Good Fruit

Father, teach me how to pray
So I feel Your presence every day.
Break these chains, set me free
Lord, send revival in me.

You've pruned my branches, cut me back -
You've left me standing bare.
Now, Lord, I pray You'll bring new growth,
Shine Your light into my despair.

Jesus, help me remain in You
That I may bear good fruit in all I do.
Fruit for the Kingdom, for Your glory -
Fruit that speaks Your salvation story

You've pruned my branches, cut me back -
You've left me standing bare.
Now, Lord, I pray You'll bring new growth,
Shine Your light into my despair.

By Your Spirit, fill me with Your abundant love
Pour it down in torrents from above
Lord, fill me so I overflow
In your joy and love. Lord, help me grow.

You've pruned my branches, cut me back -
You've left me standing bare.
Now, Lord, I pray You'll bring new growth,
Shine Your light into my despair.

John 15

A nonsense from a fun exercise in class

leaves

leaves

leaves

socks

more leaves

no socks

trees

without leaves

like feet

without socks

what if?

I have traded in my armour
piece
by
piece
and reverted to wearing my old and tattered
grave clothes.

I have given in to temptation to compromise
and in my weakness allowed my heart
to idolise
the things of this world.

I have allowed the mirage in my mind
to taunt me with half-fulfilled dreams
and dared to ask the question
what if?
what
if?

I have been foolish and unwise
and I have failed to recognise
the enemy's deceit -
his lies.

I have allowed him to knock me
off course.

Pinboard heart

My heart like a pin-board
filled with thumb-tacks
pressed in
by the thumb of
my very own
hand

Unmask me

Flaming arrows fuelled with lies

Pierce my skin and close my eyes

I hide my face and close my heart

And choose to play someone else's part

Forgetting who I'm made to be

Trying to be someone who's not me

But this castle will not stand

On foundations built on sand

Unmask me

Peel back another layer

Unmask me

And leave me standing bare

Standing bare before You

My only care for You

Unmask me

Always burdened by my measuring stick

I make self-judgements harsh and quick

Deciding how I "know" I'm viewed

Seeing with vision that's always skewed

So help me to be true

To stand in my own shoes

As the voice of the enemy mocks

Set my foundations on the Rock

Unmask me

Peel back another layer

Unmask me

And leave me standing bare

Standing bare before You

My only care for You

Unmask me

Your love will never walk away

When my faith falters and doubts creep in

When I lose my way and give in to sin

You do not leave me, You walk me through

You stay faithful, You stay true

Your love will never walk away

Your faithfulness is here to stay

Your grace and mercy humble me

Your unfailing love has set me free

When mountains move, when hills disappear

Your faithful love still draws us near

You rebuild our battered hearts

With precious jewels and set us apart

I'm looking up, I'm counting stars

Your promises are holding fast

I'm taking courage from your hand

And stepping in to the promised land

When mountains move, when hills disappear

Your faithful love still draws us near

You rebuild our battered hearts

With precious jewels and set us apart

Free from shame, disgrace and fear

No enemy can prosper here

Steadfast in love, so pure and true

I stand in praise and awe of You.

When mountains move, when hills disappear

Your faithful love still draws us near

You rebuild our battered hearts

With precious jewels and set us apart

Isaiah 54

***

This is a poem I wrote almost exactly a year ago but God reminded me of the truth of it this week. He is an awesome, redeemer God!

Ourstory by Carole Satyamurti

I've seen this on the underground a few times now and I just love it...

Ourstory by Carole Satyamurti

Let us now praise women
with feet glass slippers wouldn’t fit;

not the patient, nor even the embittered
ones who kept their place,

but awkward women, tenacious with truth,
whose elbows disposed of the impossible;

who split seams, who wouldn’t wait,
take no, take sedatives;

who sang their own numbers, went uninsured,
Knew best what they were missing.

Our misfit foremothers are joining forces
underground, their dusts mingling

breast-bone with scapula, forehead
with forehead. Their steady mass

bursts locks; lends a springing foot
to our vaulting into enormous rooms.

From Stitching the Dark: New and Selected Poems published by Bloodaxe (2005)

Who's the King of the Castle?

He sits, stewing on his armchair throne,
drinking his whiskey, in the house alone -
the King in his castle's been overthrown
in a battle of clashing beliefs.

Challenged by his son who has changed his team,
suggesting that all they believe is not as it seems -
For his family, his kingdom, what does all of this mean,
when their loyalties now lie divided?

