My Angel Guide

Angel—Guide

 

For that soul that truly wants to help me.

Listening with sincere anxiety,

clearing felled trees on my path,

questions and answers her tools of the day.

My loving guide,

doing for me,

what I thought I was doing for others in a dream.

but in real life.

 

 

 

“but is not rich in what matters”

Gospel of Luke

World Series

The angels are in the majority,

So many we cannot imagine,

the 99.

And many are left in that one per cent.

 

A shepherd heads out,

Through the narrow safety gate,

Leading to that outer world,

created with love and of great beauty,

to be cared for by us. But now neglected.

Leaving angels (slightly confused) alone in their billions, and

dons the cloak of humanity so sheep may notice him and be unafraid.  

 

 

Here the lost lamb,

Alone and shivering on a desolate mountain top,

Seems to have no idea what had led her there,

waiting for wolves to come in the night

and devour her.

She bleats aloud,

knowing her crying will bring all enemies,

but cries anyway, tears of hope,

Of rescue.

 

Disguised by the cloak, the shepherd

climbs the last rocks, sees the huddled lamb,

and now both crying, lifts her to His shoulders

where she cries no more.

 

 

 

Carried back to the flock—day turns to night;

A mysterious light emits from Him, revealing an isolated but sole, safe path,

and the lamb becomes heavy on his shoulders,

as if wood.

Once home, He enters to jubilation as man returns to glory.

Choirs rejoice, as their beautiful Garden is restored,

Grass is lush, the sun shines,

and all is well once more in paradise. Until a distant cry is heard.  

 

 

Jesus said to his disciples: “I tell you, everyone who acknowledges me before others the Son of Man will acknowledge before the angels of God.”

Gospel of Luke

Pain and Beauty

Searing shards of agony tear my heart apart,

Word swords are exchanged,

slashing and bleeding,

bleeding and slashing,

Until eventually, violence erupts, replacing anger with regret, finally.

 

To sit alone and endure,

the sharp words from those who know nothing of me,

incite mosquito bites of summer,

unknowing,

but in need of blood from another living soul.

 

Your thrusts are not the same.

You know me; I thought you loved me,

Do you love me?

How can you say such things if you do?

Is it to hurt me, or just to say something that will penetrate my bug repellent?

 

So now we sit,

exhausted,

covered in blood and tears,

finding bandages and warm water to nurse wounds opened many times,

with scars on scars, on scars.

Enough.

 

 

 

 

If only the thoughts didn’t do their daily work-out,

working their way free from the bondage of niggle to irritation,

then climaxing with my bad desire to communicate—to tell you how I feel about that habit or the dress that makes you look like grandma.

Why did you set me off?

Or did I set me off?

 

Meanwhile Lucifer,

now old; tired of revolving heads and horror movie re-runs, works diligently behind a newfound curtain.

Facebook and textifying,

Twittering and emailage,

ohhhh these new means of fear and disturbance,

All packaged up in something that can do good.

But so much evil as well.

The perfect disguise!

 

Relationships destroyed by a single text message,

embarrassing photos of a long forgotten misstep,

families separated when once adjoined.

All in the god of Social Networking.

If he could rejoice, he would!

10 points to the Pain team. Thank you.

 

 

 

But then we reflect,

taking minutes or years to see what pain is inflicted,

Where we are hurt, where we have hurt,

And gradually, sometimes over an ages a mist is lifted from this dreadfulness,

revealing a house on the lake, as dawn rises.

The home of forgiveness, where everyone is invited, and everyone rests.

 

So now, the pain is gone, and so is the scar, as if a miracle.

Of which it is.

The miracle of love, eventually all scars are gone,

Now I am beauty itself, not made by me, but by another.

It’s not the skin I see, but below,

not blood,

or vessels,

or muscles,

but me.

The inner me that God made,

and I made only by letting Him mold me.

 

He is beauty; and pain made me beautiful, to Him and to some others.

Even if they still see the scars,

they are gone.

Just memories of a time when I wanted to hurt,

or be hurt.

How selfish is that.

For beauty is selfless.

For Beauty is God.

 

 

Forgotten Hurt

Forgotten Hurt

So long ago, why dig it up now,

Not relevant and decades gone.

Some memory lost along with old photos,

and experiences of some youth I see from a great distance.

 

Perhaps, however, that long ago that was me.

the me God made,

the me I tried to make,

the timeless me He was making on the potter’s wheel.

Spinning sometimes out of control,

and spraying bystanders with me,

If they came too close.

 

But now, that’s not me,

It was, but now it is not,

Not because I have forgotten,

But rather—remembered …

Remembered all the hurt I caused,

the tears,

worry,

distress,

my unwillingness to become the clay on another’s wheel,

And the hurt I caused for that.

I am sorry,

But do not regret

 

 

Because paths are not always straight,

But they all lead to Him,

However crooked and potholed,

Though tired I might be,

No matter how dark,

How wet,

Or cold,

Regardless of how down I am,

I can still put one foot out there,

In front of the other,

And keep Hope and Faith alive.

 

Thankful.

That I was led through this darkness

Of my youth,

To the Fountain of Love.

Where I now drink;

And am splashed,

by water

everlasting.

Welcome

All are invited,

No longer a private club, run by priestly elite,

who think they are better than others and have

their salvation guaranteed.

The entry fee has been paid and every door remains open. Walk-ins welcome.

 

 

“Yes, also to Gentiles,”

1 Romans

 

Made for Love

 

Made for Love

 

We were made to love.

To give unceasingly and grieve authentically;

In wonder of creation and of each other.

 

We were born to love.

 

 

 

Love is our action, our raison d’être, our mission.

 

undeniable, impossible to avoid or refuse,

sitting within us before our first heartbeat.

 

A spiritual flame lit before and after time.

 

 

 

This living waterfall, with endless supply;

 

cannot be turned off, held back, dammed up,

only diverted for short periods

creating swamps full of serpents, disease and ill-ordered desires.

 

Until, exhausted they break out and lead us to new waterfalls of clear, pure water, love-filled and drenching your being—refreshing your heart.

 

 

 

 

 

We cannot hold love back; it is both spirit and our DNA. Love is our Oneness.

 

It is why others attract and we react,

giving and receiving, receiving and giving.

Love is mind, body, and spirit;

 

as mysterious as The Trinity. Love is One.

 

Then our passion is revealed, released, shared.

 

 

 

Love is beauty, attraction, admiration and our inner glowing.

 

God given, yet misunderstood and remarketed by man

until cheapened to a product, traded like chattel.

 

Leave love alone—as it is, a gift beyond compare, book without an end, fire always present, potion already taken, the Peace of Heart and Mind sitting there, consoling you ever more.

 

 

 

So take it when offered, cuddle up and let the other know you care deeply about them, even when they may not understand. Do not hold it back.

 

Because love does not need an interpreter, an intermediary, a messenger.

 

You are the message and messenger. And the message is God.