15:2)

My Strength and My Song

When weakness takes me to my knees,
My Father’s arms will lift me.
When terror causes me to freeze,
His truths set all my fears free.

My Father’s Son became my Lord
When I was just a child.
To Trinity’s melodious chord,
My soul was reconciled.

I feel His might. I hear His voice –
Astounding grace extended
From One whose love compelled His choice:
From Heav’n above, descended.

He is my strength. He is my song.
I hear His vict’ry ringing!
He’s held my heart my whole life long –
How can I keep from singing?

Cadence and final line are both from the Christian hymn “My Life Flows On,” often attributed to Robert Lowry (1826-1899)

3 Comments

November 27, 2018

ROCKS, STREAMS, AND STORYTELLERS

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Photo by Keith R. Good

End-of-life
for those with whom we are particularly close,
seems to bring out who we are at our core.

Some of us are rocks.
Unbreakable.
Pillars.
Feeling the need to hold up all around us.
Or,
perhaps,
we just can’t let our surface crack,
lest we fall to pieces.

Some of us are streams.
We go with the flow,
while staying our course.
Occasionally we pick up others in need,
and carry them along.
But sometimes a stream’s flow
is fashioned from tears
that even a dam can’t contain.

Then some of us are storytellers.
We talk.
We laugh.
We reminisce.
We play familiarity like a piano concerto –
every part by heart.
We connect to those who are listening,
and telling stories of their own.
But can it be that we need to get lost in a story,
because the reality at hand
is too painful to fully embrace?

Let the rocks be strong.
But if they crack,
help them pick up the pieces.

Let the streams flow.
And if the tears run,
let them –
even as God collects
and records each one.

Let the storytellers recount,
and their experiences, count.
And if the present moment breaks them,
hold their pain
as a book in your embrace,
and help them tenderly
turn another page.

10 Comments

January 17, 2016

GIFT OF FAITH

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Photo by Keith R. Good

My faith is not unshakable, nor grand.
But God is not reduced by human flaws.
For when my need is great and faith is dim,
His unrestricted love renews my hope.

While apprehension plots to halt my steps,
His ever-present guidance leads me on.
See, any strength you see in me is His.
Without His faith to feed on, I am numb.

Before I even recognized my need,
He sacrificed His Son to pay my debt.
It’s not my faith that led me to my Lord,
But Jesus’ love that led me to my faith.

It’s not my faith that led me to my Lord,
But Jesus’ love that led me to my faith.

Trust in Jehovah, and do good; Dwell in the land, and feed on his faithfulness. ~ Psalm 37:3

2 Comments

pictured words

Tag: Strength

August 1, 2021