'I lead them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love' Hosea 11:4
Late summer morning breaks. I turn thirty-three.
Ten years this man has known me.
Years no longer defined by the me, but by the 'us.'
Heart is found where thoughts wander.
He returns. Ring forgotten. He didn't make it far.
Father's gift to me placed in a moment with the other.
I unwrap presence as he clasps band of gold.
This man wears sacrifice well.
Trees like paint brushes drip their beauty as fall covers the earth.
Fire crackles as nine years circle around.
I am just now learning to fight the good fight.
Marriage is about the wrestling, not the boxing.
Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
Form the ashes, we rise...
Our first dance barely over, I selfishly demanded fullness of heart on a platter.
I broke the sacred circle by dragging him into my ring of boxing.
This man was to be mine, instead of the 'us' being His.
I labelled, diagnosed, compartmentalized it all.
Each box dealt a decisive blow; my sharp edges dug deep.
Perceptions murdered intimacy.
Expectations created suffocating limits.
Discontentment bred isolation.
I retreated to the stoney-shadow of my corners.
Fighting to answer the 'me,' walls you in deep.
Life will not be tied up in neat little boxes.
For within the steady march of the Sacred, the walls come tumbling down.
He came to set-free.
Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
From the ashes, we rise...
From behind, he grabs in playful wrestle.
Caught off my guard, I still like to play my way.I relent. I turn. I see past the 'me.'
There is no fighting fair, only acceptance of Love poured out.
A beard of white and chestnut scratches deep.
Time has marched in, in spite of my demands.
This man wears our wrestling well.
Crumbling came with war-cries of joy.
We enter the Dance.
Light shines fully.
Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
From the ashes, we rise...
When you fight the good fight, even battle becomes play.
After all, it is not about the 'me,' the 'us,' but about the I AM.Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
From the ashes, we rise...
When you fight the good fight, even battle becomes play.
Wrestling to dancing; wrestling to dancing; wrestling to dancing...the rhythm of scared covenant.
To my unseen parent and spouse: Thank you for the good gift of fighting. Thank you for wrestling with and for us. By your grace, teach us to fight well, forsaking the boxing, that Truth may flower through the upturned soil of humility. In your mercy, may we bravely face our struggles in the sanctity and sanctuary of the Dance. May our battles become your play. Thank you for Promise.
To my 'I-do' man: My greatest glories have been silently at your side, and at times it hurts when I am not used by Him to make your dreams come true. Forgive me for wanting to be part of all your dreams. May our cherished memories together be of the Dance. Where would the fun be if you married the right person.
"In a word, live together in the forgiveness of your sins, for without it no human fellowship, least of all a marriage, can survive. Don’t insist on your rights, don’t blame each other, don’t judge or condemn each other, don’t find fault with each other, but accept each other as you are, and forgive each other every day from the bottom of your hearts…” Deitrich Bonhoeffeur
oh my....too amazing. such a gift.
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