Unsought, yet found,
joy comes.
Peace tranquil,
still, and silent.

I do not understand God.
Often do I forget,
but when I do, he kindly
reminds me in his way.

Can a painting understand its artist?
A book understand its author?
A song its singer?
A program its programmer?

What is understanding anyway?
Can we every truly know another?
Or do we always see faintly;
through a glass darkly?

I do not understand God.
But whence comes this
quiet ineffable all-consuming
tranquil resolute joy?

Is it my creation?
A mind’s doing,
to pass the time while
observing a piece of bread?

It could be.
I do not understand God.
I would do well to remember:
if I did, it would not be God I understood.

So I understand.
The test of faith
lies in this uncertainty:
that love cannot go under the microscope.

If it could, it would not be love.

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1. Falling in Love

And you find yourself
within the words?
If so,
I have yet to fall in love.

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And yet, the cunning world
speaks to its own advantage.
For when I am strong
I am vulnerable.

Strong men put their faith
in their strength,
whether that strength
be of muscle or mind.

Attacks against strength
are never foreseen.
For who would dare
attack the stronghold?

But the attack will come there,
for the ways of weakness are watched,
while no eyes fall upon
the approach from strength.

When am I strong, I might ask?
Augustine might answer:
You are never strong;
your strength is not your own.

What you think of as strength
is merely a lesser form of weakness.
On an infinite scale
your so-called strength is a pittance.

If you put your faith there
sore disappointment shall find you,
resentment, despair, horror
anger, and lust.

As your strength is not your own
your weaknesses are your strengths
insomuch as
they make you not trust yourself.

When you are weak,
Augustine might continue,
You do not rely upon yourself
and thus are you freed.

Your feet saved from the snare.
Your hands unbound, loosened.
Your eyes opened.
Your legs healed.

We are not alone,
that much is true,
but the nature of the Other
is supernatural.

When you are weak
you find strength
because you turn to
the source of strength.

He who made strength.
Who is strength:
perfect strength,
infinite strength.

Is that not far stronger
than whatever you can muster?
Put aside your faith
in your own strength.

Boast gladly of your weakness,
for then the power of Christ
will be able to enter into you.
He waits at the door, but you do not open.

He waits, patiently,
gently reminding:
My grace is sufficient for you
for power is made perfect in weakness.

Have pity Lord,
upon this foolish boy.
Grant me the grace
to give you myself.

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3. Nine Lines

I script not my life, though all too often I wish I could.
But I know that he has better plans than any I can contrive.
And that his design is perfect.
Ah, let me accept these truths into my heart!

Patience.
Hope.
Faith.
Love.

More than words
I need these in my heart.
I begin to see with clear sight
before my vision dims again.

But those few glimpses are so fair.
Those moments when doubt lies not on my heart.
When I am assured.
If only all my time were such.

Yet I should be grateful that within,
a silent voice prompts me onward,
a spirit instructs my soul,
and my mind considers these truths:

A mortal man,
human dust alive,
striving forward,
fighting against the mortal coil.

I push onward,
one foot in front of the other,
a step, another, a mile.
I will make this journey.

Adopted into the divine family.
The most powerful in the universe
has me in his thoughts every moment.
What have I to worry? Why do I fret?

This dust, this dust it clings to me so.
My spirit is meshed within.
The time has not yet come for it to be restored.
Much to learn have I yet.

Human dust alive.
That is all I am.
Yet a creation am I.
Lord, guide me… guide me, Lord, guide me!

Have mercy on me.
Have mercy on me.
Grant me peace,
grant peace unto this human dust alive.

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I stand on the field of battle.
My trusted friend: traitor,
proving false
in the midst of battle.

Betrayal.
A stark reality
that ever stalks
the heart of men.

Comprehending the magnitude,
realizing the loss,
beholding the treachery,
at last, unmasked,

Anger flares, burning bright,
mingled with hatred, sour.
Yet your grace intercedes
turning my fury into supplication.

Ere I act in haste,
your grace grants me
the mercy of turning
to you in prayer.

Your peace enfolds me.
I find solace in your arms.
You purify my anger,
sharpening it into a blade of truth.

I see how small my sorrows are,
though they loom large to my soul.
You have suffered more, and greater,
yet you understand me, O Lord.

Your grace enables me
to make an offering of my pain,
of my angry heart,
lamenting and furious.

Take it, O Lord.
Transform it
into the image of your heart,
crowned with thorns.

Grant me the grace
of offering my suffering,
small and pitiful as it is,
to share in measure of

your suffering,
by which you
redeemed me
and all the world.

