Costly Perfume

Costly Perfume

by Melissa Campbell

I am weak and broken
I wonder at his scent--cedar, cinnamon and something else
I hear the sucking of their breath
I see a man who loves the least of these
I want to lay at his feet
I am weak and broken

I pretend I never knew the others
I feel no shame in baring my head
I touch my lips to dust-covered God feet
I worry I have only me to give
I cry as he lifts my face to his
I am weak and broken

I understand he paid in full
I say it is too much, but I will wait
I dream of catching the wind
I try to breathe, but only break
I hope it lingers, the mix of our perfume
I am weak and broken

Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. ~ John 12:3 (NIV)

To learn how to write an "I Am" poem visit ReadWriteThink.org.

Photo Credit:  Ryan Schultz - flickr

My Romance

The point is the love story.

We live in a love story in the midst of war. 

- John Eldredge, The Sacred Romance

Little Girl Dreams

Once upon a time I dreamed little girl dreams, of castles and crowns and happily-ever-afters.  My prince was my Daddy, handsome with dark curls and chocolate eyes, brilliant, tall and strong, having muscled arms that wrapped all love, rescued warm and safe, and drew me close for the sweetest of good-night kisses...and sometimes lashed out anger. 

Like father like daughter, I was quiet and contemplative, independent and strong-willed, analytical, but having a bent toward the artistic and creative side as well.  I lived to read at an early age, loved being outdoors, and learned to push against the boundaries, those austere iron gates that dared to limit my horizon--and where my mother often stood as a keeper.

Stubborn, I was forever reaching beyond the no's, always daring to test the waters for love and acceptance, though never able to catch more than a ripple or two.  And in spite of the fear that hovered and bellowed its thunder, sometimes overwhelming me with torment--You will never be enough!--I still hoped little-girl hope.  And I still dreamed little-girl dreams.

Because somewhere deep within was a longing for beauty and significance, and an innate, but not fully understood, sense of knowing a secret, one the world hates and wars against:  God fashioned us for romance.

He Loves Me

When I was in the second grade I penciled my first love poem to Ralphie MacFarland, a scrappy Irish boy with sun-bleached hair that hung to his shoulders and spiraled like my dad's.  His cornflower-blue gaze caused my heart to flutter a hundred butterflies. Ralphie lived in a boxy, brown-shingled cottage nestled snug among the pines, directly across the street from where my friend Molly's parents ran a dairy farm. 

In the "summer of love" Molly and I sat often among the blades high on a hill overlooking the little Cape Cod, up behind the barn where Bessie and the Jerseys grazed.  Some days we flopped on our backs, barefoot in the green, and dreamed dreams all color while adrift on clouds crossing a cerulean sea; and sometimes we plucked velvet the white of daisy petals round and round until they prophesied true:  He loves me.  He loves me not.  He loves me!

I got brave one day, in spite of the butterflies, and pedaled my royal-blue banana bike, streamers flying glitter from the handlebars, through the center of town to Molly's to ask her to deliver my verses, the brown paper now creased and wrinkled from hiding in my pockets. Along the way it slipped from my jeans into the milkweed growing along the road.

Oh, Sugar!  (An expletive I learned from my mom. {smile})

I didn't know.  Doug, my neighbor, my sometimes-best-friend and sometimes-worst-enemy, was only a few minutes behind me.  He was heading to the creek to look for crayfish--an illegal adventure we usually trekked together, illegal because of the sewage--another unknown--leaking from a neighbor's swampy backyard.  (Of course, we weren't allowed to play there either.)

Doug found the words of my heart lying lonely in the dirt, and being true to his nature and calling in life to make mine miserable, thought it great fun to read them out loud on the bus the next day.  I was mortified at the stumbling reveal of my heart!  Of course I denied it.  Vehemently.  But my cheeks, all rosy with shame, betrayed me and blabbed the truth.

Our bus, jammed with kids from both elementary and junior high schools, erupted into a chorus of oohs and ahhs.  And Ralphie, he laughed as we jerked to a stop in front of the pines, mussing my hair --a quick dismissal--as he sauntered to the front to get off.  A surge of laughter followed.  For the first time ever, I didn't get caught up in wonder of his beauty.  I couldn't bare to look.

