Prayer for Healing

Dear God,

Be with her in her pain,

help her know she is not alone,

grant her the wisdom to see,

more pain of another sort

is not the solution.

Wrap your arms around her,

hold her close,

when physical distance,

prevents a hug from a friend

Be with her when I can't,

when I don't know what to say,

or she pushes me away,

or I'm just not the person she needs.

Help the world to see,

her pain is not her making,

that the scars she gives herself,

are not the reason she hurts.

Surround her with the patience,

of listening ears,

and grant them the understanding,

to know talking about pain,

is better than ignoring it,

that shushing away,

her honest words of hurt,

only leads to scars,

that run far deeper,

than the marks we wince at.

The prayer prompt from this weeks Praying Through My Pen is: Read Numbers 12:13 and "write a prayer for healing for someone specific." Rather than write about a specific person I found myself writing about a specific need for healing which many people I've talked to or heard stories of have faced (and "her" can just as much be "his").

The Dust I Know

When the dust settles,

what will be left?

Will we still remember,

the clash of sticks,

scratching at ground,

the fascinating ability,

to find the fun in anything,

or will we be wired,

inseparably tied,

to electronic beep,

and flashing light?

When the dust settles,

will we still know how,

to play in the dirt,

make mud pies,

make cookies from scratch,

and laugh at a poof of flour?

Or will we forget,

what it means to get dirty,

how to sustain ourselves,

the taste of homemade bread,

and the thrill of waiting,

as it's smell fills the house?

When my kids are grown,

will dust mean the same thing,

or will the only dust they know,

be stirred up by power,

outside of themselves,

a race car's wake,

or the danger filled cloud,

whisked up by the buzz,

of a rotary saw,

big boys toys,

to be carefully guarded?

When the dust settles,

will we still be human?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.

Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

One day you will see how important you are. One day you will believe it when someone says “I love you” or “you're beautiful” or “you're worth it.”

I know you mean it when you say those things, but sometimes it's so hard to believe. I want to be the smart, strong, beautiful woman you say I am. I want to be confident in myself. But...

I know it's hard to believe now, but one day you will see. You're already starting to. You know you want to believe it, to understand yourself that way, and that's the first step to getting there. One day you'll realize you don't just want to believe it; you'll know it's true.

You are strong. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You might not believe it, but it's true. And, if you look deep enough, you're confident too. You know you are all these things and more. You deny it, but you know it.

I can be... but...

I don't feel worth it. I want to be. I want to be worth it. I want to love myself as much as you say I deserve to be loved. I want to be happy with myself. I want to celebrate who I am, but so often I can't until someone tells me to.

But you are worth it. You know you are. Right now you need someone to tell you you are important, but one day you'll know it and believe it all on your own. One day you will tell yourself that and it will be true. One day you will stop doubting yourself, and then you will be truly free, truly alive, and whole.

I like the sound of “one day.” I want to tell it to come faster, but some how I think that would slow it down.

So smile and enjoy the journey. You're worth it, and I'm here if you need me.

Love,

Me

This post was inspired by the daily prompt "One day, . . . " and a suggestion to write a letter about why writing is important to you/a letter of encouragement to yourself (both from A Writer's Book of Days). I thought it was just an odd reflection on myself and no one else would really relate to it, but after a couple of my writing buddies told me they could relate to it I decided I should post it.

I Can't Remember

I can't remember,

ironically,

I remember,

and I laugh,

cause she remembers,

and yet we write,

I can't remember.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: I can't remember

Praying Through My Pen

Through out Lent I participated in a small group called "Praying Through My Pen." The group was led by Rachel Hackenberg, author of Faith and Water, and focused on using creative writing as a form of prayer. Below are the creative writing and prayer prompts used in that group and links to most of what I wrote in the group.

February 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

Scripture: Mark 1:11-13

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for the wilderness.

February 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about fireworks.

Scripture: Psalm 148

Prayer prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

March 6, 2010

Warm-up: Write a haiku about someone important to you.

Creative writing prompt: Write about someone who left.

Scripture: Luke 23:34

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for forgiveness.

March 13, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about a longing.

Scripture: Psalm 114

Prayer prompt: You are my sanctuary.

March 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: This is a map to where I live.

Scripture: Isaiah (I didn't get the chapter or verse written down) and Numbers 11

Prayer prompt: Think about images of God as mother or another non-traditional image of God, and write a prayer to God in that image.

March 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about memories underfoot.

Scripture: Jeremiah 32: 38-41

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for discernment or call to action.

The creative writing prompts used were borrowed from A Writer's Book of Days. The prayer prompts were created to be used in this group.

How much do you love me?

How much do you love me?

