Poem In My Pocket

It's Poem In Your Pocket Day -- apparently the 8th annual, but last year was my first. No time to scribble one down today so it's in snapshots on my phone, which is in my pocket, and I guess that's the next best thing. And here 'tis:

The Invitation
George Herbert

Come ye hither all, whose taste
                             Is your waste;
Save your cost, and mend your fare.
God is here prepar’d and drest,
                             And the feast,
God, in whom all dainties are.

Come ye hither all, whom wine
                             Doth define,
Naming you not to your good:
Weep what ye have drunk amisse,
                             And drink this,
Which before ye drink is bloud.

Come ye hither all, whom pain
                             Doth arraigne,
Bringing all your sinnes to sight:
Taste and fear not: God is here
                             In this cheer,
And on sinne doth cast the fright.

Come ye hither all, whom joy
                             Doth destroy,
While ye graze without your bounds:
Here is joy that drowneth quite
                             Your delight,
As a floud the lower grounds.

Come ye hither all, whose love
                             Is your dove,
And exalts you to the skie:
Here is love, which having breath
                             Ev’n in death,
After death can never die.

Lord I have invited all,
                             And I shall
Still invite, still call to thee:
For it seems but just and right
                             In my sight,
Where is all, there all should be

I'm not all about transubstantiation, by the way -- or alternative spelling, for that matter -- but I am all about God being all, for all. Thanks, George.

Happiness is...

...a pocketful of almonds.

Happiness is...

...hammocking in the park on a Sunday afternoon.

Especially when it follows some good Food-n-Fellowship (including an Easter egg hunt in which I decided to make a tradition of hunting violets instead).

Speaking of violets, the day after bemoaning their absence I found one! I was dashing back and forth cleaning up our community lunch so could only pause to cry "There you are!", snatch her up, and slip her into my Bible for safekeeping (as it happens, right next to God saying, "Open wide your mouth and I will fill it").

And here are Violets #2, 3, 4, & 5...


...and #s 6-15...


...and Karina sniffing #16.

Resurrection

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of a mourning dove outside my open window and the news that my friends in Sudan were safe.

This morning, celebrating the Resurrection was all the more meaningful after the darkness of that good Friday. As I listened to the familiar story of the prodigal, I wanted to raise my hands and say "That's me!" I was dead, but I'm alive again; I was lost, but now I'm found.

Then this afternoon: more bad news, as a dear friend who's become my little sister shared the troubling report of her fiance's health concerns. For some reason I thought that after Friday there would be no more blood tests or frightening unknowns, no more wars or rumors of wars.

He's alive, and because of him so are we, but this world isn't our home; it's groaning for redemption. I won't bother trying to explain what I mean, since we sang about it this morning:

Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me,
I cannot proclaim it well.
O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Then clothed in blood-washed linen,
How I'll sing Thy sovereign grace!
- Robert Robinson, "Come Thou Fount"

He's risen indeed. Come, Lord Jesus!

It was a good Friday.

A friend of mine left Friday morning to attend a funeral in his hometown.

Over lunch, a friend of mine shared the struggle of realizing that her father is dying.

In the afternoon, I grieved with another friend over the loss of a dear, close relative.

Then I discovered that a good friend was being held at gunpoint in Sudan. She is one of my heroes for pursuing a childhood dream of starting a medical clinic near the Darfur region. A group of militants took over their compound and held the workers and patients hostage. As I prayed for their deliverance, I remembered her telling me years ago that she would consider it a privilege to lose her life while serving in Africa.

That evening as a group of us enjoyed the spring weather, coffee, and conversation on a café patio, someone mentioned that a man she'd known for years had recently commit suicide.

In the parking lot as we were leaving, someone else got a phone call. Her "Oh no!" was alarming, but before we could find out what had happened a woman pulled up. She asked us for directions and lisped out her story through a broken jaw: she was in an abusive relationship, she told us, and was on her way to meet the creep so the police could catch him. She was bruised and nervous, but what struck me most was the pink baby carrier buckled into the backseat.

When she left, we learned the source of my friend's "Oh no": her sister's friend, a single mother of four, had lost her little boy. He'd been abducted, horribly molested, and killed.

By now the day had gotten a bit surreal. What's more, I kept checking for updates but still had no news from Sudan.

That morning I'd led a worship service focused on the weight and wonder of the cross. One of the aspects we meditated on was how Jesus was falsely accused at his trial and did not defend himself; we, on the other hand, are truly guilty but try to justify our crime. And he took the punishment while we go free.

As Friday progressed another friend of mine kept those of us in his social network updated on the events of that day in history. "By now he had been betrayed and humanity was putting God on trial. It was a good Friday," he tweeted. He continued throughout the day as Jesus was questioned and the crowds chose a criminal over him. And then: "Now the entire weight of wrath fell on him. Not some or part, but all. God was killing his Son. But it was a good Friday."

We are badly, badly broken. We're so unworthy of the cross -- but oh, how we need it.