I waded in the lagoon beneath the rocky overlooks,
watching him convince himself to jump, and then not to jump.
"Try it from 30 feet!" said the bachelors from the bank.
"There aren't any rocks!"
"We really gotta go!"
A cottonwood seed washed up on my eye,
and as I doggie paddled away from where he would have splashed (or crashed),
the glassy lake rippled with furry stars,
quivering like crickets, colliding like the songs of crickets.
5.5.10
The Blue Line Psalm (poem)
Lord,
You are my bus driver.
You're the trolley engineer,
You spread out the slopes and sediment
beneath these tracks.
You lead me down a new road,
where daisies and lavender flowers spill like fireworks
over the red curb.
You restore my soul with a blooming yellow star tree.
You lead me home; I am never stranded.
Even though I walk beside fast cars
and down dark streets in the rain,
You protect me.
Fear doesn't belong in the company of my thoughts.
You comfort me with the glow of the afternoon
dropping through shadows from windows above
the Fifth Avenue station,
with prism sparks off edges of glass,
and the thrushes chewing white starfish petals
in the bushes.
You greet me by name
when everyone else, when I
close up like a potato bug.
You embrace all my thoughts.
Can it be,
that goodness and mercy
will pursue me all my life?
May I dwell in Your presence
always and in all Your ways.
You are my bus driver.
You're the trolley engineer,
You spread out the slopes and sediment
beneath these tracks.
You lead me down a new road,
where daisies and lavender flowers spill like fireworks
over the red curb.
You restore my soul with a blooming yellow star tree.
You lead me home; I am never stranded.
Even though I walk beside fast cars
and down dark streets in the rain,
You protect me.
Fear doesn't belong in the company of my thoughts.
You comfort me with the glow of the afternoon
dropping through shadows from windows above
the Fifth Avenue station,
with prism sparks off edges of glass,
and the thrushes chewing white starfish petals
in the bushes.
You greet me by name
when everyone else, when I
close up like a potato bug.
You embrace all my thoughts.
Can it be,
that goodness and mercy
will pursue me all my life?
May I dwell in Your presence
always and in all Your ways.
29.4.10
Innsbruck (poem)
"In the name of the Father,
and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Lord, we give You thanks for all Your gifts.
Amen."
She walked into the sanctuary of Grace Lutheran,
where the bougainvillea robe of a saint
dripped onto a polished pew.
I sat beside it.
"In the image of You, You created us;
Male and female You created us;"
She sat on the stairwell that led upstairs,
where the host invited us to coffee.
"Innsbruck, I must leave you."
and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Lord, we give You thanks for all Your gifts.
Amen."
She walked into the sanctuary of Grace Lutheran,
where the bougainvillea robe of a saint
dripped onto a polished pew.
I sat beside it.
"In the image of You, You created us;
Male and female You created us;"
She sat on the stairwell that led upstairs,
where the host invited us to coffee.
"Innsbruck, I must leave you."
24.4.10
Why do we write?
This morning, I participated in the celebratory brunch for all seniors in the Literature, Journalism, and Modern Languages department. I shared a table with Dean, Dustin, Jo, Rose, and Lauren and her family.
During the end, Jordyn read portions of an essay she had written in Dr. Hill's class about how God healed people in Malawi through a team of missionaries. She also talked about how God used her essay to minister to various people around the country, and she thanked the department for pushing her to write.
Her story kind of answered a question I raised during my devotional, earlier in the brunch. The passage was Luke 24:13-35, the story about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and I shared a little bit about how my time at PLNU has been similar to the disciples' journey. In classes, with professors, friends, and at church, I have been asking questions about Jesus. Like the disciples, many of these questions have been about Jesus' resurrection, questions like "Do I really believe Jesus rose from the dead?" and "How is my being a writer a response to Jesus' resurrection?"
For some reason, when I write assignments for my writing classes, I feel like I have to try my hardest to impress the professor, or to impress the whole world which I imagine may one day read this short story or essay. So I end up writing about a boy on a trolley who sits next to a man with a wasp growing on his stomach underneath his sweater. Or about a boy failing to find a piece of cake to give a girl he likes. Such stories are fun to write and read, at least for a while, but they don't have much lasting significance or substance. Part of the reason why I write these kinds of stories is because I'm still exploring the depths of writing, still seeing where the story and characters will lead me. But I think another part of it is because I have a mindset that my end goal in writing is to become published or famous, to set my works beside William Faulkner's or Robert Frost's.
But I was reminded today that maybe the end goal of writing is to build up, encourage, edify, feed the body of Christ. That seems to have been the goal for the writers of the epistles and the gospels, and even the Scriptures before the New Testament. As Paul writes to Timothy, "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the [person] of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."
Could Paul's description of the purpose of all Scripture also be a reason why Christians write?
During the end, Jordyn read portions of an essay she had written in Dr. Hill's class about how God healed people in Malawi through a team of missionaries. She also talked about how God used her essay to minister to various people around the country, and she thanked the department for pushing her to write.
Her story kind of answered a question I raised during my devotional, earlier in the brunch. The passage was Luke 24:13-35, the story about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and I shared a little bit about how my time at PLNU has been similar to the disciples' journey. In classes, with professors, friends, and at church, I have been asking questions about Jesus. Like the disciples, many of these questions have been about Jesus' resurrection, questions like "Do I really believe Jesus rose from the dead?" and "How is my being a writer a response to Jesus' resurrection?"
For some reason, when I write assignments for my writing classes, I feel like I have to try my hardest to impress the professor, or to impress the whole world which I imagine may one day read this short story or essay. So I end up writing about a boy on a trolley who sits next to a man with a wasp growing on his stomach underneath his sweater. Or about a boy failing to find a piece of cake to give a girl he likes. Such stories are fun to write and read, at least for a while, but they don't have much lasting significance or substance. Part of the reason why I write these kinds of stories is because I'm still exploring the depths of writing, still seeing where the story and characters will lead me. But I think another part of it is because I have a mindset that my end goal in writing is to become published or famous, to set my works beside William Faulkner's or Robert Frost's.
But I was reminded today that maybe the end goal of writing is to build up, encourage, edify, feed the body of Christ. That seems to have been the goal for the writers of the epistles and the gospels, and even the Scriptures before the New Testament. As Paul writes to Timothy, "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the [person] of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."
Could Paul's description of the purpose of all Scripture also be a reason why Christians write?
22.4.10
Blue Below Blue (poem)
The San Diego Bay that day was blue,
blue like dark jeans when they're new
And the sky that day was blue like jeans when they fade;
white noise rain, thin vertical lines.
His eyes that night were bruised inside.
Blue below blue,
you belong in the sea and sky,
not on the edges of our eyes.
blue like dark jeans when they're new
And the sky that day was blue like jeans when they fade;
white noise rain, thin vertical lines.
His eyes that night were bruised inside.
Blue below blue,
you belong in the sea and sky,
not on the edges of our eyes.
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