Who among them has faith, and who does religion?
Is it living and breathing or outdated tradition?
Are the foundations solid that they have their hopes pinned on?
Or will their worlds come crashing down?

***

We have been talking alot about bad poetry in my playwriting class this term and it was suggested that we all try to write a bad poem about our play. The above is my attempt at the exercise.

The Power of a Story

I was up in Glasgow last weekend visiting my Dad and, as an early Father's Day treat, I took him to see David Greig's Dunsinane at the Citizens' Theatre.

The National Theatre of Scotland - who present the Royal Shakespeare Company production in association with Royal Lyceum, Edinburgh - describe the play as:

A vision of one man’s attempt to restore peace in a country ravaged by war.

The parallels in Greig's story to present day are striking. As the Sunday Times puts it:
David Greig gleefully seizes on Shakespeare's tragedy and writes a thrilling sequel for the RSC that has more to do with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan than with 11th-century Scotland.

Greig's witty and poetic script along with some utterly captivating performances make for a stunning piece of theatre, in my opinion, theatre just as it should be.

It reminded me of a lecture we had at university from Dougie Irvine, Artistic Director of Visible Fictions Theatre Company. Visible Fictions are a company dedicated to making theatre for children and young people. I remember he told us about their belief in the power of a story. He compared the work they do to the work in the Theatre-in-Education movement, telling us that, for Visible Fictions, they do not set out to teach their audiences through their work, like in TiE, but actually by the nature of theatre, there is often a massive amount to come out of a production that touches people's hearts and makes them question and think. Dunsinane definately touched my heart and the fact that I am still thinking about it, and all that it stirred up in me, over a week and a half later suggests that he was, in fact, right.

It seems to be a recurring tension that keeps cropping up for me - this tension between theatre and theatre-in-education, between preaching and facilitating. I think that the approach Visible Fictions take to their work is an incredibly brave one. It feels somehow easier to make sure that our audience definately get the point that we want to make by saying it plainly and making it obvious... but doesn't that take the theatricality out of it? Doesn't that engage the intellect and miss the heart?

It's moved me to think about Jesus and His use of stories in His teaching. Jesus told countless parables to make His point, using culturally relevant associations and characters to make a point, but rarely did He break down exactly what He meant by each part of the story, because His skill in weaving and telling stories was so great that He didn't need to. Jesus believed in the power of the story he was telling to convict the hearts of the people He told.

If I am indeed working at being more Christ-like (as professing myself as Christian would suggest) then I can't ignore the example that He has set out for us. I want to be telling stories, like Jesus did, that convict the heart, stories with characters that are so real and absorbing that we can't help but be drawn in. The hard part of that is that I relinquish all control. This is something I have been battling with as I have taken my playwriting classes this year - the need to lay down my agenda and allow the character's own voices freedom from censorship. The moment I lay down the opportunity to preach a point I open a door to the possibility that some members of the audience will leave without having received the message that I might have intended. But I also open a door to a much more credible, real and moving piece of theatre.

What is required, then, is faith. Faith in the power of a story to touch people's hearts. Faith in mankind to have empathy and compassion on the characters we present. And of course, ultimately, faith in Jesus, in the example He showed us, but also in His sovreignty and the supernatural work of His Spirit to stir and move us.

Great Article on Documentary Theatre

Following on from my last post, I came across this great article on the Guardian Theatre Blog about documentary theatre and the ethical issues that it presents.

Check it out here.

London Road - the moral dilema

As anyone who I have met or had any kind of social contact with since Saturday will know, I went to see London Road at the National Theatre. I haven't been able to stop myself telling everyone and anyone to go and see it, however, in my excitement about what the NT have achieved with London Road I have come across lots of debate about the morality of the piece.

The musical which is running in the Cottesloe until early June tells the story of the events surrounding the 2006 Ipswich murders from the viewpoint of the community living in London Road, the home of serial killer Steven Wright. This documentary piece was written by Alecky Blythe using verbatim accounts that she recorded at interviews she conducted with a number of residents of London Road over a number of years. These recordings have been edited together and set to music by composer Adam Cork to create a score that is based on rhythms of speech complete with ever stutter and stammer. The effect is quite incredible and captures the essence of the people - the play's characters - so uniquely. This is not your average musical.

The controversy that has arisen about the piece is rarely a dispute on it's artistic merit - hands down it deserves the four and five star reviews that it has been credited with. No, the controversy is about whether it is exploitative and disrespectful of the victims and their families. Is it wrong to derive "entertainment" from such a tragedy, and so soon after the event?