The next five minutes were some of the longest in my life, as my friends and classmates sang a familiar playground taunt:  Missy and Ralphie sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.  First comes love.  Second comes marriage.  Then comes...

I couldn't get out of there fast enough, tripping down the stairs and running home with tears and snot all drivel across the shame, my heart breaking and leaking pain.  This was my first lesson in love, one of several, none of which ended in happily ever after.

To be continued...

Photo Courtesy:  flickr - Kabils

Nature Lover's Paradise

My sister assured me on Facebook today:  You DO live in a "Nature Lover's Paradise"...you really DO!

My husband and I often joke at how our home was advertised before we purchased it.  The house itself has been more of a "money pit" than a paradise. But it's peaceful here.  We have great neighbors.  And our location is the happening hang-out for wild-life.

Two summers ago a black bear attacked our garbage can, leaving paw prints like half-moons in punched metal.  He hugged a tree in the backyard until my brave husband, brandishing a flash light, scared him away.

This weekend, shortly after Hubby removed the winter pool cover, two Canadian Geese and their four goslings arrived for an afternoon swim.  This time Hubby armed himself with the pool skimmer and had to scoop up one of the babies who couldn't quite make it to dry ground.  (See the family picture below.)

Today, as my beloved and I were keeping time on the swing--me with my feet bare and he skin-damp from mowing grass--a Robin swooped and landed in the leafy green above, then began to whistle a rollicking melody.  Odd.  I never knew a Robin to serenade like this, but there was his Robin-red breast for all to see. 

He hopped with spindly legs to another branch, still tweeting, and revealing his true colors--a stark contrast of whites and blacks.

I was intrigued by the oddity of this "Robin," his strange plumage and mellow sound.   When have I last taken notice of a Robin up close?  Perhaps in the first days of spring with the brownish-gray blur of a female winging by, dropping grass and mud and twigs all across the porches as she stubbornly attempted to build a nest on our beams.  Or maybe in the early morning still wet with rain as she played tug-of-war with an earth-worm, needing nourishment for her babes.

It was almost summer now.  The chicks were chirping, and the parents, still haggardly searching for food.  Their presence had become commonplace and camouflaged--their nests hidden in shrubs, NOT on the beams.  Their dull gray presence had blended into the background of bark and twigs and trees.  In a whirl of bold color and lush green they became "the least of these." 

Robins are one of the things in life I look at frequently, but rarely see.  

Could this be some kind of an albino Robin?

A flash of brilliant red and a bright whistle drew my gaze again to our feathered friend.  Though I need reading glasses to make sense of fine print, I peered wide-eyed into the branches and easily saw the beauty of a creature I have never seen or heard before. (At least to my knowledge.) 

I watched and listened and allowed the glory of a bird to touch my soul.

He invited me to wonder.  And ponder how God speaks everyday in the tongues of men and angels and...other exotic creatures.  Even ordinary Robins.  Some days He paints a rainbow across the sky to remind us of His promises.  He kisses us good-night with a glitter of lightning bugs at sunset.  And sometimes just because, He sends love-notes wrapped in feathers, and dances joy over the child-like heart who reads them.

When I was a young girl, another set of eyes, older and wiser, showed me the way, eyes that reflected the blue of sky, the love of God and the grace-full life that was my grandmother.  She was my best friend and a nature lover.  I sat with her many evenings on a swing, swaying to the easy, peaceful rhythm of country summer, drinking sweet tea and beholding--taking notice and celebrating life around us.

Someday I hope to do this with my own grandchildren, those yet to come who will carry the legacy of seeking and seeing and swinging.  I hope to impart the same love she gave me--for life and the Life-giver, for those not always seen.

With the bright sound of the Grosbeak-not-a-Robin piercing through the gray of day, I heard my grandmother's lilting melody.  Part of her is planted and springing to life in me.  It's the serenade of a Nature Lover, keeping time with the rhythms of heaven, whistling to get our attention and wooing with the colors of love.  The Creator makes a bold display of His feathers and then hovers over us with the same--as a hen broods over her chicks, all because He loves us. 

All because He IS Love.

And all because He knows, if we see and hear and know Him, we will love Him too. 

Today a Rose-breasted Grosbeak sang his song and then flew away.  But Jesus invites us everyday to be with Him where He is, to see the glory His Father gave Him.  To be there, to be here, to be with Him wherever He is, is Paradise.

