Cool poem

Stumbled across this poem in my reading for Youth and Family Ministry. Hope you enjoy!

An Ode to Marriage
"You know, it could happen to us,"
you said to me,
sitting in your favorite chair as we sipped coffee,
digesting the news of the latest couples splitting up.
"No matter how great we think we have it,
if all those people can break up
it could happen to us.
We're humans like them.
It is possible."
I didn't answer for a while.
We were both incredulous at the news.
Men and women of maturity
decades-long marriages
so many have exploded, one after another.
Almost every week, another set of names.
Not him! Not her!
They're too sensible, too solid.
"You're right," I finally admit.
We've never joked about divorce,
never brought it up as an option.
We declared total commitment to each other
and must reaffirm that always.
But maybe realizing it could happen to us
helps us make sure it won't.
How terrible to think of an argument
someday when one of us feels
the need for the ultimate weapon,
"Well, obviously there's no sense staying together.
We're just hurting each other,
just keeping each other trapped."
Those are words mouthed in kitchens
and bedrooms of "mature" Christian homes.
REmember how our love began?
Years ago, I offered you my arm
that September night we first went out.
You reached for it
as we leaped a puddle together.
Then you walked just close enough
to show you liked it.
I glimpsed your face under the streetlight,
excitement splashing gently on it....
No commitment - just beginnings.
My arm pulled you that January eve
right beside me in that car.
Midnight. Time to leave.
"Good night" wasn't quite enough,
and our lips touched gently
in a kiss as light as an angel cake.
"I like you," it said,
but nothing more.
November air had rough-scrubbed our faces.
As we wrestled playfully
in your parent's farmhouse.
That moment I knew
and breathed into your hair,
"I LOVE YOU."
The words exploded around us.
They meant far more than "you're nice."
They meant commitment.
Your words came back to me
in firm, sure sounds:
"I love you too."
And our kiss of celebration
was the beginning of a new creation.
Yes, I chose you.
Out of all the lovely girls I knew.
I chose you.
How marvelous are the women of planet Earth,
hair flaring in the wind
rich browns and golds,
a thousand delicious shapes
girls who laugh saucily
girls who read Browning
girls who play sitars
girls who fix carburetors.
Of all those fascinating possibilities,
I chose you.
Decisively. Permanently.
Is that self-entrapment?
Wasw a commitment made in youth
to bind me a lifetime?
Ah, but it was as strong as birth,
a fresh creation,
soon to be a new flesh,
you and I as one.
We chose each other.
We created something new under the sun.
You to shape me
and I you,
like a Luther Burbank original.
We, our own new creation,
to produce fruit wholly unique,
UNIQUE IN THE UNIVERSE!
Then the wdding,
flying rice and honeymoon
days and nights together.
Two persons
as unalike as birch and cypress
had chosen each other.
The heavens laughed
and the sands of the earth
lay ready for the tender feet
of our newborn self.
Does time change all that?
Were we naive? Now, after we have
loved, argued, laughed, given birth,
what does it mean
when I hold you and say,
"I love you"?
Without the young-love ecstasy,
is it required rote
or reaffirmation of our new creation?
"I love you."
My temples don't pulse as I say it.
My body does not ache for coupling,
not as it did.
Yet the words carry more fact
than ever they did in courtship.
They embrace a million moments shared...
Standing together
atop Cadillac Mountain
and aching to absorb the blue-white-green beauty...
or angrily expounding to each other in the kitchen
about our particular stupidities,
then sharing a kiss ten hours later...
bonding moments, holding us together.
How easily those bonds could be tyrannical.
"You always forget..." "You never think..."
And bitter moments bite into their flesh
with blinding ropes that tie them to the
time and place instead of to each other.
Yet bonds can be a
thousand multicolored strands
of sorrow, joy, embarrasment,
of anger, laughter shared
as we watch God maturing us,
as we gently tell each other
of our joys, our fears,
even of our fantasies.
Rope is rope.
Experiences are much the same:
crabby days,
laughing days,
boring days.
We'll go through them "in love,"
by commitment to each other,
sharing, forgiving,
not blaming, not hurting.
Yet when we do hurt,
we ask forgiveness,
so the ropes will bind us together.
For if they don't
they'll wrap around our throats,
so that each struggle will tighten the noose,
and we'll have to reach for the knife to cut the bonds.
"I love you."
It sounds trite -
but not if it's remembering
the thousands of strands
of loving each other when we don't feel lovely,
of holding each other,
of winking across a room,
of eating peanut butter sandwiches beside the surf.
And of getting up in the morning
thousands of times, together,
and remembering what we created,
the day we first said "I love you,"
Something permanent
and growing
and alive.
~ Harold Myra, 1979~

