Day...and night there is light. Dance its gilded celebrations. But do not bathe in the light. Drown in the awareness there is One who brings the light... and this One is holy faithful. jfig #ps—Almighty
gilded
Category: Landscapes
Thickets
Straight and narrow: it seems we have been advised to stay. It should not surprise, then that life's journey braves the thicket and the swamp the deep, dark womb of forest where the seeds of living are formed. Straight and narrow climbs the cliffs hanging on in terror to feel oneself sustained again, and again by the wise, tenacious love of God. Do not skirt the thicket; its briers frame this fierce, improbable beauty: the God Who Loves' abiding embrace.
Dear Reading Friend,
A sharp contrast was drawn for me this week, between the orderly neatness of having it all figured out, and the messy struggle of ever-clambering to keep hold of the shirttails of God. I felt, deep in that place between stomach and gut, that I would rather choose messy; continue to sport all the scratches and mud splotches evident of the potentially infectious encounters of pursuing God wherever he leads, than wear the polished veneer of having stayed behind. I’m sharing these poems to invite your pondering, but perhaps also to bolster my resolve. Godspeed, Jfig
For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.
“Matthew 7 (ESV) – For the gate is narrow.” Blue Letter Bible. Web. 27 Mar, 2021. https://www.blueletterbible.org/esv/mat/7/14/s_936014.
Messy i did not anticipate messy mountains of laundry the stain of anguished tears for there are some that drip from a mother's heart that stain one's shirt forever. i did not anticipate seeing when we each vowed, "I do" sullen dark corners inside the hallways called me no solvent could touch, save grace messy, this creosote of banner borne, blood yet fresh on the beams of his cross my need sticky, with splinters and nails little did i imagine his agony of stretch nor such tedious debridement; things Creator would not have me (w)bear chafing - cautious dismantle to recover image; His Love emblazoned on my heart. messy. jfig 3/2021
Unveiling
Unveiling Such beauty waits beyond the slash heaps One climbs their ruins—no small feat for one feeling small. Yet reddening corpuscles absorb air those that have not carried oxygen for long seasons of treachery. Treachery the lie that small ones have no strength. None of our strength is our own... 'Tis gifted or granted, imagined for purposes far beyond even our most benevolent inclination. And yet, cells have not forgotten how to carry this breath of life. Lift the veil on beauty's unfolding her wonder un-reconciled to loss. Maker has seen to that with measured infinite supply. None of our strength is our own... jfig 10/2020
This poem derives from figuratively carrying Psalm 27 around in my pocket, for long legs of life’s journey. You can access it here: “Psalm 27 (ESV) – Of David The LORD is.” Blue Letter Bible. Web. 18 Oct, 2020. <https://www.blueletterbible.org/esv/psa/27/1/s_505001>.
As one feeling small, I might hide. I do hide – afraid of what others will think of me. But the Maker hides me with his very being; miraculously conferring holiness, strength, life, hope upon this fragile frame. Psalm 27 says that the Lord hides us in is tent, the place where He dwells. The Hebrew root is shineth. The Lord hides us in the awesome and devastating place where his being radiates with glory and majesty. Really???
Midst both my own journey, and the privilege of walking a bit with others, I often grow impatient (and fearful). Why does healing and the transformation that comes with it take so long? How are we to endure? This poem is in no way meant to minimize the pain you might be in, as you wait. It is meant much like a prayer, to stand in the gap with and/or for you, and look for the light of Jesus’ coming to rescue those He lovingly created in his image. I pray He will lift you into the strong beauty of His Presence, and keep you safe.
Lord God, sometimes we cannot believe for ourselves, that there is any reason to hope. And yet, here we are – still breathing the breath of life, that only you could have breathed into us. And so, we wait together, not just for you, but upon you, with the belief that you are who you say you are. Sustain us in hope, even as you sustain us by your mighty hand, we pray.
Luke 4:18,19
Grey
What if the dawn is grey holding on to dying threads of darkness? Alabaster beckons... but first, we must know how to hold its worth. Clouds transpose; lifting and boiling not violently - they are pale but changing nevertheless some with great rapidity. If we humans then, are momentary one dare not miss the momentous occasion to observe the sacred: translucent wisps in eternity. Stand - still and reverent to acknowledge what God has done. "God, you say. Where is He?" He holds the clouds sometimes covering what we cannot bear (were never meant) to see. "Peel back," He roars Can you not fathom the righteous bedrock of my creation? A gentle tutor: "Beauty is kindred to peace... My hope, will not disappoint... Think on it." Aaah, and much of the time, my friend hope is pale, pale grey It's time-hammered pewter a translucent pane mercury glass between God and man. jfig 11/2020
This poem is dedicated to my cherished friend Donna, a gift-bearer of HOPE.
For more in-depth reflection, this poem draws from the following passages: Job 38-42; Philippians 4:8-9; Isaiah 5:12; and if you are feeling brave, Romans 5:5 and preceding.