Take all that I am, Lord,
and make anew
in your image, in your image
make me a new man.

Hone my words with the Holy Spirit,
that my tongue may proclaim truth
and thus burn brightly as a blade
of light, shining against the darkness.

For you, Lord, have brought
death to lies, ending deception,
destroying, with death itself,
the dominion of evil.

Use me Lord, as you will.
I place myself into your
wounded hands
which bear the sacred wounds.

For I know that
the truth shall set me free.
Where falsehood flees,
I have no need of fear,

for I trust in the Lord,
My God, my savior,
So mighty a redeemer,
who saved and saves my soul.

There are moments
when a man,
confronted with evil,
arrayed against him in battle,

need not quail in terror,
cannot turn in flight,
but instead ought to look
at the armies of the Lord.

Christ conquers all.
Yea, verily even death.
Christ conquers all.
With Christ, I march.

Solider of his mercy.
Knight of the Queen.
I go, bearing faith
and wielding truth.

My shield shines with his light.
My blade burns with
his mercy and love.
It rings true.

Falsehood, deception,
betrayal, and shadow,
cannot prevail.
Truth conquers, for he is.

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The shadows that surround you
have for a moment repented
and attacks have ceased:
unexpectedly, a moment of peace.

I see your eyes.
I cannot look beyond them:
a silver blue shimmering wall
blocks my vision.

With most people
the eyes are the window to the soul.
But your eyes are different:
your eyes mask your soul.

I try to pierce the mists,
to see beyond,
to be one of those who
walk the path of wisdom.

And I find that I fail.
All my questions lead to confusion.
All your answers, your reactions
your actions, your ways, curious.

Curious as why sunshine is yellow.
Curious as why the sky is blue.
I cannot see beyond your eyes.
I cannot see your soul.

I wish I knew why I see the stunned silence.
Perhaps it is my imagination
but I feel that I see pain beyond them,
masked and hidden away for years.

Is there something you wish to share?
I could almost swear there’s something,
that you’re not saying, that you’ve never said,
that only the shadows know, and they are silent.

Please don’t think that I am prying.
Rather, realize instead I am praying,
I wish to be used as an instrument of aid,
and I’ve realized understanding comes from the divine.

Understanding is not a mortal invention
that I can create for myself,
simply by weaving a web,
as that would be inherently flawed.

The stunned silence in your eyes;
the way you look at me:
choreographed perfectly,
yet without meaning.

I feel like I’ve met
artificial intelligence:
cold, calculating,
perfectly precise.

Yet without emotion.
Without that human flair.
And with a interestingly seeded
random number generator, but nothing more.

I wish I understood the stunned silence in your eyes.
I wish I could help you find your voice.
I wish I could aid somehow in you finding yourself.
I wish that your eyes could shine with strength.

For therein, friend, lies the heart of beauty:
the eyes are the window to the soul, they say.
And the soul is what is most alluring.
And yours is masked behind those delicate eyes:

So beautiful,
so fragile,
so silent,
so stunned.

What do the shadows know?
What do they whisper?
What truths are there?
What might I find one day?

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred… let me sow love.
Where there is injury… pardon.
Where there is doubt… faith.

Where there is despair… hope.
Where there is darkness… light.
Where there is sadness… joy.
Where there is silence… sound.

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The future distant I know.
Tomorrow is as far away
as the dark side of the moon:
240 million miles plus the orb’s dark diameter.

What lies ahead in the next
day,
week,
month?

The twists and turns of the road
I cannot see.
All that I have been shown is the
final destination.

Perhaps I ought to be thankful
for having at least seen so much.
Perhaps others
are not so blessed.

But still, to know where one is going,
and not know how one is getting there,
needs more than mere mortal trust:
faith, once again, is needed.

Do I trust myself to the threads of fate?
A path marked out carefully,
long ago,
before time itself.

The path that ought be taken.
Predestination? Hardly.
Rather:
Things as they were meant to be.

Long before the fall
of the father of lies
in his moment of pride
from heaven:

Things as they were meant to be.
See the world as it should have been.
As it still, sometimes, manages to be:
Something more than merely fallen dust.

Redeemed.
We would be dust if it were not for
the body and the blood
of Christ.

Amen, we say, we believe.
We say we believe.
But do we?
Faith is function, not a constant.

It is in revealed in its action:
in its growth, in its change.
The derivative of faith
must be positive.

Things as they were meant to be.
Made possible (once again)
by the body and the blood,
redeeming Adam and Eve’s fall.

