Saturday, November 30, 2019

Heavy Rain

I see it through a small clear space above the windowsill.
Rain falls in autumn for me.

I hear it from a nice room densely filled with peace,
enjoyed with a warm cup, a warm heart, a warm place 

Cool fall rain for me and thunder far away,
cars passing by on the wet road make a different sound 

Lightening flickers with a cool November rainfall.
It is almost 8 and I have engaged a fresh day.

Now the rain is twice as much as it was;
falling heavy, real and "now".

Life is heavy and real.

 I’ve just noticed some words to the left of the space I’d been watching-- the one affording a peek at the rain.  They echo.  

Heavy rain and I am not drowning.  Heavy rain, and still, I will see the sun coming up over the hills.  Heavy rain; the cleansing kind, the watering kind.  Is this water for the thirst that will come later on when it is dry? 

Heavy rain can be kind. It is today.  Heavy rain is mine.

Rain falls in autumn for me.  Do I speak audaciously as if I am the only one?  No. Yet I am all of just one. And for just one and a billion it falls. 

I hope you feel it is falling for you. 

The LORD your God is with you; his power gives you victory. The LORD will take delight in you, and in his love he will give you new life. He will sing and be joyful over you
Zephaniah 3:17 (Today He is singin' in the rain)

Saturday, October 19, 2019

We Worship

The singers stand ready on the stage, hearts warmly postured toward praise, their inward worship is stirred and spilling before a sound is made. 

The strings announce the sound and the drum leads this beautiful company forward. Their voices each rise like a plume of pure and golden breath, lifting like incense to Jesus; Savior.

We worship.

Voices tuned up, tuned in and tight-- spark a flame. As the song ascends, one bright and rising plume leans into the other and intertwines, one voice now clinging to the other, both disappearing into one fresh sound.  The next reaches and vines around them; like rivers converging into one.

We worship.

The horn breaks in making declarations! Announcing freedom, proclaiming the kingdom come! We lift our eyes higher, our hearts beat together and we hone our gaze deeper into this place of reverence and awe.  

We worship.

A diverse gathering has joined the song; they feel the familiar ease of dear friends and exhale their cares into the bosom of family.

We worship.

May they be one as you and I are one.  John 17

Friday, October 11, 2019

The Town Bird

One day I suddenly came to town and slept under a town sky, under a shingled town roof, and beneath a white chenille bedspread I bought in the town.  When I woke, the sound of the rooster was far off in the country and I couldn't hear him and his rousing reverence to the rising sun.  The luscious red cardinal perched in the oak tree beside the worn country porch was singing without my daily delight in him. The mockingbirds and blue jays, the crows and the doves were charging the air and the nuthatch was still making his funny sound like a rubber duck smashed under foot, but without me to laugh at him.

It seemed to me the town boasted only the sounds of men and women moving mindlessly about in cars, passing me by under the white chenille bedspread, and the church bells kept telling us all its time to move on.  But where was the morning song?  Where was the chickadee wearing his tidy black cap and sounding so sweet like the high-low squeak of an old teeter-totter in need of oiling? And who was going to call up the sun when not a rooster was allowed under this strange town sky?   And so my heart was grieved for the country birds because I didn't hear their familiar, soul-feeding song that assured me that this world in the country was the most beautiful world of all.

Spring quickly turned to summer who yawned slowly into a broadening autumn and nothing much had changed.  I walked in the town yard behind the house where I slept and noted the squirrels jumping from tree to tree. One ambitious fellow carried a discarded apple high into the sugar berry tree and losing his grip, dropped it, landing with a thud just in front of me.   I walked along the city sidewalks, passing the shop that sold cigarettes and tobacco, sometimes stopping on the bridge to watch the fish swim in the creek below, and always slowing to regard the antique roses that hung pink and rosy in the yard of the 1st Baptist church.  Somewhere in my moving about I began to pause at the sound of the church bells tolling out the hour and I began to feel grateful and reposed.

And then one morning, waking under the town roof, under the dark and sleepy town sky,  I heard a sound I hadn't noticed before.  It came from the the south, from the river's edge and broke open my town life with the same sweetness of the country bird's song that once called up the joy of each brand new day.  For just like the birds, the sound rang out from the depths of Truth, Wisdom and from the sure Hope for the future.

  And within the new sound I heard these words:

"Here is the new sound.  Hear the sound for a new season and a new time. Can you not perceive it?"  

And under the town sky a heart now stirs at the sound of the train whistle calling from the river's edge and assuring that my world is the most beautiful of all still.