Worship song

We sang this in Chapel today. I've heard it before and the lyrics always are a convicting reminder and profound encouragement. I hope it blesses you today.

Verse 1:

This is my prayer in the desert

When all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer in my hunger and need
My God is the God who provides

Verse 2:
This is my prayer in the fire
In weakness or trial or pain
There is a faith proved
Of more worth than gold
So refine me Lord through the flame

Chorus:
I will bring Praise
I will bring Praise
No weapon formed against me shall remain
I will rejoice
I will declare
God is my victory and He is here

Verse 3:
This is my prayer in the Battle
When triumph is still on its way
I am a conqueror an co-heir with Christ
So firm on His promise I'll stand

(Chorus)

Bridge:
All of my life
In every Season
You are still God
I have a reason to sing
I have a reason to worship

Verse 4:
This is my prayer in the harvest
When favor and providence flow
I know I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've received I will sow.

(Chorus)

~Artist Hillsong United Album Across the Earth Song Desert Song~

Much needed poetry for this week

I.
"WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

II.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

III.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;
And having done that, Thou hast done ;
I fear no more."

"A Hymn to God the Father" by John Donne.

" On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare
a feast of rich food for all peoples,
a banquet of aged wine—
the best of meats and the finest of wines.

On this mountain he will destroy
the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;

he will swallow up death forever.
The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears
from all faces;
he will remove the disgrace of his people
from all the earth.
The LORD has spoken.

In that day they will say,
"Surely this is our God;
we trusted in him, and he saved us.
This is the LORD, we trusted in him;
let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation." "

Isaiah 25:6-9

Its so easy to see the grain of sand in a brother's eye, until I realize that I'm bludgeoning him with the 2x4 log in my own eye. Please pray for me and some dear friends of mine. We're struggling. I have hope that we'll win the war, but some battles have been lost, and we're bleeding.

Dried roses

I dried the bouquet of flowers I had received for valentines day, and a friend asked me why I did that, as now the flowers were all brittle. I must admit, a rather lengthy reply formed in my brain as to the reasoning of saving something beautiful even though it is now delicate and fragile, whereas before it was strong and vibrant. However, I decided to hold my tongue at the time. But later on that night, a poem formed itself in my brain and I thought I would share it with you:

Why do I like dried flowers?
Its a simple matter, you see.
Because I have no garden
filled with ones living.

Either because it's winter
and outside all green things are dead
or because I own no ground
on which my seeds can go to bed.

So I cherish these few cut roses
given to me by a friend
and not let them die and wither
by hanging them up on end.

Yes now they are far more brittle
a delicate, fragile thing.
Yet I'd rather have these remainders
then simply sweet memories.

So the solution you see is simple,
though not exactly cheap.
Either give me a tiny garden,
or buy me cut flowers every week!

Poetical moment

So far for my Great Books class, we've read The Odessy, Augustine's "Confessions" and Boethius' "The Consolation of Philosophy". One of our assignments was to write out an experience or memory in a poetical style that was similar to that found in the Odessy. I wrote out an experience from this summer and have been meaning to post it here. Hope you enjoy. :-)

