Tag: verse

Sacred Whisper

It called,

Photography Tom Barrett

like It had a thousand times but today It included me in Its Light. It wore my hands and feet, and ignored the shadows of death, the insanity of the night gone. Then It said my name. Like It says yours, this is none other than the Spirit of the Living Loving God. It calls…

Hand writ prayers

I’ve never been a Collector of things, not even of my paintings which lounge wherever they find space; maybe the most passionate of my ‘collections’ were bus tickets for some reason; I was age 5 and remember hoarding them from the two families we lived around at Wilson Gardens. Then were feathers at pre-primary school, Christmas cards a little later, shells, pressed flowers and leaves. Now recently, I’m collecting something new…

Thankyou Kelly Sikemma for Pic

…. thick note paper or hard edged sides of boxes, oh cake boxes, anything that can cut in neat squares and be written on in bold ink without being washed off by the sun on frig or table tops and walls where they will find places.

My Gran & Ma* had this habit of writing out Scripture verse in the back of Bibles, in new diaries and older ones;

I watched as I did my ABCs and grew into a bit of them*, writing down Scripture, as Prayers.

Words of the Psalmist, Moses… they all became my own as I moved in time and space. With every house -shift I’d find these boxes of Verse fading, curled, breaking and they were hard to throw away.

Now I realize what a part of my life they are, how they’ve bridged me over many waters: these borrowed prayers and promises from Genesis to Revelations: Epistles of Faith, Hope & Love from via the Throne Room where deserts turn to Eden with the knowing of the Giver Himself: a knowledge bigger than human request.

So here I am, in the 11th month of 2021, an avid collector of paper given on days I knelt to pray but no words arrived except a wilderness maybe. God never can resist a human heart that waits waits. So He gives me these little notes, on the stone tablets of my heart: writ with His voice, His peace.

Who can resist God when He speaks? What can separate us from Love that would send His son to a Cross to die for me that I might even look His way, at His Life –

Or even experience this extreme Friendship, no matter the insanity of the days we are in.

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount on wings like an eagle. They shall run and not be weary, walk and not faint..."

👆🏼New verse emerges as November rain fills sky and earth with that extra nip in the air typical of an Indian year end. My taste buds are definitely returning, and sense of smell. Today I smelt a little mint, but none of the soaps yet. Body aches and low grade fevers recede. Have we had Covid? Who knows.

There’s a new variant arriving tomorrow, call it:

9j*1.6G1L℅HeH/vs” hehe.

It is good to feel laughter rising in my soles again, it always happens when Christ sends His Notes to read, re- read: they grow Joy and some other Words human may ignore for sounding ‘out dated’.

And still, it is what it is: the undiluted power of PRAYER.

Do check this Beautiful read in Blogs: ”A Father’s Prayer

Have a seriously blessed up November!🌾

And hey, I just got note from fellow bloggers that could not comment here, for not being on WP.

Do let me know if that’s you too @ idialects102#gmail.com

🕊🌾

R.

Found this on Instagram.

For FMF Writers

The Gift of Giving!

I got one of the dearest surprise Christmas presents I’ve ever received: Lil Marijs! – a baby sheep in soft fur, oh the child in me came out to play. Marijs, from a literal far away country, is a gift from a generous hearted person who did not let a deadly viral stop her – am surprised silly how her Lil Marijs makes me unselfconscious dizzy happy.

I’ve always fussed over our childrens’ toys- their soft long ears and tails. Yesterday our second daughter tells me lovingly that I didn’t need to talk to her via Elle her elephant, or insist she puts socks back in via Turta, or make Purple(bear) remind her about her bed covers…I ask her why I’m this way, she says, “Ma, because you’re still a child…”

I loved the way those words settled in my ears; the way they pulled at my opinionated bones to rise and shine. How was I to know that today at 5pm there’d be a delivery of Marijs: a Reminder to regroup my inners.

Marijs‘ cross border Arrival @ a time of teeth chattering International misery is a thing to ponder at. Don’t tell me its just a child’s toy: this things Delivery is of the kingdom of the God of Impossibilities. Here one is Shepherded into a Place reserved for those who dare to be baffled

yeah, stare at how we could stare at where Joy and Peace and Mercy and Purity kiss each other,

touch the impossibly melting softness of human kindness, this quality that did NOT birth off the devil who destroys, accuses, lies,steals,kills…hates.