Do you love me enough,

to hug away my tears,

to hold me when I cry,

to put me on my feet,

when everything feels wrong?

Do you love me enough,

to know who I am,

and still be there,

even when I cry,

for no reason at all?

Do you love me enough,

to stay by my side,

when I've lost track,

of who I am

and what I want?

Do you love me enough,

to catch me when I fall,

stop the out of control,

downward spiral

of my crashing mood?

Do you love me enough,

to be worthy of my trust,

to keep me safe

and not break my heart,

if I let you touch it?

Calling

Calling. I don't know what it means to me.

I was a teenager the first time I read Jeremiah 1 in church and it was overwhelming for me, as not much more than a child, to read Jeremiah's protests that he was only a child and therefore could not speak for a God. God called him anyway saying "I'll give you words" and that gave me the terrifying, fascinating sense that God has a purpose for me and I must find it.

To think there's a grand plan for me and yet I've been left out of the loop is scary. I want to be in control. I want to know what's going on and where I'm going. I know I've spent more than enough time praying to be shown the map, given the step by step directions, and allowed to read them backwards, so I don't have to guess at where I'm going, but really what I need is trust.

The people I trust are few and far between. I don't trust easily, but when I start to trust it's the turning point in my relationships with other people, and that is what I need with God far more than I need to see the end of the mystery before I open the cover.

Prompt: Write a prayer for discernment or call to action.

Memories Underfoot.

My feet remember walking.

Walking bare-foot through a labyrinth in the cold.

It was a chilly morning.

We'd gotten lost on the way there,

missed a road and had to turn around

after calling someone for directions,

but that was exactly the kind of adventure we needed.

We had a place to go,

and a deadline for getting back,

but the point was more about the wandering,

than the destination.

There was irony

in getting lost going to a labrynth,

a maze we could follow

to lose our own path and follow God's.

Eventually we arrived.

Despite shivering a little in the cold

I couldn't resist

taking off my shoes.

Something about bare feet

touching the ground

calls me to be present

in a way I can't be fully present

without feeling the ground beneath me.

The grass was cold and damp that day,

softly cushioning my feet,

a striking contrast from the crunch

of hot black sharp stones underfoot

at the last labyrinth I walked.

It was strange

not to hear the footsteps

of the person walking with me

and yet,

I could sense where she was

in the winding path around me.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about memories underfoot.

To the Tree of Life

God of the woods,

God of nature,

you are the tree of life.

Your roots sink deep into the earth,

spreading to support our feet

even as we avoid your shadow of comfort.

You are the bright green beauty

of new leaves that catch our eyes,

if only we look up from our over busied lives.

You are the rough bark

taking on the scars of the world,

offering a love more permanent

than anything represented

in hearts and initials,

carefully scratched,

by reckless flighty lovers.

You are the branches reaching out,

bigger than life,

holding us carefully

as we try to climb higher,

reaching for the sky

with our fragile dreams.

You are the infinite complexity

of roots and branches and twigs,

leaves and veins in leaves,

far more intricately complex

than anyone could see from the ground.

This is a map to where I live.

This is a map to where I live.

didn't I write that for school last semester?

or something like that...

I think I live in confusion.

If there was a map of my head,

it would make life easier.

I live on the edge of school,

where one step to the left

means my life depends on getting good grades,

but half a step to the right

means I could just not care,

because none of it is really, about real life anyway.

At the crossroad of work,

where I love my job,

and I love my kids,

and I have fun with my coworkers,

but I hate the values,

and can't believe the lack of parenting

some of my kids get,

and I want so bad to do what I feel is right,

but have to fit the system,

and hate it when I can't

even speak my mind to coworkers

because to really speak out

could cost me my job

or at best cost me,

any respect I've earned there.

I can't afford to lose that respect,

not when I need it to continue

to advance my career,

but sometimes I wonder,

if even that is worth it.

I live across the street from the ideal social life,

from some sort of popular in crowd,

that invites me into their circle,

and welcomes me as I am.

I live on the edge of town,

within earshot of the church bells ringing

with calls to tradition and conformity,

and within sight of the woods

calling new songs,

and even older songs,

a different winding path to faith.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: This is a map to where I live.

You are my sanctuary.

God you are my sanctuary,

my safe place,

my space to rest,

the arms I long to hold me,

the voice of love

in a friend reaching out to me.

You are my sanctuary.

You make me a sanctuary.

You hold me close,

when I feel alone.

You are everything I long for

even when I don't know it.

You are my comfort and teacher.

You are the hand that guides me,

the friend that comforts me,

and the spirit in me

when it's my turn to be a comfort.

You prepare me to be a sanctuary

and you are my sanctuary.

You are my voice and guide in the silence.

