Meditation on Psalm 32 verse 7

"You are my hiding place.
  You shall preserve me from trouble;
  You shall surround me with songs of deliverance."


Singing not fighting
is the order of the day
when trouble comes near
to keep it away.

It may sound odd
to start singing a song
and not take a weapon
to make you feel strong.

The power of the singing
is not yet understood
by those who don't see
that the Lord means them good.

But now I will choose
to listen to the sound
for it will bring me back
to His solid ground.

The Lord sings aloud
and He calms my anxious heart
all I need is to choose faith
that is my part.

I choose to believe
what He says and He sings
as He lifts me up
on deliverance wings.

He will keep me from troubles
and if I find myself there
He will hide me securely
in the place of His care.

Petrified Words

Words become petrified
under layers

of misuse,

misunderstanding,

half-hearted belief,

and double minded talk.

Words that carried

power

and

authority

robbed and
left for dead.

Words once

loved

and

cherished

with holy zeal and passion
put aside,
memorial markers
of what was very good.

The Word became flesh
and full of

grace

and

truth

lived among us.

His name now
used as a curse
on unloving tongues.

Words lie dormant
until we stir them
again in our hearts.

Take these petrified words
and break them
out of that which
hinders freedom.

The Word became

flesh

and

lived

among us.
He still does.

Let His words live again in you.

Kiwi Ball

Sequins sparkle,
fairy lights shine strung in streamers of iridescent light,
bright turquoise table cloths scattered with glistening glass,
reflecting tea light glow.

Young men almost unrecognizable
scrubbed up
and standing awkwardly
in their imprisoning suits.

Necks have ties,
and smart trousers
replace shorts and jandals.
Dress shoes foreign to the feet that wear them
make their annual appearance.

They stand in clumps
secretly glad
that they blend seamlessly with their peers,
not overdressed or under
for that would be disastrous.

Suspended lanterns float above the dance floor
still pools of tranquility above the noise.
Meters of taffeta and silk
sway to the music,
colors through the beauty palette
shimmer in the half light.

Hair curled, twisted and set to perfection,
nail polish and make up applied
with professional precision,
ready for the photos
and admiration of others.

The young ladies want to stand out,
each individual dress pleasingly admired.
High heel shoes paraded in,
are later cast aside.

Familiar music
brings murmurs of appreciation.
Everyone knows the lyrics
to their generation's songs.

The supper
presented with style,
is set upon
gratefully.

Parents flock
late in the evening,
to retrieve their loved ones
safely to their homes.

This world is full of wonder and beauty,
joy and excitement,
the harder things of life
completely forgotten
for these few precious hours.

Letter to a terrorist

I do not know
what you hope to achieve
by what you do.

How can you create anything
except more sadness, loss, grieving and despair.

I do not understand
what fruit can grow on trees
so laden with pain and hate.

I cannot see the merit
in laying down your life,
not for others
but to take as many as you can
with you into the terrible jaws of death;
to be swallowed up
on the evening news,
and then forgotten about in a few weeks time
by all but the loved ones of those lost.

I cannot grasp
your short term goals,
your long term goals,
your hopes for the future
when they seem darkly shrouded
even from your sight.

I see the figure
of a elderly French priest
kneeling in his church
whispering Father forgive them
for they know not what they do.

I do not fathom
how acts of horror and destruction
can seem by rapid repetition
commonplace and familiar.

It is beyond me
to comprehend your actions.
I see another person
made in the image of God
intended to live life in all its fullness.

A fellow human being
somehow fractured,
striving by any means
to bring death on earth.