Heed a Song Sung for the Spirit

“Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, 

and watching for this purpose with all perseverance 

and supplication for all saints…” 

Ephesians 6:18 WBT

A songbird trills its melody just outside the kitchen window, 

a back drop to the rote routines of morning; 

brewing tea, let the dog out, light a candle, empty the dish rack, pour milk over cereal. 

Refreshed from sleep, thoughts are quiet. 

Attention is allowed to settle effortlessly on patterned sequences of tasks and paths around the kitchen. Familiar movements follow: cupping the mug, spooning cereal, holding a match to the wick, opening shutters for the first glimpse at day. 

In the midst of rinsing the bowl, 

candle fragrance rising, 

and still sipping tea, 

the bird’s song register’s again. 

Still singing. 

The mind’s attention sharpens. 

Movements cease. 

Silently I hear – You’re missing this.

Return to the table. Search the foliage rich view beyond the window for the feathered resident. 

Sit with the song. 

Hear deep in your marrow a song sung for the Spirit within, by the same Spirit that permeates all. Awaken to the soul’s response as whispers begin my own morning’s praises and prayers, joining the song bird’s melody.

Though the songbird has ceased, 

candle fragrance fills the room 

and prayer continues in gratitude for heeding the Holy Spirit’s invitation.  

“Devote yourselves to prayer, 

being watchful and thankful.” 

Colossians 4:2 NIV

Suspend Worry and Wrestling

This post from my archives, Suspend Worry and Wrestling, recently caught my attention. The message remains ever so true as it was in 2011, well worth revisiting the wisdom of that day. Join me. Feel the wind against your skin and glory in the luxury of that!



Old Dog sprints stiffly to the water’s edge; darting, nose skimming, reading the news of critterdom left on scented surfaces. A banquet of scents hangs in the air to inhale and savor. Bird song, rabbit skittering, and turtle sightings entice Old Dog from branch to brush and then back to the water’s banks. 

The beleaguered, burdened human trails behind, mentally distant, unheeding, unseeing. A heavy heart and weighty concerns veil the senses. Dappled light dances across shaded lawn but eyes don’t really see. A canopy of green foliage rustles overhead as breezes shift and sway; but ears don’t really hear.

In time the Old Dog, satiated with the frenzied hunt for smells; settles and revels in the shade, nose attentive to buffeting scents carried on the wind. 

A glance toward my Old Dog turns into a full measured pause. It’s clear his aging self has troubles of his own: sight has dimmed, hearing and muscles are much diminished. And yet, I hear the interior Spirit suggest; Notice, your Old Dog knows well enough to be here. He knows well enough to sense the cool of shaded grass on fur free skin, to lift the nose and savor the smells in the breeze, to feel the wind in his fur, and glory in the luxury of that, the divine restoration of that!

I feel my eyes widen, mind stumbling to be alert. I settle in the shade and strive to suspend worry and wrestling to attend. Water rushing over the rocky falls fills the ears. 

Wind buffets warm across skin and lifts hair. The essence of wood, wind, and water, the marvel of it all, fills the breath, slows the heart, and quiets thought. Listen for that which one can hear only in spiritual stillness. To see what can only be seen with the soul, to sense the holy in the moment. 

                      

 The Spirit of the LORD will be with you to give you understanding, wisdom, and insight.     

   You will be powerful, and you will know and honor the LORD.  
Isaiah 11:2 (CEV)

Human fears lift...
and shift... 
reframed by deeper awareness and divine meaning that transforms into peace filled strength. 

… to be renewed in the spirit of your minds…  
Ephesians 4:23 (ESV)

Smiling now..., 
grateful for the gift received. Old dog and human head home renewed by divine nudging.

*   *   *



Linking with Still Saturday, Weekend Whispers, Coffee for the Heart, and Tell His Story.

Filled with the Spirit, Rejoice in It

“…the Holy Spirit descended on him in bodily form, like a dove, 

and the voice came from heaven, 

‘You are  my beloved Son, with you I am well pleased’.” 

Luke 3:22 ESV

“But the helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name 

he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”

John 14:26

~

Surely air moved. 

If wings fluttered even once, 

air pressed against skin, swept past faces, and caused eyes to slide closed in a blink. 

Surely time… slowed… 

in the way it does at times of awe and inexpressible visions. 

Surely the beating heart of a white feathered breast came intimately close 

as it merged into the hearts of men. 

Feathers, pure white in layered accuracy designed for flight, must have brushed softly against any outstretched hand. 

Brilliant, unmarked, white-lit by the holiness of God’s presence. 

Beating hearts thunder in human chests. 

