July 12, 2014


The words flow, and I speak to myself, write pictures of what I need to hear. But the poem bursts, and blossoms, and though humble, perhaps in need of more tinkering, I tremble and lay it in your hands.

Perhaps you need these words, too.

There is a darkness ahead
that eludes my endless scrutiny.

The future is in black white,
and we are painters,
stroking with the colors we choose.
But we can only paint
This moment is our canvas—
woven and gesso-ed,
and we can paint
as many blockades,
as many closed doors and blinded windows,
with as many shades of dark
as we please,
but only the Master painter
can paint the open ways.
He will paint our paths,
and we may recount the susans,
black-eyed and cheerful
in sunny shades of gold,
or sage trees stretching praise,
and even paint our own lips
in the midst of
Or we can paint the rocks in the road,
cast grey over sky and perpetuate
our own kind of rain.
As frantically as I try,
I cannot paint the curved road straight.
I swerve in haste
and end in crippling decay.
So I learn in challenging, small strokes
to paint flowers
and sunsets and the beauty
of dying trees, fallen down barns
of storms that rage,
and the gentle hush they leave behind.
To paint that which does not
strive to be beautiful,
but is good,
sometimes hard, uphill good.
To paint without words
my thanks
and my joy—my life.

There is a brightness ahead
that eludes my momentary scrutiny.

"The cynics, they can only speak of the dark, of the obvious, and this is not hard. For all it’s supposed sophistication, it’s cynicism that’s simplistic. In a fallen world, how profound is it to see what’s broken?" 
Ann Voskamp

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