I have to say that I had no major issues with the subject matter or indeed the way it was handled. I think it all comes down to a point of view. Had the piece been about the girls who were murdered I believe the reaction would have been very different. But this piece is about another set of victims who were less mentioned in the media - the unsuspecting neighbours of the murderer. Those who thought they were living in a safe community who had their lives turned upside down and their privacy invaded by the media. I believe that they have a right to tell their side of the story too. And I think it is right that their side was told without censorship. It would have been untruthful to have glossed over what they truly felt towards the girls.

To say that I think their story has a right to be told does not mean that I categorically agree with their viewpoint on the events that unfolded, nor do I believe that that is the aim of this production. I believe that good theatre should provoke this kind of public debate, in my opinion that is what the arts are about. Theatre should be about opening people's eyes to a subject and making them question their viewpoint. It's about social empathy, putting ourselves in the shoes of others and working out how we would react or feel. Thus I would argue that we can not claim theatre is merely made as "entertainment".

London Road documents - in a highly artistic, and utterly touching fashion - the responses of the residents of London Road, to all that unfolded in their community as their worst nightmares were played out right amongst them. It presents (through song and speech) the facts of the events as lived and seen through the eyes of the residents themselves. It is utterly true in so far as the libretto itself is written by them - through their recorded interviews. That truth of course is not universal. It is the truth according to the individuals who Blythe conducted her interviews with.

The whole debate reminds me of a similar dilema I grew interested in during my final year of my BA studies. The company that I was on placement with at the time were working with recovering addicts and professional actors to produce a new play for their main stage that centered around a local and historical (although in this case fictionalised) account of drug-dealing and addiction. I grew interested in the reason for the project and what the after-care would be like for the non-actors who were involved.

I think in both cases my verdict lies in the treatment of the situation and those involved. If those who are central to the story that is being told know what the deal is and do not voice objection then no exploitation occurs. If those whose personal experience is involved receive the correct support and after-care then in my opinion, there is no exploitation.

The problem with London Road lies in the objection from the families of the girls who were murdered. Should they have had the right to censor the residents' telling of the story? What makes the experience of the residents any less valid?

I believe Blythe's intention was merely to tell their side of the story. I do not believe that in doing so, she necessarily agrees with any or all of their actions or opinions. But of course with any telling of a story, you will have others who witnessed it differently or disagree with the stance that is taken. I don't think that there is any easy answer to the moral question. All I know is that I thought it was a captivating piece of theatre that made me think more deeply about what happened in Ipswich 5 years ago, and more widely, about the human condition...

And, despite the raging debate, I would still recommend it to everyone and anyone...

All pictures courtesy of National Theatre

Censorship

I've been taking a playwriting class since January and I'm currently working on my first play. It's been an incredible learning curve already! When I started the class I had a very clear message that I wanted my play to state for the audience, my whole purpose was to tell them what I wanted them to hear but I have found that the more I write and the more the characters take on a life of their own, the less I am able to put words into their mouths that speak the message I initially intended. That is not to say that I feel I have lost the whole theme that I began with, if anything I have probably gone deeper into that theme than had I stuck firmly to my intended message. It is an interesting dilema to face, on one hand I am over the moon that the characters are coming to life but on the other I am having to battle with myself to let go of ideals that I carried into the project to begin with.

The whole thing has left me pondering the issue of censorship. If I want to tell a real story through characters who are believable, if I want to stick to their truth and only put words in their mouth that they would say, how much of what I want to say is compromised? And further still, can I stop them saying things that I personally would rather they didn't say?

Take for example, profane language - if the character is in a pressure situation where they would, being true to themselves, rhyme off a string of expletives, must I allow them to do that? Does the scene and the character lose an element of truth if I censor what they say? I feel that most likely the answer is yes, but that throws up further complications for me.

As a follower of Jesus, I want for all that I do and create to glorify Him. Can I create a play that doesn't compromise anything of what the characters would do or say while still glorifying God?

I think so.

The things of the world which used to be censored in the media seem to be censored less and less, in many ways there is no escaping them. Perhaps instead of attempting to brush over them and ignore them what we need to do is face them head on? We were not called to bury our heads in the sand. We were not given a spirit of timidity but one of courage and boldness. We're never going to create convicting theatre if we gloss over the way the world really is. And how much brighter does the light shine when we see it next to the darkness?