As an unbroken colt bucks and bounces
vainly attempting to rid itself of its' master
who gentles it into submission,
so did the old Dacia car buck and bounce
as we crawled up the dusty Carpathian roads.
Sweet grass danced across the hills
and jagged mountainous ridges
as gentle Ewes grazed with their lambs
their bear-like shepherd dogs
faithfully watching.
These sights I drank in with pleasure
as my dear companions escorted me
further away from the world familiar
and into the hidden, sunlit valleys.
As the seagull, wild and free, cries out as he flies
so too did the voices of the village greet us
before its' sights and smells.
Olive-skinned children, turned black by sun and wind,
ran to greet us as they laughed their salutations.
My own voice joined them, my tongue clumsy
as I made the unfamiliar words of their world
shape themselves and fly from my lips.
I let my strange white hands
be touched and stroked, as laughing
the children tried to explain my sky blue eyes.
Their flashing raven hair bobbed
as they danced for me.
Husky voices raised in jeers and compliments.
I smiled and thanked my God,
as once again He had brought me here.
And I was proven faithful in my promise
to return to these my Gypsy friends.

Poured out, waiting to be filled.

(Corina and Allen)

My friend Corina lost one of her babies this week. Little "Allen" was diagnosed with Cancer in his eyes, and was abandoned by his foster mother. Corina took his case and ended up falling in love with the little boy, and became his new foster mommy. "Allen" had two surgeries - one to remove his cancerous eyes and the second to remove the cancer that had moved to his brain - and appeared to be doing well for a while. Tragically, two weeks ago he fell ill again. He slipped into a coma and a few days ago went to be with Jesus.

Corina and I chatted a few times while "Allen" was in a coma. My heart broke for Corina as she told me of her grief.

"I want to hear my baby's voice one last time!"

"My heart has been broken before, but this time it is crushed."

Before he went into a coma, Corina began to prepare "Allen" for eternity. He had been growing sicker and was agitated. At only two years old, he seemed to understand that Death was near.

"You don't need to be afraid. Jesus will come and take you to a beautiful place, and it will be your home."

The little boy was still unsure and asked, "Will Jesus come by car?" He had a facination with cars.

"Jesus has many cars. I'm sure He can find you one." She replied as he snuggled closer to her, still afraid and tense.

"You don't need to be afraid." She assured him again. "Jesus will take you home to Heaven. You can stay there with Jesus and wait for me, and after a little while Mommy will come too."

Finally the little boy relaxed and was at peace. Soon after he slipped into a coma.

After he lost consciousness, Corina and I chatted a few times while she was at her house during the few rests she allowed herself. She refused to leave "Allen's" side more than was absolutally neccessary, alternatively hoping for a miraculous healing or simply wanting to be there when he finally passed. My heart broke for Corina as she shared her grief and worry.

"I am very depressed. I miss my baby so much! I want him back with me!"

"All I want is just him, just one more time to hear him, to hold him. I can't stand to look at his lifeless body. Why so short? Why such pain he had to go through? Why so few sweet moments?"

"I know it (knowing Allen) was a privelege, but one that cost much. My heart. It was broken before, too. But this time it is totally crushed."

I tried to comfort her and remind her of God's unending love and sovereignty. I was torn, though, because I wanted to assure her that it would be allright in the end, the story would have a happy ending. Or at least to be assured, she had done enough for one person, surely God wouldn't ask her to do anything like this ever again.

However, what else is the Christian Missionary life but an endless series of sacrifice, heartbreak, and tragedy? Of course there is Joy, Love, Salvation in there as well. However the moments of grief come all too often. And the thing is that I know Jesus is standing right there watching, His eyes wet with tears as His heart breaks more than ours could ever even begin to.

But sometimes it is encouraging just to know that there are indeed other Christians who partake in the sacrifice and heartbreak. Who understand not the situation completely, but at least can empathise in the feeling of helplessness. Who do not condicend or talk with useless words but who will simply sit and cry with the grieving person. Or a simple, "tell me more, because I love you."

Anyway I had all this buzzing through my head for a while, so I wrote a poem about the Missionary life. It was originally for Corina, but I think every serious, down to earth Christian can empathize with this.

(Allen after one of his surgeries)

I Pour myself out, Oh Lord

I pour myself out.

Empty I come before You

Asking to be filled.

This fragile pitcher contains

nothing of worth

That can aid the calling

You have laid on it.

I pour myself out, though

You know how it pains.

Seeking a path only few

even know to look for.