Things as they were meant to be.
Do more than think, write, ponder them:
live them, be them, do them.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Living with a faith beyond understanding,
beyond comprehension, for it comes before time:
the reality that unfolds around us is purposeful.
This existence has meaning.

Things as they were meant to be.
The meaning is in the doing.
The faith is in the action.
The love is in the living.

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And what joy.
What joy, a companion for the road.
I know it will not be easy.
But I know it will be worthy.

I long to know her face,
to see her smile,
to watch the stars dance
in her eyes, filled with love.

To love her with a love
stronger than death.
To lay down my life for her
as you laid down your life for us.

That is part of my task.
Part of my calling.
Part of my vocation.
Part of my Purpose.

And so I bend in the wind.
Bend, so far from breaking,
though it seems so near.
But I know, I know, I know.

I know I must trust,
trust relentlessly in you.
And in so trusting,
clinging to you, Jesus,

that you may lift me above
the little that I suffer
and see it transformed
into a joy eternal.

The suffering remains,
but the joy transcends,
layering above and beyond,
redefining it redemptively.

I know I do not deserve anything.
Never can I make amends.
Thank God you already have.
Your Blood, shed for me, for her, for us.

I will strive then, Lord,
to accomplish my Purpose,
the reason that you made me,
though I know it not.

I will strive then, Lord,
but I remind you, oh so gently,
that you yourself said:
It is not good for man to be alone.

I need a help meet Lord,
I need her.
Not only because I love her,
though indeed I do.

But because I know that without her
I cannot accomplish my Purpose.
For I know you made us for each other,
that together, we might accomplish our Purpose.

And in so accomplishing, not only
live lives of heroic virtue,
but also win many,
no, not many — multitudes

of souls to your banner,
so that when at last we arrive,
an army of souls will march
with us, won with your Love.

As poured out through your humble
instruments, wonderfully and fearfully made.
I do not say this out of pride,
for I am nothing.

I say this out of humility,
for you are God.
And for you, nothing is impossible.
And with you, nothing is impossible.

And so, I ask in your name:
In the name of my Savior, Jesus Christ,
send me her, my Beloved, your daughter,
that together, we may accomplish our Purpose.

Hasten the hour of our meeting, Lord.
I am but a man, and weak.
The wind blows fiercely now, never ceasing.
I do not know how much further I can bend.

But where one tree cannot stand,
two can: with limbs intertwined,
they can reinforce each other,
so that, rooted in you, nothing can move them.

Hasten the hour of our meeting, Lord.
I am but a man, and weak.
She is but a woman, and weak.
Together we will be but man and wife, and weak.

But our weakness is your strength.
We trust in you, to accomplish all things,
according to your will, we trust.
Hasten the hour of our meeting, Lord.

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Yes.
I know she’s out there. I’ve seen her.
She’s beautiful.

But she does not worry as much as you do.

Sure, she wonders.
She wonders about what it’ll be like
that first time the two of you meet.
The first time each of you beholds the other’s face.

She wonders.
But she does not worry.
She trusts.

Her trust runs through her.
It forms the bedrock, the foundation of her faith.

She prays for you often,
asking that in small part,
your sufferings might be lessened.

That this seemingly interminable waiting
before the hour of your meeting
might cultivate within you patience.

She knows you not
and yet loves you.
And prays for you.

If she could tell you anything now,
it would be
not to be anxious
and not to be afraid.

Her trust is deeper than yours.
Whereas your faith is intellectual, hers is emotional.
It’s something she knows, she feels
in the very core of her being.

Where you process things through your mind and then feel them in your heart,
for her, she intuits, she knows
she’s grounded in her faith, in her trust.

Do not worry.

You know intellectually that God
has created the two of you for each other.

That he foresaw the hour of your meeting and
crafted each of you, finely, for the other.
That the two of you might lead each other to him,
and through your children,
raise a new generation to know and love him.

This is a calling rarely heeded today.
But trust.

Do not worry.

She awaits you with a faith stronger than your own,
and seeks to lend you her strength.

She prays for you, that you might endure until the hour of your meeting.
And she loves you, though she knows you not.
Be strong for her.

Do not worry.

Place your trust in God’s hands.
Follow her example.

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I sit here, shattered.
Broken into 10,000 pieces.
Each insignificant: tiny;
adding up to almost nothing.

Yet relevant:
for from this dust,
these ashes of a man,
a new man you shall make.

One who will stand tall:
to kneel before you.
Create in me a clean heart, Lord,
to burn with love for you.

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