Keeping Faith in Times of Eschatological Tension

I've been living with a promise from God for a little while now. I think it's been the first time in my personal journey of faith that I have consciously known that God has promised me something and I have had to bide my time until it has been made real in the world.

It's been bloomin' hard!

Over the past few months I have been going through the application process for a Masters course at East 15 Acting School. Since I moved here at the beginning of 2008, East 15 has been on my radar. It's main campus is in the town that I used to work in and over the past 3 years I have met and worked with a number of different people who are students or graduates of several different courses at the school. Since the very beginning of my time down here, it has been on my heart. There were several opportunities that cropped up along the way, through my old job, to work with the school, but none came to fruition, and now it has all become abundantly clear why.

It was around January time that God planted the little seed in my heart that suggested I will study there and, through the many beautiful intricacies of his planning, His little seed has grown over the past few months, until now, today, it has burst into blossom. The beginning of this journey was a stepping out in obedience to what I felt God was suggesting, but for the last 4 weeks I have known that it was God's plan that I would study at East 15 from September this year.

During a time of worship at church about a month ago, God showed me a picture of me in a cocoon and that cocoon opening to release a butterfly which then flew around the campus of the school. I went to receive prayer ministry that evening, I guess in the hope that God would confirm what I had seen through someone else, instead, God said to me "you know My voice". Wow! He had absolutely told me that night that it was going to happen.

Of course, I still had to get through an interview that was scheduled for a few weeks hence.

The interview went well and I was told that I should expect a positive response. I was so excited but I was also really surprised and as I walked off campus I had another picture of the butterfly - God had promised it already, so why had I been so surprised?

In church a few days later a picture was given of a butterfly being released and I knew, again, that is was confirmation of what God was doing.

And finally, this morning, after so much waiting, I received an official letter offering me a place on the course. It has been perhaps the most torturous week, waiting for the the letter to arrive after my interview, but why? Again, God had already promised it so why the stress and unrest waiting for man's confirmation of what God had already ordained?

The penny dropped in the last couple of days that it is all about eschatological tension. The tension between the now and the not yet of the Kingdom. The tension that results from knowing the truth and reality of God's promise and waiting for that truth and reality to be made real on earth as it is in heaven. I was holding on to God's truth in the situation, to the reality and promise that He had shown me, whilst also having to wait for that promise and reality to be worked out in the ways of the world.

From this end looking backwards, it is so easy to say "well God had told you, you should just have had more faith in what He had already said." But when you are in the midst of the tension, it is so easy to let the voice of the enemy worm its way in, "He didn't really say that, you're just making up what you want to hear", "they could still turn you down", "you've not received an official letter yet because they've changed their mind".

I think we learn to know God's voice a little more and a little more each day, and with each incredible fulfilled promise our faith increases. Next time I find myself in the midst of the now and the not yet, I must try to remember the incredible journey I have just been on, to remember that God told me and He fulfilled what he had shown me. But of course, this particular journey isn't over yet, in fact, it has only really just begun...

Wish You Were Here

It's the landmark days that are the hardest; birthdays, anniversaries, weddings. Landmark moments are hard too, getting a new job, a project going really well or not, even just a new haircut; those are the times that everything within me cries out to pick up the phone, to tell her the news. But I can't.

This day is maybe the hardest of them all. Mothers' Day. A day when "mothers" are rubbed in your face, a day when you can't go anywhere without happy families all around you. A day when you can't forget you don't have a mother to celebrate anymore.

It's not that I'm against other people celebrating the amazing women in their lives, in fact quite the contrary, it makes me angry to see people NOT lavishing their love on their mums and grannies. But, I'm never quite sure what to do with myself on this day.

This year, I've decided to channel my mass of emotions into something more positive (well at least to try to) so here is an "ode" to my beautiful mum.

Wish You Were Here

I'm writing you a postcard,

reporting on my travels,

I'm calling with the latest news -

my triumphs and my trials.

The message that I'm leaving

is perpetually the same:

wish you were here to see this,

wish I could hear you speak my name.

I miss finding you in the kitchen

surrounded by Michael Ball -

his voice singing on the radio,

his face smiling on the wall.

I miss stealing a special cuddle,

the ones only you could give.

I wish you hadn't had to leave,

I wish you still could live.

I wish that you could see me now

me and this gang of mine

I know that you would love them

and you'd see I'm doing fine.

I wish that we could get excited

about all the things that lie ahead.

I miss coming home to tell my stories

As I couried in beside you in your bed.