This quality births off the gentle lowly Manger, where Love came down soft one tender night: a Surprise Visitor that still loves like none I know can….

Marij is a 2020 Reminder of Him and how He moves us to Gift each other this Giving, of everything opposed to evil, of everything born of God, in the humility of a manger,

The Hush of That grabs me by the jaw and asks me to lay off grown up protocol. This is a time to peer through the dark glass and see

That the Giver of Gifts isn’t dead; He has mysterious ways of reviving our real selves no matter the viral forecast.

We are born with the constant hunger for reality; shut your eyes, feel that pulse, it was there when we took our first breath and walk and words. But we gave ourselves permit to retire into Doubt; Faith Hope & Love were for the ladies in the prayer circle who knitted socks for babies of refugees. Not Us. We were grown ups with toothpicks in our brain just in case we bit back into old ways. Faith was for Medieval mystics. Not for the Renaiisanced. We walked the Moon, we fed graves, we became the Machine that fed the beast in us. An earth that cud chewed Itself, ouch. That bunch of words hurts to just write it. Or read it.

Marijs makes me want to stare at the possibility of being free of doubt that all will be well, and that there will be peace on earth,

stare at the act of prayer that began me as a child; I prayed for Dan the tall boy with a hole in his heart, and he went on like Deep, the paraplegic 30 yearold who took me for rides in his chair he drove like a maniac: Dan & Deep had the manners of people who knew who they were and where they were headed, it was to God. These were real people who impacted me much as a child. Dan left me a book of Bible verses he cut from Calenders. Deep gave me a box of Legos I loved and gave to a tiny boy called Deepak – he had a pony fringe and worried eyes but when he smiled he grinned 360 degrees.

All this I revisited after Marijs came home to me a few hours ago from a country across my Northern border and am staring at how the Gift of Giving can provoke, promote Life: the kind that makes us kind in the purest sense.

Friend of sinners

***

Listen close and you will hear a bus, a neighbour’s drill….. yea was recorded in a tiny home studio, at a time of transits. This Album was worked off a Psr 630(keys), and my undying love for Theatre: it is perhaps who I am without choir costume and acquired taste… just all my voice & human pulse. It is the rough of pavement psalms and His pursuing love; (thankyou ABBA Father for being Who You Are: creative, generous, incredible!)

my daughter insisted we put it out again(released 2004,Mumbai). We even found lost Master tracks…. thanks hon risking this one on your channel💔

I met a woman in a Mumbai slum: a woman suffering abuse. She asked me to pray for her: I asked her what she called Jesus; she said, “Isa”.
https://youtu.be/Gd8CVS2g3NI

***

Often we might go barefoot in trails where we are in the enlarged presence of Other Intelligence. Here we strip protocol, and might hear a Reply. Here I knelt unashamed of my crying need for Christ alone: for Yeshua who gave His life for us, for me…

for the local prostitute who walked around our bus stop. She’d mock me with an inscrutable stare; oneday I saw her in an outfit I gave away to our building watchman for ‘his wife back home’ he said;

now this street girl knew it was my dress she wore, she watched me recoil, watched my righteous indignation. And then I sensed God watch me: my superior brows rise in ‘whoa’ as if the rest of us mortals were such perfection!

From my album ‘Isa’ remixed last week! This one I describe as Nazarene Narratives, stories of the Touch of God.

This one is because of that street girl.

*****

Ads. seen here? Because this is not WordPress Premium. Love WordPress though.

7 Hour GLOBAL WORSHIP EVENT (20 COUNTRIES) | Fast/ PRAY FOR YOUR COUNTRY! || HAVEN FELLOWSHIP” on YouTube

Has there ever been a time like this one? Has there ever been a silence like now: each of us one voice asking the same questions/ the same quest for peace/ the same need? We are as a race quietened; we have never before been startled as we are today. I’ve not experienced a certain shameless scream inside, for each other. Never before has my heart been this unafraid to say it out loud: we need you Lord Jesus. No one else met me in my darkest hour; no one else showed me the Light. Yea I can say it without a flicker of a doubt: you and I have been loved by the Christ.

