Puzzle Pieces

Can we see ourselves, and others too, like God does, little life seeds, micro-bursts of light and beauty, unique from each other, and capable of becoming the spitting image of our Father?

Can we rid our brains of the lies we have learned and leaned on--that some are worthless, hopeless, ugly, not needed--and instead, embrace the truth how God created all of us intentionally with purpose and love?

Can we know who we are, His poema, works of art?

Can we learn to focus not on our imperfections according to the world's standards and media brain-wash?  Can we stop measuring how pretty-plain, fat-skinny, freckled-fair, quiet-loud, shy-proud, broken-manicured, glamor-geek we are, and look instead for the signature of a Creator who loves diversity and making strong the weak?  (Look at nature!)

Can we train our eyes to see not the less, but the more?

Not the lack, but the potential?

Not the failure, but the trying?

Can we look past our reflection and let eyes feast on first the heap, then the one who faces us, oodles of colored pieces, cut round and sharp and chunky, all crafted uniquely with the eye of a Master, and having a place to fit perfectly in His brilliant puzzle?

Can we reach past our insecurity a hand to help each other land there?

Father, give us eyes to see as you do, to look down deep where your DNA resides and find--uniquely beautiful and important, necessary for completing the picture--a family worthy of your love, that your glory (goodness) may cover the earth like the waters cover the seas.  Thank you for all the Precious Pieces that fit together in our lives, and for sending such a One to lead us.  Amen.

I was inspired to write this after talking with my mom this morning, and meeting new friends last night, all beautiful women and carriers of The Christ.  

My hope is that you all find your place today, and have a lovely weekend. 

Blessings here,
Melissa

Photo Credit:  flickr - Mykl Roventine

Soup for the Poor

A perfect day for making soup--the sun shines bright Fall's fading color, and earthy leaf-decay spreads perfume on bitter wind gusts, their twirls dancing pretty.

I chop onion, and shred sharp cheddar, and cry real tears as I think about two girls who love this recipe:  The first, my oldest daughter--I need to call her soon to invite them both to dinner, she and husband.  There will be plenty with sloppy joe's too...

And the other like a daughter--a close friend of our second from the middle found a boy two weeks ago, and now has turned against her.  With the coldest shoulder she throws thick stones and calls mean names that hurt down deep, breaking open my child's heart--long leaking grief and looking for bridges to hide under.

I am angry.  And I hurt more than I should--for I know this pain--and all I want to do is kiss her broken bones and make it go away.

Instead I clean broccoli, two heads just bought fresh from my farmer friend across the streets.  I snap pretty crowns and rinse them clean through cold water running, and think of a happier day when they were getting ready in her tiny purple room, our sensitive one--an artist with hair and nails--working magic in red, shiny curls not her own, and lending a necklace to match the chunky pearls at her ears.   She has always been that way--giving.

Two little-girls-grown who spent the summer together, both candidates for home-coming queen, giggled and speculated who would be crowned, hoping, but not quite believing it might be one of them.  We took pictures close with arms draping and faces glowing, out there in the leaves.

In the evening--on a day like this, but colder--their dates escorted straight along the fifty yard line five beauties smiling big and heels awkwardly sticking in the green, as one by one their names were called.  The announcer made plain the winner.  And with the crowd's applause my daughter gushed congratulations, gave her friend a hug and said she was glad it was her.  Their fresh flowers tangled like their sister-love.

Days later she called from school on her cell, the two of them waiting to tape up ankles before practice, and they were hungry.  She asked if we had any soup left, and it wasn't long before she came flying into the kitchen, my daughter close after, looking for her favorite.  All the while her bowl got hot in the microwave, she couldn't stop raving about the soup.  They spooned it fast and carried pumpkin-cream-cheese muffins wrapped in paper, offered thanks as they went just as quick out the door.  I said, "Anytime!" and laughed.

That seems a life-time ago.  Now I clean the sink, gathering those little pieces of vegetable that didn't make it into the pot, and I think about my sister's trip to Mozambique, and her stories of the poor, hungry children who root through garbage for food and will eat anything.  Anything.  They would have a feast on what I just put in the trash. 

And I remember a poor girl whose daddy left her small--he doesn't always make it to her soccer games, but when he does, she quivers.  I wonder if he regrets his exit from her life, and how another daddy moved in to love her inappropriately.  And what was he thinking as she stood there on that special night looking at her mom with another new husband--they just bought a house together, and are fixing up a room.  But it's not ready yet.  She still lives with her grandmother three blocks down from the old Sunoco.