I long to hear your opinion,

to have you set me straight,

to help me see the pitfalls

before I've jumped and it's too late.

I wish that you could criticise

and put my feet on the right path,

I even long to see that face

You always made when you heard me laugh.

But you're gone and that time is over,

those things we'll never do again -

no more cuddles or silly giggles,

there's no going back to how it was then.

I hold on tight to those memories

and hope to never let them go.

With every year I'll miss you

and hope that you would know

That I'm writing you a postcard,

reporting on my travels,

I'm calling with the latest news -

my triumphs and my trials.

The message that I'm leaving

is perpetually the same:

wish you were here to see this,

wish I could hear you speak my name.

Changing the clocks

Clocks going forward,
more hours of blissful daylight -
less time to sleep

A couple of small stones

Buds of yellow start to bloom, summertime is coming soon

Hidden treasures in the ground patiently waiting to be found

 

Sonnet on a Sick Mother

Something in her eyes said she already knew

the dreaded fate that she could not escape.

Those eyes and her skin with their yellow hue

and her clothes and the way they did gape.

She had lost a good few inches in height

as well as most of the hair on her head,

that didn’t stop her from keeping things light

as she lay dwarfed in that hospital bed.

But she was strong in character alone,

her broken body could hold her no more,

the blood in her veins turned cold as stone -

her heart stopped beating, and mine hit the floor.

But now she is at peace, restored and whole

in a new body that matches her soul.

Tears of Life

With your staff you have tapped this heart of stone
to allow the tears I have held to flow.
Your living water floods through my desert
and now I can begin, again, to grow.
Awaking my soul from its too-long sleep,
these tears of life have unlocked my cell door.
Set free at last from this prison of grief
You have breathed life into my heart once more.

The Impossible Dream

I’ve started to dream the impossible dream -

a dream far older and bigger than me.

I dream of all people standing as one

in a world without war, hunger, disease.

I’ve started to dream the impossible dream -

a dream that dictates the last will be first,

captives will go free, the lost will be found,

and none will be left to hunger or thirst.

I’ve started to dream the impossible dream -

I dream that I am blameless and holy,

I dream of our sick, broken world restored,

that we all know our part in His story.

I’ve started to dream the impossible dream -

a dream where ‘success’ does not receive laud.

It all seems impossible yet I know

that nothing is impossible for God.

7:14 Parliament Square

Wow! Tonight was incredible! Literally thousands of people gathered in Parliament Square to pray for our nation and to seek God. The event was named 7:14 after the verse in 2 Chronicles:

If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

What more needs said? Lord, open the floodgates of heaven and wash this city and this nation clean, may we be a nation of people who are holy and blameless in your sight. We pray for healing and restoration in this land.

Bring on revival!

"Five pitta bread and a couple of sardines"

The last few weeks have felt like such a whirlwind. It feels like God has just totally upped the momentum this year, to the point where so much has happened and I can't believe it is only March. I met up with a friend yesterday who I haven't seen since before Christmas and he pretty much confirmed what I already knew... that I am not the same.

I always used to giggle a bit when I heard Kim Walker of Jesus Culture launch into her declaration on one of their tracks, but it carries a new weight for me now:

The love of God changes us, and we're never the same. We're never the same after we encounter the love of God. We're never the same after we encounter the love of God.

I believe that God has been changing me little by little over the last few years but in the last two weeks especially God has met with me in such a profound, tangible, amazing, awesome way and done something remarkable in me and I will never be the same again.

I posted a little while ago about how I was reading this book by Shane Claiborne and pondering on Matthew 25 and becoming a part of a community in order to bring change from the inside. I missed one vital thing, which I think actually, maybe Shane has missed too...

Once again, the intricacy of God's planning has blown my mind! I was recommended a book called Beautiful One which was sitting on my shelf, waiting for when I finished reading The Irresistable Revolution and it could not be any more perfect as a follow on. Beautiful One is a collection of writings from some really influential female speakers and opens with chapters from Heidi Baker and Beni Johnson. It was in reading Heidi's chapters that I discovered what I was missing, something that Heidi had missed at first too...

Heidi said that her and her husband would choose to wash in cold water, even if hot water was available out of solidarity to the poor, they would be constantly hungry and she would get stressed out at the Western church for being frivolous. But God opened her eyes to His wish to lavish on us (see Ephesians 1 and 1 John 3).

To give or bestow abundantly is how the dictionary defines the word lavish - God wants to give or bestow on us abundantly.

Wow!