And surely I am with you always...... Matthew 28:20

Saturday, October 5, 2019

Come Home With Me

Come home with me you stout little man with your little brown turban and tiny pointed chin. 

Remind me of mornings draped round with autumn once again.

Come sit now on the windowsill. In the small room you can recount your times in sun, wind, and wild spring rain; of seasons here and gone. I will listen to you and imagine the things you say, the sights you've seen. I will open the window just behind my eyes and see whatever you say.  Give me your visions, show me vignettes of powerful progeny, of mighty oaks and of humble fallen seeds. 

What a firm voice from a such a wee seed.  And such towering tales you tell! 

I passed a respectable grove of oaks in early spring.  Emerald leaves painted deep with dew shimmered in morning light and made the oak forest seem enchanted. Catkins dangled playfully in the breeze from many branches like a gang of little-boy-legs hanging lazily off a dock in summertime. Are they dreaming and bragging of becoming an oak tree too someday; a righteous towering oak?  

Mother Oak and Father Oak have followed me all my days.  Mother, holding the ropes that carried me high on a homemade swing long ago, Father standing firm with his lavish breadth of shade beside my bedroom windows last year.  And just yesterday, standing along the path offering acorns at my feet.  When they whisper, I am comforted and intrigued. When they shout, I laugh and cry and am undone.

So, stay with me little acorn. Stay fall and winter too on the windowsill here in my room. I will listen to you and in the springtime, set you back along the path. 

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

You and Me

You, God, and Your golden speech are the life of my life.  You are the beautiful liaison between who I am and who I can be, drawing the two towards one another. 

Let it be.


 And let us talk over the "you" and the "me"---can I see more clearly the power of "we"?  I'll have no need for hyperbole.  Ever may it be. 

The "you" and the "me" entwined to make "we",  ever may this be. Will You reveal more of this mystery?

Encompassed in Three, surrounded yet free, the God-head and me--amazingly! 

Monday, April 22, 2019

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Backdrop of the Battlefield

An old held-back post, or note to self in the blog files.  I must have been feeling the battle. 
 Your life is not about any of this, Rhonda Michelle.  All of this only creates the backdrop to the battlefield for your soul and for the souls of others.  Your mortgage, the leak in your radiator, your family gatherings, your bank account, Christmas coming, your home, land, your debt, your cars and what is or isn't in your refrigerator are not what they may seem to be.  These are not just your life on a Wed. in 2014. They are only the backdrop to your real life.

Jesus prayed for you like this, My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one.   We are meant to be here, but we need this prayer of Jesus to tread here because it is more than it seems. 

Jesus, our glorious man, is not recorded to have concerned Himself much with my list of things in above paragraph, as IF these were not the most important things in life?! What of that!?  If He didn't then why do I?  

  His hike into the wilderness was an epic battle with the devil during a 40 day fast.  All my hikes are to see beauty and gain strength. Most of my fasts are because I feel chubby. And when I kayak across the lake it is to feel something, see something and enjoy myself. But in 2014 I'm seeing them all in a different way; they are more.  All is more.

When Jesus skimmed the waters of the lake,  it was with eternal purposes in his heart.  Maybe the beauty of the sun glistening off of the water that day, and maybe there were fresh smells, the feel of the water between His fingers, the breeze and gentle waves making soft sounds against the boat. But He was going to command demons and set a chained man free. (Mark 5) He had the same sort of backdrop as me, but lived out of another dimension.  I want His dimension.

With  purpose He crossed from life over to death, and to life again to set many more free.  And He is pulling back the backdrop of my life so I can live like this glorious God-man.

Monday, April 8, 2019

A Song Sung Free

The big bird is the loudest on my farm.  He is rooster, hear him cockadoodle-do.  He is drawing in the morning air and thrusting out his morning song.  I like it. 

He has to.  Some instinct laid within his chest from the beginning assures that he will sing it up every morning where ever he is, whatever he is doing. I never doubt that he will sing.  "Someone" else chose for him to sing, and he ever will.

 But me, I am higher than him, created in a different order, from a different print.  Something distinct was laid within my chest from the beginning and I know it-- I can feel it. I can wield it, this something higher than instinct, this something royal and right, this autonomy tucked inside of me.  I am free to sing or not to. 

 But he is warming me up to the morning. Cockadoodle-do. He is unbolting a door, stirring up the choice in me.  The morning air seems delicious coming up through his jolly throat. But

let the lady-farmer sing a better song than him. Let morning air breath a higher word from me.  Let my choice charge the air with praise. Liberty makes my song so different than his, and heaven knows the sound of a song sung free.