Are They Mine?

Ever go back through a journal or old college papers and reread your writings?  Isn't it interesting that among all the "Oh, my gosh, I need to delete that!" writings, there will be those that just stand out and you are amazed the words are yours?  

Such is the prayer below.  In fact, I don't even remember writing it, but I did.  I wonder what kind of 'wonderful' I was experiencing at that time?  Who was involved in that wonderfulness? How was my mind so clear that the words came and organized themselves into something which flowed into meaning? I chose to edit so that further experiences of faith are recorded...my maturing, painful body adding worth to words.

Today, I tend to blame the unrelenting pain I struggle with daily for my sense of unorganized thoughts.  Obviously, I was without pain the day I wrote this....and it came from somewhere deep...meaningful to me...poured from within my well...living water from above.

Pain can dull or enhance one's experience - mightily.  Such a person was Freda Kahlo, the Mexican artist, who was inspired and even driven by her pain.  Freda painted self-portraits which sometimes belied her pain and on other occasions expressed it.  She painted no-matter-what...there are photos of Freda painting from a reclined position in her bed while the nurse is feeding her from the opposite side of the bed.  So determined was her spirit that when told she could not get out of her bed one very special evening, she demanded that the police, in her small Mexican town, carry her bed through the streets so she could attend the opening night of her first solo exhibition.  How she must have wanted to dance with her lover on that special night! And then there was Freda's pain of loving that unfaithful lover...he also an artist who received more acclaim than she - though she was the superior painter.  It was a man's world.  Pain does not discriminate...women are equal in that ballgame named PAIN!

And so Freda suffered...and painted...every day...died young...and famous.

History books offer proof of the depth of commitment and expressed talent of thousands who suffered to attain their depth of spirit and mind.

But for me, and friends like me, we gather inspiration from truths discovered, mistakes made, redemptions attained, and the rare and wonderful presence of our very real, but spiritual Lord and God.  We feel his presence within when we are quiet enough, desperate enough, or present enough for him to come as an 'experience.'  We are inspired by pain through our belief that it will end in this life or the next.  Pain is a temporary abberation lurking in one's present, but overcome by this Savior in life who is real, eternal and approachable on the most difficult of any days.  His healing presents to us a parallel life...pain in one rut; hope for healing in another...like footprints together in sand.

Often I wonder why I seem to lack depth in writing recently...is it the world in me?  Mistakes I've made?  Failing to take the time to be still so that He can come?

Or is it the incessant, ever-present pain that burns like fire through my body?  Is it the persistence that has caught me off-guard and worn down my spirit?  How can pain be so stubborn; ever committed to its ugly task?  Why has it no mercy?  Why is it so difficult to think when pain abides?

It is a mystery...one illness brings pain from the science of pain receptors not knowing how to turn off any more...another from a deteriorating organ...yet another from wear and tear on joints and ligaments used too often and heavily for many years.  I only know that in the mystery of all that, I've stopped trying to find the answers - just let the doctors worry about it.  My decision is that I want more of Him.  I want to hunger and thirst for his righteousness...for his instruction and blessing.  But, most of all, I just want Him to be present with me. "Hold me; thrill me; never let me go," as a lover, I beg.

Lord, I want to be still.  I want to wait for you to fill me up to overflowing...I want those encounters that feel like warm oil flowing from head to foot,  Come Lord Jesus; come Father; come within Holy Spirit...make  your presence known - mightily.  I'm waiting.  I'm open.  Pick up my bed, my chair, my aches and carry them to the alter...make every evening as Opening Night in the story of my life with you. 

May I have small moments when the pain forgets its task and turns away, forgetting its delight in tormenting my body...

...allowing words to come again...

...and I dance in my bed; my cane my partner; listening to the square dance calls; my pretty skirt swishing and swirling; feet moving me in weightless rhythms.  Do-see-do I go!

And only stop to pray.

Creator of this beautiful Universe...how awesome the seen world in its colors, textures, hugeness...and the unseen which I only sense in my deepest awareness of YOU. Where does the depth to know you come from? How can it be? Such mortals are we!

What pleasures you extend when I seek you wholly. "Thank you" is so small an appreciation, yet all I have...but for my life. May you always be within my heart and motivate my lazy bones to move and serve and praise.  When with my best efforts, I am barely open enough to believe your hugeness...bring me to evidences in your gifts too lovely to describe.  While on my bed you are present and holding me and taking my fearful pain and replacing it with strength. I still walk and sit at will...carrying my bed unnecessary...but carry my steps in pace with yours ..footprints, two-by-two, until are seen your footprints alone and deep holes where my knees pierced the sand beside you.

I bow, I bow. Amen