God's love for us is abundant, bountiful, extravagant... he doesn't want us to have a spirit of poverty, because his Way is the way of freedom, fullness, abundance.

I've realised that God knows I need things rammed in my face if I'm to take the hint, so of course He didn't stop there in teaching me this lesson. A few of us went to an event at St Barnabas in Kensington on Friday night that was being held by New Wine and the Eden Network. Andy Hawthorne was teaching from the account of the Feeding of the Five Thousand in Mark's gospel and funnily enough, the word he brought spoke right into this very thing!

He was talking about the abundance of food that came from the offering of, as he put it, "5 pitta bread and a couple of sardines". His point was that the miracle could have stopped at enough food for the 12 disciples, but as they passed the food on out, the abundance of provision grew and grew. In the end they were left with twelve baskets full of leftovers - Andy pointed out that the word in the Greek that is used for basket indicates that it wasn't just a small basket, but like a laundry basket. How incredible, they were left with far more than they started with. Everyone that had gathered was fed their fill and the disciples walked away with a laundry-sized basket each, full of bread and fish - now that is a lavish feast!

And so it all falls into place, this is the example that we are to follow, yes we are to feed the poor, yes we are to offer what we have, but wow, look at what God does with the little that we bring! Look at God's heart for those who are willing to give up what they have to serve him, he wants to bless them back in abundance!

We are, after all, a royal preisthood, surely that says it all about God's heart for us?

Tranquility

Lavender lullaby,
lavender lullaby.
Light breeze,
loch, trees
lavender, lavender lullaby.

Pep talk for a fearful heart

Have you noticed that you've flat-lined?

Where are the troughs and peaks?

You'll never live in fullness

if comfort's what you seek.

Where's your sense of adventure?

Where's your appetite for more?

You've wrapped yourself in cotton wool

and can't work out why you still feel sore.

You can avoid the disappointment

and you can keep building that wall

but deep inside you know that playing safe

really isn't "playing" at all.

You'll never find true happiness

settling for the "happy medium",

so jump down off that tired fence

and exercise your freedom.

Decide to live your life in technicolour

every single day

abandon fear, take the leap and stop

living life in shades of grey.

From poetry to light pollution

I feel I have broken through a structural wall when it comes to my ponders on poetry. I have discovered that content and form can indeed help each other out - it can be about both things! Hurrah! All is not lost!

I have found in the past week that using structure and form can actually help me to organise my thoughts. For example my poem, Train Journey, that I posted the other day was birthed out of both conviction on a subject and the use of the acrostic form. I had a huge mindmap of ideas, but it wasn't until I laid down the form I was going to use that I found I was able to arrange those thoughts into a coherent form. Having discovered this I had a look back through some of my previous pieces (many of which were posted on facebook before I took the plunge and started this blog) and discovered that perhaps I would rearrange where I have placed the line breaks in light of what I have been learning in class... a task that may take some time and that I may never get around to doing, we'll see!

My huge mindmap of ideas that pre-existed Train Journey is really focussed around Matthew 25:31-46 where Jesus is teaching about the final judgement. He talks about how when the Son of Man returns He will separate the sheep from the goats - those who have fulfilled what was asked and those who have not, what it boils down to are the following six points:

• Feeding the hungry
• Giving the thristy something to drink
• Inviting strangers into our home
• Clothing the naked
• Caring for the sick
• Visiting those in prison

Jesus says that those of us who do not do these things for the least of the people amongst us, have not done the same for Him, the penalty is eternity in hell. Wow... this stuff isn't optional, this is bare minimum expectation. But how many of us feel we have a personal relationship with Jesus and ignore most, if not all, of these points and yet still expect to be greeted as good and faithful servants when we meet our Maker? Of course, can we be achieving these commissions in less obvious ways, for example, visiting someone who is, in essence, a prisoner in their own home because they are unable to get out in bad weather, or cooking dinner for our flatmates, or inviting a new person from church or at work round for the evening... does it blatantly have to be the homeless, the starving and those on their deathbed...? Do we take it seriously enough to make sure that we are achieving it at whatever level? Are we convicted about it?

I've been thinking a lot about "the least" too. I'm reading "The Irresistable Revolution - Living as an Ordinary Radical" by Shane Claiborne and it is for sure challenging me on my perceptions of poverty and lifestyle. Like in any book by any author I find some parts massively inspiring stuff but also find I don't necessarily agree with other parts.I have, however, taken a couple of things in particular to heart. The first is a conviction that our lives should look incredibly different to the lives of those around us who do not follow Jesus. Jesus told us he is The Way. He really meant that! His way of living was massively different to those around Him, it was a way that brought life and freedom and it's a way still accessible for us today if we dare to stand out and look different, if we dare to be set apart.