Yes, I DO live in a Nature Lover's Paradise!  I really do!

Photo Credit (Grossbeak):  Whitevale Wonder - flickr

Creeping Into God

"Just as in earthly life lovers long for the moment when they are able to breathe forth their love for each other, to let their souls blend in a soft whisper, so the mystic longs for the moment when in prayer he can, as it were, creep into God." ~ Soren Kierkagaard (1813-1885)

Reflection

I recently found this quote from Soren Kierkagaard, a Danish philosopher in a blog I penned years ago.  As I read retro words, I have to smile.  My longing to "creep into God" still presses me hard beyond the veil.  Every taste, and all that I drink, every new delight and experience in Christ, every word and promise Spirit whispers into my being -- all these and more -- only increase my thirst for God.

In Christ the veil is torn.  His kingdom comes.  His will is done.  Heaven invades earth, and the two become one.  Jesus in me--the hope of glory--invades my spirit, soul and body.

Jesus was so into His Father that He claimed:  to know Him was to know the Father (John 8:19.)  Before He went to the cross He talked with His Abba:

Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me


...may [they] be one as we are one—I in them and you in me so that they may be brought to complete unity.  Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.


... Righteous Father,...I have made you known to them, and will continue to make you known in order that the love you have for me may be in them and that I myself may be in them. 

~John 17:21-24 NIV

With great hope I put my trust in Jesus and the words he prayed, and re-post an excerpt of my own, retro and re-polished:

From Creeping Into God
June 1, 2007

When I gaze into a breathtaking sunset, or look at the indescribable beauty in the petals of a flower, or delight in the glory beams breaking through a canopy of leaves overhead, I think, "Is it possible that I could just disappear into the One who orchestrated all this loveliness that surrounds me?"

There are other moments, precious as well, when friends and I sing our hearts out in love songs to Jesus.  And He comes.

When Jesus comes, it's all about Him.  No longer do I remember the bad day at work, or the yellow haze of pollen floating outside and making me sneeze, or how the girls complained about the casserole I made for dinner.  I lose all thoughts of worry, pain, hunger and strife as I press into the source of all my satisfaction and delight.

When Jesus comes, I lose awareness of myself and everyone else in the room for that matter. There is a unity of spirit --a oneness of body--that comes to hungry hearts who worship together in spirit and truth.

When Jesus comes I forget to breathe. I am no longer me. I'm an eagle soaring on the wind into the sun.

I wonder if Enoch felt like this when he walked with God -- faithfully, and then no more,  because God took him away.

I've been thinking about this friendship with God, our God who is so brilliant an artist--the Author of Life himself--that He paints across nature into our lives a portrait of Himself.  Who is He really?

How much more of Him is there to know?

Is He as close to me as my next breath?

How deep into His presence can I go?

How am I changed from glory to glory?

Shall I live the mystery of Enoch?

Who can tell the story?

Ponder this:  He who unites himself with the Lord is one with him in spirit." (1 Corinthians 6:17 NIV)

If the Spirit of God lives within me, and I am in Christ the Son, just as He is in the Father, and He and the Father are one, doesn't it seem that I am already there?  In God?

I am convinced.  It is possible to creep into God!  And become so full of Him that we walk in a higher realm, that of the kingdom. When we enter into God's heart we see as He sees.  We love as He loves.  We become as He is in this world.  And our spirit flies! 

There is a highway of God where the enemy cannot come near us--it is the Way of holiness and love--and boasts the name of the Son, Jesus. This is what God planned for us all along: To walk as Enoch walked, one day barefoot in the dirt, and the next, swallowed up by Love.

Can you envision yourself?  A little child, trusting, vulnerable, precious, toddling to your heavenly Father, crawling up into his lap, and getting wrapped snug in His arms of love, comfort and security? I want to run there, and take everyone with me, there where I'm lost and found and far away from all the worries and cares of this life, there in that hidden and wonderful place where we are known and loved and changed to be like Him.