I hear she's coming over later, not to hang out like old-times, but as a member of the team, working on a school project.  Their honors class made a video--it's quite good really--the telling of three tales as one.  My daughter played the Scarecrow, having a heart, but needing a brain, and she, Belle--the beauty, the one in the golden gown and walking like a queen.   And I say out loud, I don't want her to eat my soup ever again.

 
And I wonder whose heart is colder, a friend's who isn't a friend any longer--maybe never was...

...or the bleeding empty one of my daughter, willing life to return to pre-fairy-tale normalcy...

...or mine, for wanting to keep all the soup to ourselves.

I don't think about it long.  The answer runs down my cheeks.  My mother heart cries for both of these girls.  And I realize I have to rise above the emotion, lay my self down and live in an upside-down kingdom where all is motivated by love.

My daughter is right in choosing to forgive, even if the friendship is never restored.  I must determine to do the same, and with grace offer up soup to the needy and poor, just like Jesus dishes it to me...extravagantly...freely...like I'm a queen instead of a pauper.

I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You'll never—I promise—regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we're at our worst. Our Father is kind; you be kind. ~Luke 6:35-36 The Message

Joining with Emily and other "poor" friends at:




This is essentially a true story, but some of the details and characters have been changed to protect privacy.

Photo's courtesy of: Ernesto Andrade and thebittenword.com
Scripture taken from The Message. Copyright � 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.  As taken from Bible Gateway.

Scandalous Blaze

 

Scandalous Blaze

by Melissa Campbell

When dark night settles heavy,
Hope pregnant with delay,
Holy angels come to gather
Those fallen to the sway,
Of self-love seduction,
And find,
A little faith sustained.

A happy flicker, faint at first,

One virgin wick just catching flame;

Bends low among the rushes,

Yields strong to winds of change;
When all around just ashes,

A remnant burn remains.

Such burning ones bleed,
Drip oil of Majesty,
Limp broken by their need,

Track heaven-scent along the street,
And sing to the wounded,
Love songs...

...A costly perfume,
For those who stand on the outside looking in,

Where stained-glass-window seats,
Shutter, shake,
And silver-tipped steeples,
Teeter, break,

And well-behaved worshipers,
Scatter, scathed,
Bathe long in after-glow of former glory...

And those seeking to know as they are known,
Turn faces full to welcome sun and fire's purge and race's run,

Rising up to lay-me-down, prostrate,

And willing to kiss both cheeks soft good-bye,
In final sacrifice,

Only after swallowing up the night,
In scandalous blaze...

...of glory.

Arise, shine;

For your light has come!

And the glory of the LORD is risen upon you.

  For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth,

And deep darkness the people;

But the LORD will arise over you,

And His glory will be seen upon you.

~ Isaiah 60:1,2 

My inspiration for writing these lines came in the reading of Charissa Steyn's blog-post at Everyday Adventures:  Be Like Happy (Click to read.)

Re-posting from the archives for One Shot Wednesday.

 

Photo Credit:  flickr - Ben Britten
Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. As taken from Bible Gateway.

Songe d'Automne

Songe d'Autonmne
by Melissa Campbell

My papa was snuggled up close along the back-side of Mum and me, spoon-like, with Bertie there on the other berth, his pale little arms stretched out wide above auburn curls, sleeping calmly, when the sound reverberated loud, like one of Mum's calicoes ripping, tearing metal, and a queer quiver ran through the length of us, deep in steerage bowels, afloat on an icy sea. 

He left us then, to join the men who were gathering on deck to admire an austere mountain of ice, and walking through its crunching scatter atop the boards, gingerly, contemplating.  And all around was peaceful chatter, and no alarms being given.  But he looked and saw some officers letting down the life boats, loosening cords, untangling cables and opening doors to storage where white jackets were stacked like soldiers, just as a precaution.

Urgent hands shook Mum awake, as I lay content on her breast.  "What is it, Luv?"

"We must get the children dressed warmly. Quickly.  I'm afraid we've struck a bit of ice."

Mama's feet dropped quick off the bed and immediately felt the cold shock of icy water underneath.  Adrenaline rushed, and sweat crept down her back and beaded on her forehead as she realized the truth of what was happening.  This couldn't be.  What have we done?  Left everything just to die at sea?  She began to weep and pray, "God have mercy!"

"How much time do we have?"

"Who knows?" he said, slipping his watch into the inside pocket of his worn, woolen coat, always smelling like tobacco.

We hustled to get to the upper deck, with Da holding Bertie, and shouldering a path through panic-stricken chaos.  Somber officers lined the walk, handing out life-preservers to the crazed passers-by.