Do not forget, Oh Lord

the cost of obediance.

Remeber, now I am empty,

waiting to be filled.

I have ruined myself for anything,

only You now can bring satisfaction.

Gently, Lord gently, refine me.

Don't let me break.

I asked for Your eyes Lord

and I begin to see.

I asked for Your heart Lord

You didn't tell me how It breaks.

Helplessly I see before me

a Heavenly task

But I have only human strength

don't let me lean on it!

I will not be accused of being so

Heavenly minded, no earthly good.

But nor will I put my hope

in this shallow world.

I follow You as a blind woman

in a foreign land.

I know the Spiritual real is there

unseen, yet unmistakably real.

I know Your voice calls to me constantly

but I still learn Your language.

I trip and stumble with mistakes

cursing fallibility,

but You keep me from falling.

You hold my hand.

Guide me, oh Lord. Use me as You wish.

I am Yours.

I pour myself out, and You fill me.

Fill till I overflow!

Let others see me as a fountain

whose souce is You!

I pour while You fill.

Let others do as well!

Copyright 2009 by Rachel Nehring.

(Corina and Allen)

Traveler

My friend Corina who is a Social Worker in Romania wrote this and put it on her blog.I thought it was very beautiful, and so am sharing. It kind of sums up this summer for me. :-) What with traveling all over, learning new things and being exposed to so many different paradigms, saying 'see ya later' to friends due to different locations - wordly and other-worldly :-)

You can visit Corina's blog at: http://corinacaba.wordpress.com She has both a Romanian page and an English page.

~Princess Ouch~

Traveler

by Corina Caba

lift up your eyes to heaven

remember you are HUMAN:

your source is not earthling

and your name is not on earth.

your origin does not belong

to this perennial earth

the name you carry here is one destined

to be forgotten,

an eternal name awaits for you,

a name destined to never be forgotten

yes, your origin is from another world,

from God Himself your soul is sprang.

I live on earth, but I am a stranger here,

my longings can not be satisfied herein,

my home is from a world above,

my destination is not on this earth…

Little things

Father, where shall I work today?
And my love flowed warm and free.
Then He pointed out a tiny spot,
And said, "Tend that for Me."
I answered quickly, "Oh no, not that.
Why, no one would ever see,
No matter how well my work was done,
Not that little place for me!"
And the word He spoke, it was not stern,
He answered me tenderly,
"Ah little one, search that heart of thine;
At thou working for them or me?
Nazareth was a little place,
And so was Galilee."

~Author Unknown~

Poetry, Hungarians, and Dark Chocolate.

My professor read this cool poem in class today. I thought

I would share, as it was kind of funny. Apparently it's written

contrasting a Western European/British family to an African

family during the 1800's, but a lot of it could possibly be

applied to cross-cultural experiences today.

We And They

Rudyard Kipling

Father and Mother, and Me,
  Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
  And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
  While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it?—They look upon We
  As only a sort of They!

We eat pork and beef
  With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
  Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
  And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
  As a simply disgusting They!

We shoot birds with a gun.
  They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
  We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
  We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
  As an utterly ignorant They!

We eat kitcheny food.
  We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
  Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
  They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
  As a quite impossible They!

All good people agree,
  And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
  And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
  Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
  As only a sort of They!