Souls rejoice in long awaited reunion with their source, the Genesis of creation.

In Faith,

Lisa

~

“Holy Spirit fall fresh on me…move among us all; make us one in heart and mind, 

make us one in love: selfless, caring, sharing – Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.” 

Iverson, 1926

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Sacred Whispers in the Storm

Opaque heavens have shed rain with vigor in recent days. Out back, quiet streams swell to roaring rivers of sorely needed water. The flow works its way further along, gushing down rocky falls. I stand on the walkers bridge where the path crosses an engorged waterfall. The whir and spill of its hum muffles the racket of an over active mind. My thoughts are carried away along with the natural debris as currents continue to wind and crash downstream. 

The emptied mind opens space for the whispers of Holy Spirit, 

like the welcome rain cooled breezes that follow a storm. 

The air is oxygen rich, 

the Spirit whisper is sacred and equally life giving.  

Standing there above the powerful cascade of water,

I reminisce over the ravages … that my life’s storms left behind…

The indelible marks of flooding water and destructive winds are still felt on my heart.  

Yet I stand here today, despite the scars and markings of tumultuous events, 

because Holy Spirit whispers 

have always been present, 

pouring life giving strength into my soul.

*  *  *  *  *

Linking with the communities at Still Saturday, Weekend Brew, and Tell His Story.

A Poet's Holy Muse

Spring alternately bristled and curtsied this week. 

Cutting, crisp winds with rain and intermittent low temps one moment, 

upstaged by bold rays of sun the next day, 

teasing our trees and budding bulbs to release their fragile blooms.

Amidst the indecisiveness of the outdoors I ventured into the library 

where fortune blessed me with an introduction to poet Jane Kenyon

by way of A Hundred White Daffodils, 

a collection of her essays, interviews, translations,  and poems.

Pleasantly, as rain flooded the back ponds, I discovered a new favored writer.

Jane Kenyon is a highly regarded contemporary poet whose work is greatly influenced by her Christian faith. 

She writes,

“It was my habit to speak to Him.

His goodness perfumed my life.

I loved the Lord,

he heard my cry,

and he loved me as His own.”

From “Woman, Why are You Weeping”, p.207

* * * 

And later in reading an interview with  Bill Moyers,

Jane claims: There are times when I feel I’m given poems.

Bill Moyers: How do we cultivate that in ourselves?

Jane Kenyon: We have to get quiet. We have to be still, and that’s harder and harder in this century.     ...

Moyers: How did you come to write “Let the Evening Come”? So many people say that is the favorite of your poems.

Kenyon: That poem was given to me.

Moyers: By?

Kenyon: The muse, the Holy Ghost... I felt I needed something redeeming. I went upstairs with the purpose of writing something redeeming...this just fell out.

* * * 

This happens, does it not? In just this way. 

In our creative experiences, as one writes, strums, or applies oils to canvas, sensing a hand in union with eye and the heart, 

the Creator present in our inner musing 

to guide our efforts to record His creation.

A Hundred White Daffodils illuminated these early brooding days of spring, 

these expectant and watchful days Lent.

“It’s not just more flowers I want, it’s more light,

more air for flowers, more sun for cheerfulness...

and a hundred white daffodils that grow after dusk 

against the unpainted boards  of an old barn.” 

From “The Phantom Pruner”, p.50

Tomorrow's Promise

I venture forth into my days 

carrying snippets of scriptural readings, conversations, 

teachings, and musings tucked under my heart. 

Internal thoughts pondered haphazardly as I move through my days 

pausing intermittently as some slight bit of my fluid surroundings catches...

snags on some point of those numerous musings.  

Here, as tuned lyrics overlay a phrase I read, 

or there 

as a face streams against my passing current portraying human expression of inspired scripture, 

or another 

from the natural world branching out to display a figurative expression of a sacred story. 

If last season’s life were our Biblical inheritance,

If the branch were His chosen people,

If the suspended vessels were His divine life,

If the dispersed seeds were His spirit,

If nature reflects His promise...

Illuminated understanding rises, 

not grandly, but deeply.

Satisfying as only increased clarity or 

compelling evidence 

can illuminate.

Unspoken whispers of prayer envisioned as being released outward. 

"Thank you O my father,

for giving us your Son,

And leaving your Spirit

till the work on earth is done."

