If I Know His Voice......

Typical Wednesday night service. Pastor Bill cracks me up with his knife-y sound effects and the day having worn me down, I have to practically pinch myself to keep from falling asleep. What a disciple am I, eh? I find myself trying to worship the Lord truly, without giving a thought to me, to what I sound like, to what I am doing, to who is looking and to focus wholly on His Himness. Of course I fail miserably, but I think that's to be expected. Towards the end of the worship set, Dan starts in to "Blessed be Your Name", I get a cramp in my left foot. While foot cramps are not uncommon to me, cramps while standing are quite uncommon, usually I am pointing my foot in a way I know I shouldn't or stretching it too far or swimming or something, but this time I was just standing, trying to focus my attention away from myself. I'm practically screaming in pain at this point when the line "Though there's pain in the offering" comes up. I almost laugh. How perfect Lord! The Enemy can do his thing, but You are so on top of it. I sing to Jesus.
The sermon is in Ecclesiastes. The wise man listens, the foolish man ignores. The sheep know the shepherds voice. The wise man built his house on the rock, etc. Basically, listening to Jesus does the body good. There were seven baptisms scheduled for tonight, about three of them were third grade kids, it was great. So we're all done with baptisms and bill's doing his last call when my heart starts pounding out of my chest. "Beth" I hear Him, feel Him, know Him saying. "Come on" My hand shoots up without even thinking about it. Pastor Bill's back is turned, so I think I can put it down really fast without him seeing, but Neil is over in the corner, gesturing to Bill that "Hey, there's one!" Crap! Past the point of no return. Brandon gets to dunk me for Jesus.
So how do I know it was Jesus this time and not just me deciding it like the two times before? To answer, let me share with you a moment of deep regret for me. The Hair Girl. Way back in the day during my sacking days at United, a girl came through my line with who I assume was her dad. This girl has tears streaming down her face and I can tell she has been crying for a while. Well, I think to myself "Gee, that sucks, I hope she'll be ok." and a voice, a feeling, a knowing, formed words not my own say to me "Tell her her hair is pretty." I think to myself "What, why would I do that, that's stupid, I'm sure she knows her hair is pretty." and something that I would normally do anyway without prompting, I skip over because I think it's just a dumb idea. Maybe it scared me that it wasn't my idea, I don't know. So I take out their groceries, we're making small talk about the weather, etc. when we finally get to their car. The girl hops in without a word and slams the door. I ask the man that was with her, "Is she ok?" and he says to me "She just got her hair cut and she thinks it looks bad." I am standing in the parking lot with my mouth open for what feels like hours when I stammer out something like "Well, tell her it looks really great!" But the moment is gone. The Holy Spirit spoke, in such a seemingly insignificant way to me, but I ignored it. I let it slip away when He could've changed her day, her week, however long she was embarrassed about her hair. That is one of the most shameful moments of my past and I hope I never have to live with anything like it again.
The sheep know His voice. We just choose to ignore it sometimes.
So tonight, when my heart was about to beat out of my chest, I raised my hand. Even though just three years ago, the same pastor baptized me. In front of mostly the same congregation. It was very foolish. To some it might even look like I was doing it for personal vain glory. I know I did it this time because He told me to. That changes everything. That makes my heart come alive. If anyone knows me, it's him, and He still wants me to hear His call, to be obedient. What a time to be obedient, eh? Someday I will have not a cloak nor a walking stick, no money or food for the journey. Maybe even no Brandon someday. All I will have is Him. His voice. His feeling. His knowing.
If I know His voice, if I do what it says, then I am His sheep.

Why Do I Always Wax Poetic?

This is my blog and all I've done on it so far is write some rinky dink poetry. Which there is nothing wrong with, but that is not all that is in my heart. No, the things in my heart are often far from poetic unless that poetry is something out of Dante's "Inferno". I have come out of this place of constant poetic-ness, writing at least one grand thing down every day. I have quit journaling and find my life to be much more of a bore. I go from the day to day, working, thinking, praying, then move on and never remember any of it. That's the thing about writing, it helps one to remember. I don't remember scripture unless I write it down, I don't remember my prayers, even out of the deepness of my heart, real and true prayers unless I write them down. I wouldn't remember my own name unless I had been forced to write it down so many times. I can't chalk my current dry and droll situation up to not writing and leave it at that, but it is at least a part of the problem. Or perhaps a symptom of it. What if I don't write for a reason? Because I don't have anything to say, perhaps, because I don't know how to say whatever it is. What if, Lord forbid- I am afraid of it? What if I am afraid to see my heart in all it's nasty red gunk hearti-ness? Yes, no doubt this fear is the culprit. If I wrote down my true heart I would have to know about myself. Myself is not something I fancy being too familiar with at this present time. I would have to confess so many things. So much nasty me-ness. Lord, why can I not get past this mirror!?!?!?! I only want to see you, but all I can see is me in all of my human-ness. UGH! So I ignore myself. This has been my strategy so far. Try as I might I am always around myself though.
I have even said myself that Pretense cannot exist in the presence of Holiness. Holiness is the opposite of Pretense. They are at War. Holiness is the reality of life and all of the unbelievably true, the probable rather than the possible. Pretense is what we would like to be. It is our own private creation where we play God and thus it is our own private Hell. Like the Better than Life video game in Red Dwarf, try as we might, reality will always be better than whatever it is that we think we can do better than God. Lord, help me to confess! To come face to face with my reality! The word says that "the truth will set you free". How very.....true.
So then was it more true when I was poetic and daydreaming and flitting around in my own mind and heart and feeling? Is it more true now that I know my own salvation is by a thread, my self is wretched and I feel as if I have a dragon breathing down my neck?
I know that God's word says I am His. His Word says I am unsnatchably in His hand. His Word validates both times of truth, both times of me. Oh, Lord. Hindsight 20/20 is a curse. Why am I always wanting something more of my life, more of me? More of You? Why can I not just realize that I am here and You are here. I am wretched Lord, but You love the Wretched. I am so weak, but you love the Weak. I believe Lord, help my unbelief!

And My Beloved is Mine

You are Yellow,
You are Sunflowers and Sunlight.
You are Orange Juice,
And Blue Sky,
And Rain,
And Magic.
You are Oceans.
You are Bottles.
You are incarnations of Divinity.
You are man.
You are woman.
You are his or hers.
You are all Mine.
I have hunted you down
I have cornered you,
To show you the best way possible
To remove your yoke
Of slavery
And give you a yoke of
Deepness
And Life,
And Love.
I love you,
Precious and Honored One.
I do not want
To fight you,
I want to enlist you.
Find your sword,
Break this mirror.
Come.
Be with me.
My Bride.

Bad Poetry Should Always be Overanalyzed

socks socks socks
sheep sheep sheep
I love sheep.
I love socks.
I love socks made out of sheep.
I love it when sheep wear socks.
I especially love it when sheep wear socks made out of other sheep.
Deliciously ironic.
They're like feet cannibals.
But only in my dreams.
Where you are as well.
Wearing sheep socks.
I love you.
Thank you for not wearing socks made out of me.
I'll try and return the favor.
But only if you return my socks.