You are my strength.

You lift me up when I fall

and hold my hand

when I feel like I'm floating away.

Forgive

Forgive them.

Forgive me.

Forgive us.

Forgive until it hurts.

Forgive them, the companies, nations, politics and powers, that rape the world, create policies of hurt, and take until they get ahead.

Forgive me, for ignoring the hurt, not crying out at the pain, for letting my wants get in the way of others needs

Forgive us, every time we cast lots and argue for things we don't need, while robbing the ones with nothing worth stealing.

Forgive until the hurt is washed away.

True Friend

wrapping me with love

drying tears of pain and hurt

tight hugs holding me

prompt: write a haiku about someone important to you.

Fireworks

I cannot think of fireworks without remembering long afternoons with family waiting for the fireworks at Long's Park. Going to the fireworks is always a family affair. When we go it looks like we're packing for a week. We pack a cooler or two full of drinks, and dips, and cheese spread and chicken kabobs, bags of chips and crackers, stacks of blankets, dice games, trains, and perhaps a board game, always a deck of cards and of course books. We bring a huge canopy and stake out our claim on the hill with a tarp and blankets, but the best thing is the twenty foot bamboo pole. Every year we strap a bamboo pole to the roof of our car and then carry it into the park to mark our spot with a kite or a flag or a windsock. Then we chuckle to ourselves as we hear people saying on their cell phones "yeah, I'm by the big pole, where are you?" Course then there was the year we sat beside the sofa....

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about fireworks.

God of the Rainbow

How can I write about God in a single color?

God is the deep murky blue green

of the Chesapeake Bay.

The refreshing wholeness

of living, dirty, fish and algae filled water.

The movement of different pieces of life crossing.

The clear breath

of wind across your skin

and the crystal clear water

where the zebra muscles live.

God is the red brown and gray pebbles

under twenty feet of clear water.

God is the dancing red spark

of a campfire.

I imagine God laughs

at being described

as hot like a spark.

God is the orange glow

of the setting sun.

The pale white shimmer

of the full moon.

God's smile is a rainbow

arching gracefully across the sky.

God lives in the pinks and purples and yellows

of flowers and butterflies on a summer day.

God is the lush green

of soft grass in the spring time

and the dry brown

of dust under foot.

Prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

Close Your Eyes

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

It's hard to write with your eyes closed.

When I close my eyes I see faces. I see my kids begging me to play, and the little girl I held in Africa. I see friends, I see the guy I like, and I see the person I pretend to be, when nobody is looking.

When I close my eyes I see some place warm and comforting. I see the comforting pale brown of warm milky tea. I see the bustle of busy people, oblivious to me, moving about their day. I see a market place, with people working, the smell of exotic foods and familiar comforts, at lunch hour.

I see a confusing crowd with everybody knowing where their they're going, except for me. I see business and colors. I see red. I see energy. I see noisy.

I hear a million voices at once. I'm torn in a billion directions, and find myself grasping desperately for a single idea to chase down or simply a moment of peace. I see nothing in particular and every thing at once, and find myself wanting the blissful peace of nothing on my mind.

It's like at night when I try to sleep but my mind won't let me. As soon as I close my eyes my mind is racing, showing off its speed, dancing from thought to thought as if I could forget how quick it is, as if I really want to race the million threads of color darting through my head.

A prayer for the wilderness

My god lives in the wilderness.

I meet God under the stars,

sitting by a campfire,

or rocking on a boat

with the rythmic clanking of a line

bumped against the mast,

by the breath of God.

To me the wilderness

is not devoid of God

but intimately tied to God.

It's where God hugs me in the arms

of damp woodsy air

and takes my breath away

with red and purple painted sky.

It's where the still and quiet

meets my busy mind

and calls me to slow down.

It's where no matter how big my worries are

they shrink against the back drop

of trees and sky and clouds and stars,

The God of the wilderness comforts me

when the walls of a church feel claustrophobic.

The piece of God in the trees

and the rocks

and the moonlight

invite me to be

who I am

when no one else

has the patients to wait

for the real me

to come out

of hiding.

Ladybug

Forgotten signs,

of past lives,

scratched into walls,

and swept into corners,

reminder these walls,

hold unknown stories,

someone who played,

with a spotted red bug,

in the ladybug house,

before it was mine.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

Sepia

A black and white photo,

shades of sepia, really,

capturing memories,

of nervous giggles,

childishly sophisticated,

declaring myself grown-up,

sharing intimate giggles,

loosened up by drinks,

blurred shades creating,

false closeness among strangers,

and yet it feels just right.

Does it count if it's late?

It's been almost exactly a month since I started working on my writing goal for the year. So far I've been pretty successful. I missed one prompt completely (January 9: Write about a ceremony.), but I had other writing I was working on that day.