My other conviction from reading Shane's book is that in order to have a real and lasting impact in a community we have to become a part of that community, we have to become one of them. You can't just minister to the poor, you have to become poor. You can't just minister to people, you have to get on their level and experience life through their eyes, in their shoes. For me this is a very timely discovery as I begin to look ahead to what comes next in my life. I feel sure that God is calling me to be a part of a community (not a town or a church or a household, but a place of work). He is calling me to be on the same level as those my ministry will be to (or perhaps "with" would be a better word to use?) He is making me one of them.

We are called to shine light in the darkness, but if we are too afraid of the darkness to get in amongst it, what hope have we got? We are promised that the darkness can not overcome the light, what more do we need to get out there and start polluting the world with Jesus' light?

Train Journey

Hurrying to find another seat away from
your stench, your sickness of heart and
physical distress, I choose
only a label and reject its accompanying
commission - I'd rather walk on by than
risk getting my hands dirty - so, having
ignored Jesus in you, I bury my head in my bible and
tell myself I'm a good and faithful servant,
eternally saved by grace - grace that I just made cheap.

A homework haiku

Lost in Translation

Jane, Jean or Gina
Everything but my actual
Name - never my name.

Loss Changes Everything

I've been experimenting a bit with line breaks and stanza breaks based on some of what we've been taught in the poetry class I'm taking. I'm trying at the moment to write what I feel and then see where I can use the "rules" to make it more structured rather than let structure and form get in the way of what I want to say. I'm not sure what the result is here, or if I've got the point that was being taught, it just seemed more interesting than writing plain old couplets. What do you think?

Loss Changes Everything

You sing "Love Changes Everything"
but respectfully I disagree
see, I'd say
loss
changes everything;
loss has changed
everything
for me.

Your voice was a perpetual soundtrack
underscoring our lives
everyday.
Your endless covers and warbley vibrato
brought me nothing
but
endless
dismay.

But I find myself
strangely missing that soundtrack
that we switched off
in two-thousand-and-seven,
when we left her
alone
in the graveyard
and went home in the car she had driven

the CD player unusually
silent,
a great sadness
fell
on us all
A huge elephant travelling with us -
the foundations
of a mighty, great wall

From then,
nothing
could be the same,
there was no way to
turn
the clock back
I never imagined I'd say it,
but I miss that perpetual soundtrack.

I miss the one who insisted on playing it
and the way I expected our lives to be.
Yes, I'd say
loss
changes everything;
loss has changed
everything
for me.

The trouble with studying poetry

So, clearly I've been writing a lot less frequently lately. Ironic really when I am now taking two writing classes a week. Interestingly, I believe it is probably one of those classes that has contributed to my recent dearth of writing. I am undertaking a beginners level poetry class and I can't deny that I am struggling with it. I've always written poetry, I used to churn out pages and pages as a teenager, much of which was disposed of in an attempt to put teen angst to bed and move on into adulthood; something which I now regret - the disposing of the work, not the growing up! But this class has me feeling like I'm back in a high school English lesson. I'm confused about the point. It seems to me that as soon as we start to study poetry we lose its very essence. When we over-analyse every word and comma and syllable, do we forget about the raw emotion that birthed the need to write in the first place? I find myself asking why I am writing at all. Am I writing for me or for those who might read what I write - can it be both? And does my reason dictate the form and content of what I write? I hate the idea of writing in a certain way purely to please others, to me, that holds an element of selling out, but then is writing purely to suit myself just being self-indulgent?

Thoughts on a postcard...

Adrenalin Junkie

Keep going.

Keep pushing.

                    Just one
                                 more
                                          length,
                                                    minute,
                                                                kilometre...

A trip to the theatre

An old factory made to do.
Shabby looking and rough around the edges.
Fringe.
My favourite.
I drink in the smell:
paint,
dust,
sweat,
adrenalin,
anticipation.
I've come home.

A day off

I wake at my leisure,
soft cotton caressing my cheek,
my arms, my feet.
A chorus of birds underscore the moment
as the sun peeps around
the edges of my curtains.

Time to let the day in,
throw open the windows,
drink in the fresh breeze.
A refreshing taste of the
spring that is to come.