“There Is a Redeemer” 

Joseph Adkison

Jars of Clay

Wandering among the results of a potter’s wheel brings to heart thoughts and meditations on God’s words. Words proclaim God’s people created from clay; as varied in shape, size, form, hues, and glazes as the pottery stacked in the artist’s yard. God’s people as fragile, as prone to chipping and susceptible to damage as every vessel made from earth’s malleable substance. Like earthenware, we are strengthened by a kiln. Through the kiln of life’s struggles and pain our Lord fashions our character, reveals our spiritual gifts, and builds our faith. We are God’s creation. We are made and remade for His purposes and His glory. And as such we are filled. Here, this is where we diverge from the ordinary, empty vessels found in a potter’s yard. Our divine creator filled us with the gift, the treasure of His Holy Spirit. No empty vessel are we. No. Fallible, breakable, yes; but treasured beyond understanding, blessed and gifted beyond deserving. Designed to serve our Lord and equipped to do so by the abiding power of the Holy Spirit. 

I bring the camera to my eye and strive to frame the large number and variety of pottery in the viewfinder, praising all the while that I am among God’s multitude of wonderfully made people. 

~

And yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, and you are the potter. We all are formed by your hand. Is. 64: 7-9 NLT

~

18 The Lord gave another message to Jeremiah. He said, 2 “Go down to the potter’s shop, and I will speak to you there.” 3 So I did as he told me and found the potter working at his wheel. 4 But the jar he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so he crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over. 5 Then the Lord gave me this message: 6 “O Israel, can I not do to you as this potter has done to his clay? As the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand. Jeremiah 18: 1-6

~

We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves. 2 Corinthians 4:6-8 NLT

Fall Fresh On Me

Spirit of the living God, fall fresh on me.

Spirit of the living God, fall fresh on me.

Melt me, mold me, fill me, use me.

Spirit of the living God, fall fresh on me.

Daniel Iverson

~

Eyes seek the canopy overhead.

It shimmers with transparent green.

Branching limbs reach heavenward, 

botanical veins silhouetted against the sky.

Airy currents softly brush leaves and skin,

both uplifted to face the light.

The unique brilliance of overcast skies

intermingles with layers of deep shade.

In the whispers of His forest sanctuary

a grateful voice praises,

a longing soul listens,

a believers heart worships.

~

Hoping you find His Spirit 

in your quiet places this weekend.

Lisa

A Dusted Grey Cross

In the turning and stepping 

away from my pastor, 

tears were springing to my eyes. 

A dusted grey cross 

marked my bowed forehead 

and a soul deep humility 

marked my heart. 

Return to the Lord, your God,  

for He is gracious and merciful. 

Joel 2: 13

The Spirit within pulsed, swelled, 

and joy erupted in warmth 

across my face. 

A candle lit sanctuary, 

hushed in the sacred of forgiving, 

veiled the emotion of communion 

between God’s spirit 

and this grateful heart.

Then God made you alive with Christ. 

He forgave all our sins. 

He canceled the record 

that contained the charges 

against us. 

He took it and destroyed it 

by nailing it to Christ's cross. 

 Colossians 2:13-14

Gaining composure 

through the measured, steady pace 

back to the rows of pews, 

I sensed the streaming pilgrimage 

of so many all around me. 

Moving in turn, to receive the same mark

 scrawled across a bowed head. 

Were tears welling up, 

and hearts swelling up, 

all along these aisles? 

Once seated, did hands like mine, 

reach for Bibles to scour for favorite 

Psalms of remorse and praising? 

Were ashes giving way to beauty?

This post was already written when the Inbox revealed Emily’s exquisite post. Visit her at Imperfect Prose. She has much to share about the work of ashes.  

~

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What Lies Within Us...

I muse over it. What can be gained that is positive in a hospital waiting room? 

I have sat here many times in recent years. Cancer struck in my family. My loved one endures treatments, tests, procedures, scans, and surgeries to keep disease at bay.  Part of my roll in this journey is to wait. 

Initially I did not understand the demands of the roll for one who waits. Getting my loved one delivered on time with all required necessities absorbed my preparation tasks. Once the wait time began, initially I would sit in a haze of numbness induced by crisis. Gradually people-watching distracted me... then magazines that were left behind by others. Eventually I had read everything published that month and needed to scrounge more selectively for recent issues. Maintaining focus on a book often didn’t work; too much effort required for my emotionally drained mind. 

In time I raised my head above the fog of crisis and determined that this season of waiting must be made worthy. Surely there were angels of caring to appreciate. There were God moments to be recognized. There was character to be deepened. There was wisdom to be gained. 

My expertise in this endeavor improved.

I found that I’m fortunate. The hospitals and doctors’ offices in my community are new, beautiful, state of the art. Carpet muffles noise. Upholstery in coordinated subtle hues soothes the nerves of worry as well as the ones imposed by the sedentary wait. Large and varied art works distract ones gaze down long walls, along corridors to unknown places. I watch as surgeons arrive to give a simplified version of surgery-results-with-a-positive-spin to each waiting family. Coffee or hot tea is available to warm-over refrigerated skin and mellow-over anxious minds. 