Some of my writing has really sucked, but it's been SOMETHING on paper (or computer as the case maybe). I'm also pleased to say I'm really proud of some of the things I've written.

Though initially my goal included posting what I wrote I quickly realized I limited my writing when I wrote with the intention of sharing, so having nixed that part of the goal I'm finding I'm writing a surprising amount of stuff I can't even share with my writing buddies.

Earlier this week I was disappointed when there was a day I didn't find inspiration for the prompt, or any other writing, and couldn't "catch up" for the prompt I missed in the next few days either, but a conversation this afternoon inspired an answer to that prompt.


My belated response to that prompt:

Outside my window,
lightning flashes,
streaking blazes,
as thunder rolls,
gray clouds grumbling,
across purple sky,
to the pounding pulse,
of torrential rain.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Look out your window; write what you see. (Jan. 20)

Dancing Shoes

Imagine stepping,
onto sleek wood floor,
in suede soled shoes,
made for dancing.
The swoosh of fabric,
as you twirl in your skirt,
paired with the shoes,
ordered by mail,
to make you feel pretty,
sophisticated and sexy,
as you twirl the night away.
Dance your best,
cheeks flushing,
as you move to each touch,
intimately connected,
despite just meeting.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about something you bought mail order.

Acceptable Losses

What loss is ok?

Perhaps you'll say,
the loss of time,
as you laugh for hours,
living in the moment,
with that kid who adores you,
or your best friend,
who you never see enough.

Maybe you'll say,
the loss of a guy,
who is a loser,
just playing you,
trying to get laid.

Maybe the best loss,
is the lost sleep,
when a friend says,
“I need you,”
and you sit up for hours,
holding them,
until they're ok,
or as ok as they'll be,
and the next day you smile,
unfazed by the tired,
because friends are worth,
more than sleep.

Maybe the only,
acceptable loss,
is losing the shield,
the thing that divides,
whatever separates you,
from God,
and from people,
the ones you could love,
if only you lost that wall.

Perhaps an acceptable loss,
isn't really a loss,
but a gain,
hidden in,
the taking away,
of that security blanket,
that keeps out the world.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about acceptable losses.

The Moon's Smile

Look,
it's the moon,
like the shadow of,
a Cheshire Cat,
she comes to watch,
on perfect days,
a warm day in winter,
or cool summer day,
with clear blue sky,
and soft sun shine,
she comes and smiles,
she's happy to see us,
happy to be,
part of a beautiful day,
and I wonder,
why she hides,
when the day could use a smile.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about a day moon.


P.S. I didn't miss yesterday's prompt; I just haven't decided whether I'm posting any of it. The prompt was: "A year after your death,..." (after Czeslaw Milosz)

Wonderful Weekend Craziness

This weekend was fabulous. I spent the whole weekend at a Leadership Now Justice Summit and reunion with some of my favorite people. It was awesome - great conversations, great workshops, great people, and just the right mix of meaningful and funny moments. It kept me busy and gave me a lot to think about, but I'm happy to say I some how managed to keep up with my writing in between everything else.

I won't subject anybody to my in-cohesive rambling in response to Friday's prompt (Write about Sunday afternoon). I've also decided my writing from Saturday (Write about a time someone said no) is too personal to share. Today's writing is also really random, rambling and in-cohesive, but I'm going to share it anyway since it's vaguely related to this weekend..


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're standing in a doorway.

I'm standing in the doorway. Waiting for something. A push to move forward. An invitation in. it's like I'm on the edge of living. Not confident enough to step into the room, but wanting to enjoy the party. Like there's an invisible wall, a bubble keeping me out. I can look through the doorway, but I don't know how to step through, or maybe I'm not sure which way I'm goin, which side of the door I want to be on, I could step to one side or the other, but I don't know which to go to, or maybe I'm at the end of the hall where I'm surround by doors and I don't know which to take. I could stand up boldly for justice and sacrifice everything, if I could be brave enough. Or I could wonder along on the edge of things, subtlely hinting I believe there could be better for the world but never loud enough or brave enough to scream it from the roof tops. I could say the world is more important than me, or I could put myself, my education, my learning first for now, and hope someday I can pay it forward and more. I could step through the door and declare my faith, announce what I believe and try to impact the world, but maybe I like it in the hall, listening in to six conversations, pulling what I need from each. Maybe my place is in the hall, reaching a hand into each room, connecting people who would never step out of their four sided box rooms. Maybe if I stand in the hall and talk to the children as they're funneled towards their parents closed off rooms they'll see what I see from the hall and maybe some day the walls will fall. Maybe the doorway is the place to be.