Real life

For once I do not bury my head in a book as I commute back and forth, going about my day. Life bustles around me, life that I normally miss while I'm viewing a made-up place through someone elses eyes.

A not so pleasant discovery

Each night while I have slept
An army has been secretly invading,
Creeping slowly but surely up the wall.
I have breathed in their spores -
Their spores that attack my lungs.
Upon discovery, I have defeated them,
Wiped out their entire legion.
And now, I retire to the infirmary
A wounded, but victorious soldier.

Small Stone (potentially plural if you think about it)

Little glass droplets strung on a necklace -
All my favourite colours captured in one place.

More a penny than a stone...

A big, shiny, copper penny
Tumbles through the air and lands
At my feet.
On impact my eyes are opened
To a part of me that
I have not seen before.

The One who dropped it
Smiles,
Nods His head.
"Finally, you get it,"
He says,
As I realise
I'm standing amidst
A sea of pennies.

An early morning stone

My alarm rings for the umpteenth time,
It has succeeded in pulling my whole house
From their slumber
But I stay firmly rooted under the duvet.
Dread is running laps in my stomach.
If I close my eyes it will go away,
Let me dream just a little more...
But there it goes, ringing again.
Time to accept the inevitable and
Face the day.

A stone for a new beginning

I have everything I need to put my life in order:
The resources,
The intentions,
A plan.

The only thing missing is the willpower
To succeed.

Small Stone for today

I race against the clock to get to the close:
To know the last words,
To tie up all the threads and
Know the outcome.

Elated to have reached the conclusion
I shelf these characters who've become
Part of my world,
Feeling something close to guilt
As I choose some new, yet unknown friends
Over my old companions.

A rather large small stone

A day of favourite places.

Back to the institute,
Surrounded by minds hungry for learning.
The calm of the library -
The rat-a-tat-tat of frantic fingers on communal keyboards,
A room full of shelves that are bursting with wisdom and knowledge.
My personal preference when it comes to soup for the soul.

Back to the cobbled fruitmarket
Where rain trickles and
Heels clip clop like horses.
Where crowds cheer and clap,
Where I search to no avail
For Eliza Doolittle.

A day of favourite places.

Small stone January 12th 2011

The expectation in their eyes burns through me and cripples my already fragile heart.

Small Stone 11th January 2011

An empty fridge begs to be filled and so I make my trip to the supermarket. I screw up my face as I wait for my balance at the cash machine, not wanting to see but needing to know how dire the straits are. A breath of relief. It's do-able. It's definately do-able.

Bliss

picture courtesy of sfcenterparcs.webs.com

I've been a little on the quiet side over the weekend as I've been away at Sherwood Forest Center Parcs at the Retreat to Advance conference run by New Wine (http://www.new-wine.org/). It was an amazing time of teaching, prayer, and worship and also a great chance to chill out with friends and behave very much like children. I think over the weekend we spent between 8 and 10 hours splashing about in the pool and battering our bodies about on flumes and rapids. It's full of memories to treasure... but so far my pockets are not so full of small stones!!! It seems when things get busy it's not always easy to remember to pick them up. At least not in any kind of form. My thought was to attempt to retrospectively create some now that I am back but I feel it may become a laborious task instead of the fun I had been finding it so here's just one...

The water weaves its way around bends and over mounds carrying me brutally with it. My body aches, but my heart sings as I whoop and scream, hearing my brothers and sisters whoop and scream in harmony around me. Children for a while we splash and shriek and remember what it is to be carefree.

Bliss.

Small Stone 6th January 2011

The cloud in my head is obscuring visibility.
The thunder in my stomach growls, "feed me!" but my head says otherwise.
Energy courses through my legs like lightning
With no way of being earthed
Because my feet have not yet had a chance to touch the ground.

Restless.

Small Stone 5th January 2011

Heart torn in two I say goodbye and check-in.
Fully glad to be going.
Fully gutted to be leaving.

Small Stone 4th January 2011

The smell of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, scratching the back of my throat. It stings my eyes blood-red and forces them to fill with tears that are completely devoid of emotion. What a beautiful way to wake in the morning...

Small Stone 3rd January 2011

"Kiss her!" shouts the little boy in front as if his life depends on it just as much as Snow White's.

Small Stone 2nd January 2011

I'm back in my garish teenage bedroom.
Things are exactly as I remember them.
Is it the dust or the memories bringing tears to my eyes?

Small Stone 1st January 2010

Starting this day feels like
Deciding what to write on
The first page of a notebook.
Pressure to start as I mean to go on.