"Stay close!  We need to go up one more set of stairs," he hollered back, as my mum pressed me warm into the back of him.

We came to a rope strung tight, with an officer guarding, and people pushing to get across.  They called for women and children, and the crowd finally gave way to us.  Da turned and put Bertie down, held me in his arms for the littlest while and kissed me on my head, then wrapped himself around us all, squeezing tight.  With quiet hope he said, "It's time you go."

Two hearts joined as one were beating hard, bending, sinking, bleeding like the boat they had put their faith in, their dreams glued together only for as long as they could embrace.  They held on for one last breath, then ripped apart.  Da pushed away first, with me still in his arms, and watched Mum, sobbing, climb over the rail and into #13.  Bertie went next with the help of a stranger, disappearing into the cold confines of a wooden boat different than our mother's.

There was a tussle next to us.  An angry man with a knife knocked into my father, hard against the rails.  And the officer stood stern and fired a shot and warned there would be no men boarding at this time.

I had been wrapped in a canvas mail sack, one Da found along the way and gave to Mum to hold our clothes.  A sailor used it now to lower me down into her arms, trembling.  And Da was brave as he looked into her hazel eyes one last time, and said, "Don't worry, Luv.  I'll be along soon." 

And then we were gone, jolted, shaken, taken down into the deep with ropes and pulleys.  And all around wake-less waves shone with star reflections.  And White Star Line strings played an upbeat melody, while icy depths seeped through a rip as big as the berth we had been lying on when my papa dreamed of a new life in a new land--he wouldn't live to see.

And grown men fell to their knees and cried like babies.  And some fell to pistol shots, while children whimpered and wives wailed, clinging to their men like they would never hold them again, and mothers screamed for missing children, wrenched from their arms and tossed like packages to the privileged few below.

And Da joined the masses--with Captain Smith looking down from the bridge--of brave martyr-men lining the decks, shoulder to shoulder, waving teary Good-byes and shouting desperate prayers.  He threw us a kiss and yelled for Bertie to hold Mummy's hand and be a good lad--he didn't realize he wasn't with us.  And he said he would see us again, as we drifted away on a glassy sea, each of us fading fast like a shadow, until we were no more.

Two hours and forty minutes after my papa first woke, startled, we watched in horror--a scene that would haunt the likes of us the rest of our years--those gallant groups of men stumbling, grasping, dropping like bees, losing their footing as the ship's stern slowly rose into the air, higher and higher, like a wounded sea-monster raging at the night sky.  

Some fell, and some jumped, and there were screams of terror like we never heard before.  And the strings stopped quiet, and the ship roared with thunder, as one by one the lights snuffed black, on that frigid night when the Atlantic swallowed up my papa's dream.

And the moon waned dim, deciding not to show its face, nor witness the impossible sinking heavy of many brave and mighty men on a ship never christened and never destined to die at sea.

We held each other close, my mother nursing me, floating in the dark on waters four degrees below freezing, south of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, waiting for a rescue, while the stars faded, and the voices carrying across the waves waxed eerily silent.


This is a Magpie Tale.

I wrote this to honor the memories of those losing their lives in the sinking of the Titanic.  According to a survivor, Songe 'Automne (Dream of Autumn), was one of the songs playing, if not the last, while the ship went down.  The other song remembered is Nearer My God to Thee.

Photo Credit:  Tess Kincaid.  Used with permission. 

Heart Change

In the last week I have found myself giving voice to critical complaints and negativity, speaking loud my frustration with life in more ways than I would like to admit.  I distanced myself from my husband because he continually goes where I don't want to follow.
 

I decided I am tired of giving up all of me--all the things I could be if only...

...and I am tired of feeling sucked-dry with nothing left to give to anyone, especially God...

...and I am tired of being love-sick and hopeful over things that never come to be...

...and I am tired of walking this journey alone.

And I realize I am focusing on a whole lot of me...and entertaining thoughts that are not mine or God's.

Then I remember how Jesus takes the good with the bad and the ugly.  And He doesn't mind getting dirty to wash us clean. 

So I lift up my heart-felt disappointment and self-absorbed sadness and struggle to come back to a place of seeing Him in the people, places and things around me...