And there are tools for this journey of waiting. There is a mind set of intention and discernment to be developed. There is an action plan to be designed with alternative measures to be fleshed out. There is a stretched out, slow motion, sense of time that must be embraced. There is a partnership of consistent presence with God that must be established. And there is a collection, kept packed in a bag that accompanies me on every wait filled journey. 

The bag holds tangible tools that allow me to be present with my heart. Tools that soothe over taxed emotions. Tools that are gentle with the haze that clouds clear thought. Tools such as a grown-ups version of a coloring book with prompts, so I don’t have to prompt myself. A journal for decorated word pictures, unpunctuated writing sprees, art copied from hospital walls, impressions that crowd and ramble across my thoughts . A laptop to electronically doodle in similar forms. Tea bags, ear plugs, a favored shawl ~ whatever, to create a haven in the midst of strangers and busyness. 

And a camera {or phone option} to catch snaps; not of the private moments of others, but of beauty, affirmation, or hope. Because, I have found that if I keep my eyes lifted up, my gaze attentive for a bit of spiritual light, I will be blessed. Blessed by such as this; passing by the open door of a hospital office, I read scripted wisdom on the wall.

"What lies behind us

and what lies before us

are tiny matters...

compared to what lies within us."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

This, a bit of spiritual light. In the midst of medical mayhem. I read the words as a reminder of God within us, within me, as confirming knowledge that the Lord is where I will find strength, compassion, and hope. To pursue that internal presence. To clothe myself with His compassion. To be watchful for the beauty in His creation. To center myself on His eternal promises. These are the gifts that can be available in the waiting.

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Invitation Accepted

Would the seat be empty or just apparently so?

Who might come to sit, ponder the moment, offer insight, share an exchange?

Might the companion be ethereal; ever present, attentive, ear inclined to whispers, murmurs, or sighs.

Might the seat be consistently held by listeners from places divine;

an angel of mercy, a guardian assigned, the spirit of the heavens, or the power MOST divine.

Would the seat ever be empty through a life given by sacred design?

Seated with glory in the kingdom beyond,

how could the preferred chair in the orchestra of my life
compare to the diadem most royal?

Yet the chair has been taken, claimed since memory could record.

The invitation accepted, a standing reservation filled.

The chair is never empty if the heart wills it so.

As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; 

I will never leave you nor forsake you. 

Joshua 1:5

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Art and Faith

Church bells ring at noon next door to the Nasher Sculpture Garden patio. 


I sip ice tea listening, hearing the patio’s water wall streaming in unison with bells. 

The occasion is an ‘artist’s date’ in Julia Cameron style; “a nurturing replenishment of creative consciousness”. Thus a solitary trek into the caverns of the city to find this walled seclusion of bubbling water and tree-scaped shade that creates a canvas for the sculptures lolling about on the lawn. Heart and soul love it here. Textures, form, pattern, and mediums portraying metaphors of each artist’s vision awakens the lobes of emotion and meaning . 

That hemisphere of the brain that responds to the abstract, the symbolic, and the tangential; that hemisphere hums in a place like this. Hums in the company of molded metals, polished stone, burnished bronze, botanical art and streaming water walls. Literally, I experience a mental shift as my thoughts react to the dense sensory input. The mind rises out of mundane tangles to climb scaffolding, step by stairs, to musings that stretch beyond present realties. 

“Art is not an end in itself. It introduces the soul into a higher spiritual order...” Thomas Merton

I welcome the sense of spiritual FILLING and subsequent BALANCE that results from the exercise of this lesser used grey matter. Exercise via the viewing of the creative. Viewing the creative enlarges the realm of possibilities and inspires alternatives, confirming that there is yet another way to ‘see’ and more room to grow. Viewing the creative demands attention, invites appreciation and expects ‘seeing’ in a different way. Seeing beyond a cursory glance, ‘seeing’ that is magnified and then juxtaposed against ‘seeing’ that is global, ‘seeing’ that carries thoughts beyond the sculpture garden to mental trajectories of the immense, the omnipotent, of the God shaped.




My experience with the creations of artists never fails to blend with thoughts of the original Creator. I find truth in writer Ann Voskamp’s thinking: “Creativity is good theology;”and in Thomas Merton’s statement, “Music, and art, and poetry attune the soul to God.” Experiencing art travels parallel to and then is woven into the experience of faith. The human potential for and pursuit of creation reflects the Holy Spirit within us.