Speaking of cross-cultural experiences, I went to the
Hungarian fellowship last night. It was pretty fun! I
met a guy who went to Seminary with my pastor in
Transylvania, and the pastor is the cousin of my
neighbor when I stay at the Orphanage. Small world
:-) A lot of them knew OF my host family, but didn't
know them personally. About half the group was older
couples who immigrated to America in 1957, and the
others were second-generation Hungarians. Although
there was one couple who didn't have an accent when
they spoke English but I heard speaking Hungarian
pretty well, so I don't know if they just spoke
English so well that theydidn't have an accent,
or if they were second-generation Hungarians, or what.
Oh, and the pastor and his wife were in their 30's
but had immigrated recently also.
Anyway, it was fun. The pastor asked me to speak,
which was funny I thought, asI am usually asked
to speak when I visit a church in Transylvania,
as I'm new anda missionary and that's the custom
there. But I wasn't expecting that to happen here.
 :-D They found out I had spent 8 to 9 months
collectively in Romania andwanted to know WHY on
earth I would go to Romania THREE TIMES and
learn Hungarian etc. So I explained to them about
the mission trips and my desire to be a missionary
and work with Gypsies. I got the usual reaction:
 "Wow... cool. Hunh. Yer wierd. Butwe love you anyway."
Then as it was Valentines a few of the older
Hungarian men sang old love songs from the 1950's
and earlier in Hungarian, and that was pretty
awesome. Man, that guy looked like he was from
the Old World too. He had that little
fuzz-shadow mustache...
OKay the only example I can think of was the kind
that Hitler had... sorry Mr. Hungarian singer,
but that's what it looked like. And anyway
the guy wore a three-piece suit and had a thick
accent. And he sang really really good. But definitely
OLD WORLD. Kewl though.
:-D
Okay must go study for my Ancient and Near Eastern
History test that is on Thursday.
Urgh... I have just NOT wanted to study the last
three days... I need to get out of
this no study mood!!!
Maybe I'll go eat some dark chocolate..
that always helps. A friend gave me some
Geridelli (sp?) dark chocolate. One bar is
 60% cocoa, the other is 76% cocoa,
and the third kind was like 82% cocoa.
SOOOOOOO good. And when the percentage
rate of cocoa is that high, it's actually
very healthy for you and rich in
antioxidants. Of course, it's also rich in
caffeine, so I had two squares last night
and my room-mate said,
*in a texan accent*
"Girl, you are bouncing all over the place,
and you aren't even leaving your chair!"
Florence Nightengale explained that I was
a homeschooler who had never been
'under the influence' of dark chocolate,
WHAT was my roommate thinking letting me
'overdose' and prescribed Jurassic Park 2
and a knitting party in Martha Stewart's
room.

Yeah. That's life here at college.  Woot woot.
Okay really going to go study now. And have a
piece of dark chocolate. But just one.
I learned my lesson last night. Just one. :-)

~Princess Ouch~

College students don't need sleep

I wrote this the other day after going to four classes, working a five-hour shift, and then somehow staying up until 12:30 with my RL and two other girls from my hall watching Muppet clips on Youtube. Still needs revising, but don't have time for that at the moment. It's not all entirely accurate to me personally, but I think it captures the general gist of my college experience, or what I've observed in others.  Anyway hope you enjoy. 

~Princess Ouch~

College students don't need sleep. 

In College I be

and I don't need sleep.

with studying you'd think

sleep would be my dream.

But no, not me,

I'm a freshman and 18,

and we don't need sleep.

Too busy socializing,

procrastinating studying

caffeine we're drinking, 

karaoke singing

no time for sleeping.

We came to learn

but then we heard

night shift was worth

all the money we'd burnt.

Studying's back burner

and sleeping un-heard-of

no play but work

but tho social life's hurt

my tuition I've earned 

this sophomore's no jerk

tho done nothing but work.

Still sleeping seems futile

good grades up there while

we stay up late and smile

a job is worthwhile

to be a junior with style

finals week is a trial

stress fills mouths with bile

homework's endless miles

has sleep tucked away in a file

for a life more reliable. 

An end finally in sight

with graduation night!

But until it comes by

for us seniors we might

not sleep all right

until classes and life

give us some respite.

Studying pages so white

and straining our eyes

oh such is the life

of seniors all night!

Yes, no sleep for us

it's tragic because

with sleep I'm in love

yet not till I"m done

with college in sum

will sleep ever come

a full night without stop 

I like sleeping a lot.

How unpopular my thoughts!

Yet crazy it's not,

says the book that I bought.

Yet it all comes to naught,

though because I'm caught

with dorm-mates who've thought

cool sleeping is not.

Yes in college we be,

and we don't need sleep.

In class catch some Z's,

when professor gets boring.

Night's filled with reading,

or perhaps gossiping,

rooms filled with laughing

when should be resting.

But in college I be,

where people don't sleep!!!

Copyright 2009 by Rachel Nehring