Trajectory
Trajectory Persistent ripples scribe the surface of Bagley lake evidence that life breathes, expectant, beneath the season's fleeting veil. Painstaking intent flows along ages-old trajectory. The Foundation of the world stretches ancient fingers toward the fullness of time.* Beginning to the end; the end itself—endless. Float, if you must beneath this moment's sky her sun not wasted. Nor is winter's gloom, though we tend to hasten time. Who knows where our Spirit God hovers?** jfig 9/2020 *Ephesians 1:4-10; **Genesis 1:2 Ephe. 1:3,4 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him.
In August, my Covid19 hiking buddy and I made it to the Mt. Baker Wilderness Area to circumnavigate the string called Bagley Lakes. Though not the most acclaimed hike in the area, its raw beauty still spoke volumes. Questions surfaced, just as they have in the past: are these really lakes, or just snowmelt puddles; and what is the difference? You can see right to the bottom – old logs and a dearth of fish. So what is the point, if you see the air for two of twelve months, with no trout nor tadpoles, and the rest of the time are covered up as if you didn’t exist by layers of ice and snow? Two things refuted my skepticism: Even though the water was crystal clear, the ripples were determined, not just from the wind, but from underneath. In its abbreviated season, the free-running water was determinedly going somewhere. And (2) in retrospect, we felt ourselves a part of the scenery, not merely observers. We could see where our footsteps had traced just 30 minutes prior; right there exactly. We were part of this day’s wilderness story, in a way that my companion visibly understood.
The reminder that any season, whether brief, seemingly benign, or harsh to the point of devastating, can still be part of God’s purposeful trajectory is hugely comforting to me. We don’t get to measure the seasons; they seem to take measure of us. But we can look across the valley to see where we have been; experience some surprise to see others who trudge there now. We can revisit the pages of story: how God’s triune company and unwavering intent have transformed us en route. I hope the thought that your story is not outside God’s trajectory, is comforting to you as well. Sincerely, jfig
30 Days in Gennesaret: Day 27 Greyscapes
Greyscapes
There is a grey space
murky before the dawn
where questions abound broad and deep.
Then and now
is there broad definition— heal
measured not in limbs and cells
counted and recounted
but in communion
weighed in hours spent
cloistered in the sanctuary of suffering
naked need – that seed of knowing?
Did God intend that we not know evil
but embrace knowing him?
Then and now
which ones fisted the hem
and did not let go
escaping the mortal bounds of earth
for the expanse
of eternity?
Leaving our hearts
half in Gennesaret
half in heaven.
This pain knows no bounds.
But
God’s love cannot
be removed
that which he births
remains.
Then and now
now that we have seen Jesus, scourged and resurrected, we
live in a land where it is not the certainty of knowing—
outcomes veiled
but the certainty of journeying
face to face, heart inside of mortal heart
is this healing?
“What’s next?” The world is in a situation where this has become almost a universal question? Although I ask myself, has Covid19 really changed anything for those who daily try to survive the extremes of poverty and vulnerability to secondary infections? When my oldest daughter was working in missions, she said to me, “I don’t know why they call it a mission field. In a field you can see a long way. They should call it the mission forest…” This poem is about that – the ‘what next?s’ of Gennesaret and now.
There is a grey space, murky before the dawn, where questions abound broad and deep, but without the insistence of daylight that one discern an answer. It is a safe space in which to contemplate. Space in which Jesus might ask a few questions of his own. The story of Gennesaret whispers a couple of those questions. I do not have the answers. Original sin was seduced by this slithering lie, ” you will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” We don’t have to know all the answers, though I might try some on for size, to see if they fit. The trick is in remembering that the answers have to fit Jesus, not me. He is the one with the healing robe.
jfig 4/2020
Jesus, we love you, for having held our questions for literally centuries, gracing us time to wrestle, and the offense of misinterpreting/maligning your intent time and time again. There is a hunger deep inside, to know you and have our ‘needs met’ not by what we want, but by who you are. You are the dawn we seek, Holy One. Amen
longings…
longings
The seraphim cover their eyes.
I wonder – do they peek
between their bony fingers
stripped lean for flight?
And Moses the cleft conceals
yet you can see, his feet,
as breathless, he waits
while You walk by.
My heart sighs
neither, then, should I
surely – neither should I.
But oh, the longing is there
whispered …
Oh, God, I would love
to ‘see’ your face..
even a trace, fingered blind.
You replied.
jfig 1/19
photo 1/24/2019 Whatcom County, WA
One duck…
I thought it would rain this morning… but at bus time, the clouds folded in, holding their breath, for one duck. One duck, center stage, danced across the canvas of the morning, the clouds holding their applause, while he plowed a wake.
We – woman, man, child- so want to make a difference; our clumsy attempts often piling up like refuse; sometimes leaving scars and scrapping our vows to ‘do no harm.’
The lake is near 400 ft deep in places, places right out there under the duck. It should take a dam; so it seems startling that one duck could plow such a wake, turning it at will. Apparently there is power in webbed feet and winged prayers.