Photo Credit: James Chew - flickr
^{Creative Commons: Attribution-NonCommercial}

Word of Love Come Down

God is the perfect poet. ~ Robert Browning   

Word of Love Come Down
by Melissa Campbell

Word of Love

Come down, come down
Yah, plant your seed in this earth
And we will dance barefoot in the dirt
Sing now
And we will listen breath-taking

Word of Love
Come down, come down
God be born in flesh to die 
Love lifted to the sky
Suffer now
And we will weep spirit-waken

Word of Love
Come down, come down
From this cross you give us you
In this fire you bring us through
Ascend now
And we will rise joy-strengthened

Word of Love
Come down, come down
Open our souls to revelation
Fling wide these gates to exaltation 
Reign now
And we will shine
day-breaking.

Photo by Wonderlane (flickr)

How the Wildflowers Grow

How the Wildflowers Grow
by Melissa Campbell

Faces beaming, soaking Son
Drenched with healing, victory won
Breaking open, reaching, free
Shouting praise jubilantly

Joy awakening, colors bloom
Smearing fragrance, gleaning truth
Weeping tears to flow as springs
  Rain-washed petals behold their King

Beauty graceful, wings on Wind
Whirling, twirling, resting again
Daring to hope, dreaming bold dreams
Declaring dominion in holy decree

Women rising, daughters, sisters, moms
Seeing, being, peaceful balm
Rainbows reaching, hover low
Announcing freedom, proclaiming hope

Oh, taste and see the beauty
Give glory to the King
The wildflowers grow lovely
As they laugh and dance and sing

“Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you of little faith." ~ Luke 12:27-28 (NIV)

I wrote this after spending a weekend with an army of beautiful daughters of God, all wildflowers blooming into maturity,  "spunky"  and bold.  I give thanks to the women from Church at the Heights who organized the conference, and all my sisters who boldly shared their beauty, and special thanks to our speaker, J. Lee Grady, who carries and imparts the Father's heart for His girls. 

Photo Credit:  Olgierd Pstrykotworca (flickr)

Show Me Your Face

There exists a mystery in the world, and in all the looks of it-a mystery because of a meaning. There is a jubilance in every sunrise, a sober sadness in every sunset. There is a whispering of strange secrets in the wind of the twilight, and an unknown bliss in the song of the lark.

All nature, from the mountains to the sea to the fog that hangs so low on the hills, the heather in August, the hot, the cold, the rain - everything speaks, like the flower, messages from God, the Father of the universe.  The beautiful things around us are the expressions of God’s face, or as in Faust, the garment whereby we see the deity. 

~ Excerpts from "Discovering the Character of God"  by George MacDonald

Perilous days surround us.  Fear crouches low at the door of our hearts and minds, convulsing with its ache to pummel cruelty, smash us mercilessly to the floor.  Do we yield, frightened, to the roar of raging storms?  Do we cower,  frozen silent, and our faith lukewarm?

The earth groans.  Nations shake.  Kings and kingdoms break like cracks in the dirt, topple, tumble helpless into the jowls of history.  While chaos abounds, media seduces, entices, entertains, and the worlds sings us to sleep with lullaby's of vain imagination and false religion.  Is there faith to be found in the earth?  Is there peace?

In the midst of darkness a voice: like the sound of many waters, she cries for mercy.  The bride weeps with her groom.  She sees with clarity and compassion a world gone crazy, flailing wild in grief and anger, suffering need.  She bleeds as He does, convinced of this: only love can heal the pain.

And she knows: the mercy she gives will be the same mercy given in her time of need. The world may not deserve it.  But neither did she.

She presses on, soars higher, looks beyond the heavy loom of storm clouds hovering ominous.  Bold faith stretches long, batters the night with day.  Light breaks -- she focuses her gaze on the Son.  Strength rises.  Hope dawns.  Healing comes like the rain.  

Listen.  Hear the whisper of breath from another realm, so close it dances delight on the hearts of all who have tasted and seen: He is good! 

We are invited.  We have been shown the way, given white to wear on that great Wedding Day.  We, who can no longer remain earth-bound, must lead on, militantly in love.

Held fast by the Lamb, our lamps burning bright, we lean into the winds, yearning for our heavenly home.  We soar higher, bow lower, pick up our crosses and follow.  Pick up our neighbors and carry them if necessary, love them along the way.

In doing this, we touch the face of God.

Show me Your face, Lord.  Show me Your face.  Then gird up my legs that I might stand in this Holy Place.  Show me your face, Lord, your power and grace.  I [will] make it through the end if I [can] just see your face.

~ lyrics from Show Me Your Face by Don Potter

Photo Credit:  flickr - Jeffrey Pott