Here it is! Woooo! 😄😄😄🥳
We received 112 expressions of worship, from 20 countries, 53 states, 5 continents, in 28 different languages!
Let’s get on our knees, praise God, and pray for our land! 😄

https://youtu.be/GpnxLbxlx1U

Walk Tall into Tomorrow

This one is for the loved ones and those who have succumbed, or might, to Covid & other reasons humans and nations do not always thrive,

& too, for those of us who die a thousand deaths in lives that could be be lived out strong,

those for whom Love loses Its Light with eye dulled for fears they needn’t weep: we are freer than we imagine;

for all of us: Tomorrow is that gift we cannot see yet: we do not walk Its fields of harvest, we do not yet inhale Its aroma of rest, we do not hold It in our fingers, but we believe It too will arrive like yesterday,

we know in the hours before dawn that when we peer thru’ grey satin whispers of sunrise, we will walk into Its rays of hope,

Some said it well... ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning‘; so walk, walk on. Brave Heart, walk on, till tomorrow comes…

….

I simply must add here, my friend Alastair Duncan’s extraordinary Sunrise.

STILL WALKS.

Sunrise in Carmarthenshire, South Wales’s bird & sheep… a horse towards Troserch/ footbridge/ river wild flowers, footsteps; head towards a kissing gate into the open…
Alastair Duncan
Thankyou for this beauty of a share.

….

@raylarn

Related Post:

A walk in the neighbourhood
Bruce Stambaugh.com

Friends contribute.

I just received from the Netherlands, a poem ‘Written v.appropriately; like to share it with you…’,

forwarded by my dearest friend and cousin sis. We were The Twins when we were little, as in school- little girls. I wore pig tails, she wore a mop. She was fun and gorgeous, a Beauty with brains, she still is. We connect now and then, as she did just now. Thankyou darling person for the Intercontinental hug & verse.

When we thought we were all powerful
and did exactly as we pleased,
when we treated the earth with contempt
a virus brought us to our knees.

When we prided ourselves on social media
with photos of places we roamed
a microscopic virus decided
to bind our feet and keep us home.

When the whole world seemed divided
and no one could see eye to eye
We needed a tiny virus
to show where our connection lies

We need to wash not just our hands
we need to cleanse our thoughts
we need to elevate humanity
before the virus is fought.”

Author unknown.

***

Also sent in by our dear friend in London, one we haven’t physically met in 20 years but who makes an effort to catch up:

thankyou P.A, for being kind and eternal in this changing world, too for this BBC Video clip with refreshing skies.. clearing in the wake of Covid, even in Wuhan. The best is yet to come!

Yes, it is a good time to connect, even remember we are fragile creatures of a Life that can go faster than It arrives every morning: Its’ breath- the sheer will of God.

Do share anything you might like to, in pics, or a thought, a sketch, photograph, a clip: would love to hear from you in comments or Idialects@gmail.com.

These days will not be here again:

Stay blest.

Stranger than fiction

Thankyou Rochellewisoff @ Friday Fictioneers for this inspiring space every week.

Photo Prompt @Ceayr

IS LIFE STRANGER THAN FICTION:

Friday Fictioneers @Ceayr

It is reverse in my dream: earth fills the tap,

that bench holding shadows? Nah, shadows hold all; the sky is floor,

the earth her roof.

When I awake, I am in my skin, no longer outside,

Is it tiring? No,

it is very tiring:

keeping up with what I see,

and what I do not, in reality.

….

To read more of 100 words on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

When Healing comes

No alarm bell, no burst of glory. It tiptoed in ‘neath my gate. It wouldn’t hold my hand, It couldn’t. I was cold cold cold, every leaf in my garden shrivelled, ashed; Ivy & dust layered the ground and walls of my address.

When Healing came It bled into me. It Crossed boundaries I had built. It broke Itself like Bread over my hunger and poured Itself out like Water over my drought. New metaphors crowd my space. This had been desert with no oasis. Now, this Healing-

growing me into things I do not want to recognize:

a Garden of Shadows where a Lone One prays. Prays as if for me. What’s this. He breaks on two planks where He hangs, I hate this like a personal wound. I’m screaming words with no decibel: He’s saying it for me. Two words, three- I will never forget. “IT IS FINISHED.” He said, smiling stars in His eyes as if we were in Paradise being made over again.

Wait,

wait. He takes my buried memoirs of habits of pain.

No, wait!