I think hard on the last seven days, and how I lived them.  And joyfully discover...there are multitudes of thing to be thankful for, even when I was blindly wishing for more:

73. Another mother-daughter day planned by my mom, gift-bearing--and all five of us making it!

74. A drive-by visit to Soergel's Orchard, and stopping for pics with the corn stalks.

75. The new, star-graced drinking glasses I bought at Ikea.

76. And throwing out what was left of the dishwasher-cracked-old ones.

77. Celebrating two sister birthdays at a round table at PF Chang's--with cake, candles and flashing party hats.

78. Lettuce wraps!  

79. And leftover Lo-Mein to take home to the girls in in a little Chinese take-out box.

80. A fortune cookie message that said:  A distant relative will call you soon.  (Hope so!)

81. And on the back, the Chinese word for face:  lian--spelled differently, my baby sister who lives in another state sitting next to me (Lianne.)

82. Reading how having face in China means the same as one's word being golden--and she is!

83. Settling in with snacks to watch Faith Like Potatoes with my mom and sisters after a day spent together loving and laughing, and having to call my youngest daughter and her friend to come get me because we couldn't make it through the movie.

84. Riding in the back-seat and getting home safely. :)

85. A husband who served others all weekend, picking up leaves and putting down floors, and falling asleep on the couch, in a different kind of exhausted.

86. A gift in the mail bearing bread for the soul and money.

87. The precious heart who sent it. (May your cup run over!)

88. God's protection over my girls in their coming and going in all different directions, and even an accident

89.  A son-in-law who apologizes with his heart for something small.

90.  Walking with our youngest on the football field for Senior Night, and The Middle bringing her sister a bag of gifts.

91.  The telling of a sister-secret, and The Oldest saying its okay.

92.  A candle-lit dinner for two with flowers and wine on a bitter cold night.

93. The cinnamon sprig of fall mum stuck on my windshield on a happy, sunny day.

94. And new, woolly slippers to take the chill off later.

95. A plateful of pumpkin pancakes shared by family on a Sunday morning.

96. And someone else picking up the tab.

97. The waiter who shared his funny story, and waited...and laughed.

98. Time spent together, talking, touching, being real.

99. A visit to Stanley's bakery for Lady Locks for my sister before she travels home.

100. The fresh raspberries, yogurt and granola I just ate for breakfast.

101. And the nourishment I receive when I turn my heart toward home.

102. The forgiveness that comes when I least deserve it.

103. And how gratitude changes the day.

104. To be able praise the One who makes it all happen.

105. And for eyes to see His grace at work in me.

I join every Monday with Ann Voskamp and the community of gratitude-givers in appreciating God's graces.  Click on the button below to read other grace lists....

Click to read more about my Journey of Gratitude.

Beautiful Photos courtesy of: flickr - Liz West

True Colors

Autumn surrounds us with a song,

Wears true colors proud,

Boldly bares the heart of her Creator,

In blaze of glory and fiery soul. 

She lingers for but a moment,

Never giving us a chance to own her,

Just delight in her company.

So drink deep,

Feast your eyes on priceless beauty,

and breathe.

And don't be afraid to let your colors show.

 Today, and everyday!

Have a glorious weekend, everyone!

Photo Courtesy of:  Flickr - Liz West

Isaiah's Love Song

As an intercessor, I have the holy privilege of sharing some of the hopes and heart of God for people and situations around me.  However, because of a heightened discernment of emotions and spiritual tensions, I sometimes struggle with heavy burdens that come looking for a place to linger.

Over the years I have learned there is only One worthy to carry our burdens, and if I don't immediately go to Him in prayer, I can become quickly sucked into a miry pit of grief and despair.

Today I remember the words of our Great High Priest, who lives to intercede for us:

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

 

The watchman, Isaiah, looked ahead and saw this beautiful Savior, who came to give us rest.  With a love-sick heart, he penned what he saw long before holy feet met earth:

He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.

He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.

~ Isaiah 53:2-5

For those who are walking wounded, heavy and struggling to see the light today, who think there is no way out:

Look up! To where your help comes from.

Go call a friend who loves you.  His name is Jesus.  He comes to heal the brokenhearted.  He knows our pain, cries our tears and walks with us through the hard times as well as the good.   

He is not afraid to reach down into our mess, and lift the heavy weight of this world from our shoulders.  He promises to carry us through.

And bring joy in the morning.  There is hope for all of us.  So hold on!

And read this story if you like, of another watchman from Australia, who intercedes in behalf of the desperate. (Click to read.)  I guarantee you will be encouraged!

Father, bless your children with eyes and ears to see and hear your hope, your love, your plan for them today.   In Jesus' name, Amen.

  

Painting:  one of my favorites from Terri Derocher.  Terri has had several of her prophetic paintings displayed in the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C.  You can see these and others on her web-site, Love Letters from Heaven.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.  As taken from Bible Gateway.