Spirit of God, hold up my winged prayers. Lift them to the heavens and stretch their weight along the trajectory of your leaning. Only for you, do the clouds hold their breath. Only for you. Amen
photographer’s note: I left the power lines…one duck.
jfig/11/18
Transfigure
Today is day 2 of ‘springing forward;’ which usually feels like ‘dragging, one-step-at-a-time,’ in order to adjust to a new schedule. As I accompanied my daughter, on her distracted and dawdling way to the bus, I marveled anew, that in spite of her profound array of special needs, she can pretty much daily show up with a cheerful attitude and not too much coaxing and cajoling. The ‘pretty-much-every-day’ is what gets me.
As we trundled our way to the bottom of the hill, dawn crept up the sky; this dawn, unedited and extravagant, delivering a message. I was struck dumb, and continue struggling to find words. Even after the bus had come and gone, I stood still and let the majesty and the magnitude of God’s unspoken words wash over me.
I am here. Every day. Showing up.
Though the air is unseasonably warm this morning, there is a brisk wind out of the southeast – that too, an atypical direction. I could feel it picking up as God continued to paint the sky.
I am here in the storm. I was here BEFORE the storm.
I’ve been in what feels like a crop-flattening storm lately, so those words are ponder-worthy: What does it mean for God to have been here, displaying His Glory, before the storm? And why, today, does he deliver a message, not quietly on paper, but painted and wind-propelled, across the whole sky? In one instant, the sky was 157 degrees of pink, from southeast to west-northwest. Before the day even started…
If God can paint the sky east to west, can he not then paint a life, my life, a different shade of storm-cellar grey? Can he not at least ‘brighten up’ my perspective? Can he not transfigure the bleak questions of this season; questions of fear and unknowing and loss, into some realization of the beauty of his goodness? Some realization of who he is, starling though it is against that stark grey backdrop?
We’ve been reading the book of Mark during this pre-spring.
After six days Jesus took Peter, James and John with him and led them up a high mountain, where they were all alone. There he was transfigured before them. 3 His clothes became dazzling white, whiter than anyone in the world could bleach them. 4 And there appeared before them Elijah and Moses, who were talking with Jesus.
5 Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” 6 (He did not know what to say, they were so frightened.)
7 Then a cloud appeared and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud: “This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!”
8 Suddenly, when they looked around, they no longer saw anyone with them except Jesus.
"Mark 9:1 (NIV) - And he said to them." Blue Letter Bible. Web. 13 Mar, 2018. <https://www.blueletterbible.org/niv/mar/9/1/p1/s_966001>.
“This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him” This after Jesus has told them he must suffer and be killed and rise again. Can you imagine the questions in their minds? ‘Listen to him’…after his stark announcement of impending suffering, even death?
“This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him.” This… after the radiance, and a sighting of Elijah and Moses. Wouldn’t that still one’s run-on of questions just for a moment? Storm and light, juxta-positioned.
I feel like God completely transfigured the sky this morning. Midst the dismay of surveying what I have presumed to be ‘Crop damage’ from the storms in our life, I feel a bit like Peter, I’ve experienced a great sense of loss and some hyper-anxiety. What to do, think, feel, say??? So when Peter suggests doing something…ANYTHING…I can relate. But perhaps I should still the questions, and listen…
I was here, before the storm. “This is my beloved Son, listen to him.”
And from another story, I am here, in the storm; “Why are you so afraid?”
Jesus Calms the Storm
35 As evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake.” 36 So they took Jesus in the boat and started out, leaving the crowds behind (although other boats followed). 37 But soon a fierce storm came up. High waves were breaking into the boat, and it began to fill with water.
38 Jesus was sleeping at the back of the boat with his head on a cushion. The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?”
39 When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Silence! Be still!” Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm. 40 Then he asked them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
41 The disciples were absolutely terrified. “Who is this man?” they asked each other. “Even the wind and waves obey him!”
“Mark 4:35 (NLT) – As evening came Jesus said.” Blue Letter Bible. Web. 11 Jun, 2018. <https://www.blueletterbible.org/nlt/mar/4/35/s_961035>.
“This is my son, whom I love… listen to him…”
Lord Jesus, the proclamation of the dawn, has left me speechless. Speechless enough to feel a burble of hope shift, and rise above the questions in my soul. Will you unfurl this hope – like the dawn, and transfigure me?
jfig 3/2018
Fissures
Sometimes life quakes, unsettling all our ground, even destroying things we thought were safe. This is a reflection for those times. jfig
Fissures
My earth splits and shifts
Gaping at awkward angle as splinters race along the fracture lines.
From aerial view, it might look like arteries
On my heart, if the lines rived in anatomical places.
What will grow in these at-first unnourished places?
What will grow?
Drip, drip, drip – water oozes into the painful space
left by what blade knifing into my hope and expectation?
What will grow?
In what fertile valley shall I plant my next hope, and the next, or next?
How many plantings will it take?
What will grow?
As I let the fissure breathe, moss grows green against the someplace rusted stone.
I can only breathe a few days at a time.
Let it breathe…
Living water trickles, chill lavage
Rearranging mineral deposits
In the rust and stone and green of my heart.
Oh, God, that I could feel the green
And somewhere in a far-off spring, the moss spring forth a gentian bloom
Feel the spring: the water spring… and the growth
The widened fissure breathes. New life. New hope. Altered sculpture of my dream.
Breathe
jfig 2015
Isaiah 30:19-26
Roasted Words 