But I can’t have them back, He says. Healing takes it all away. I’m blinded by an emotion with no name, Its a Light falling careful in my blind eyes. It grabs my poison ivy with new strong Vine: It inhales me, slamming my dying dead inside, don’t ask how. I have no Theory, no Words wise or pretty. All I know, when Healing came to me I was dead blind, now I see:

I see Scars, Its Body broken. Healing has scars, you get this? I don’t and maybe never will, not till we go Face to Face past that proverbial Glass darkly in the way. Now I peer through Reason, Logic, Theories, Rule. Oneday when we have crossed our rules, we will see the host of things that see us now. Oneday we will break through gravity bound toes: on that day we will see what we question these days. Oh when Healing came It broke Its news gentle to me. It knew I’d be suspicious,afraid,disbelieving…

When Healing walked into me, It spoke things I believed I couldn’t know…..

that gain came in via loss, true I knew, but what else could a human fight for? We needed this. This War for Survival was our one socially acceptable behaviour; it united man and woman and child and nations and bazaars and gangsters and priests, it fed global talks and need. If I didn’t do Survival what tell aunty Maya I was doing ? Or Pastor Sahil. Or neighbour Bishhy. Or Karu Harben my brilliant corporate cousin. What tell Didi Grey my mentor..or art collaborators… that I didn’t care anymore how I’m being received;

who could I be, what of my ‘me‘?

When Healing came It talked into me – sacred syllables of the Father Son and Holy spirit, groans not uttered by the carnal 5 senses: we are heart and mind and spirit soul, beyond flesh and sensor. I had territory within that must heal first*, my Healer said, it began in the acres acres acres (deep in my core where we live or die, there we heal, there we host our virus, our sickle cells, our warrants of life, our predictions of peace. If we die there, how could we survive in the peripheries?) ..

Healing took me to an impossibly narrow dizzy path. When I began to heal- one tiny step at a time, It unleashed me to run my feet like a deer’s in cliff edge sheer mountain. Fear rose bitter gall in my throat and I killed it like a beast is killed with bare hands: something I’d tried an entire lifetime, now it happened with one rapid wish;

here was this desire to thank every mean thing that had ever come my way, hey yes those nasties I’d crumpled over? Them. They were my helpmate, they now proved my brick and mortar needed to build foundation of this impossible route. “Forgive. Go on higher,” The Healer pled with eyes of deathless Love, and the Light of that gaze scorched my last defense, over and over like with birth pangs. How could I have known this detail if I hadn’t needed healing ?

Why haven’t You been here earlier- how much went in wasteland of my nothing. My Healer replied as if I had spoken, He said,”You are more than all this. In these deserts more Gardens could grow, if you go. “

Say what, why? There’s more folk like me, why would I care, but now I did.

When Healing came to me It rained and Its Tear whetted my thirst for Its fact. I used to think with Healing I would be strong again to return to old strengths, I’d be a pillar of fortune, a wheel of Change. Oh look- see how nice healing is, but that is not Its way. It told me things I couldn’t know.

When Healing began I leaned my core on Its Strength. No more great burden of goodness to bear! I was still a torn leaf garden but with new shoot- as if I had wing, the Healer said,”Never mind your Self. Rise..”

When Healing came It did not give me wings, that’d have scared us all.

It is much more than we show and tell, it’s in the way grass grows o’er and o’er and wise men die and babies born will oneday grow to know more than you or I confess. When Healing can, It will come to you and the Light you see will be outside of our incapacities, then perhaps you too will say to another, “…how else could I have known…?*”

..

Inspired by our son(& little brother Joh) as he heals.

@innerdialects.

Starlands

Mountains of change, attached valley cliffhanging honeysuckle, dew, dawn whispers, mist – to these I owe my

gratitude:

nothing competes with these things that change me,

these times of sweet surrender,

these times of blessed assurance

You are here,

foretaste of Your life, me an heir of salvation,

Me here not mere existence but weeping starlands… weeping meteors of Joy

Blessed assurance Father God You are mine, ours mine.

Must stop You and say

..thankyou for every drop of sun and rain that grew us like bouquets on tables of grace,

Gratitude

for the colors of my life among colors of an earth on fire,

Gratitude

for leaf that went away and those that grew,or birthed

for stars that fell and those that lit dark night with light not e’en of sun

the longer my day the shorter my reason to not stay silent,

..to dance again as if I were worth all the trouble You take my Father

I give thanks.