Tattered Yarns

This was a poem I created in the spring while hiking at Lake Rusalka in Poznan. There was a point where I diverted from the concrete path and turned to a narrow, dirt trail. I followed this meandering way for quite some time. I stumbled upon a small stream flowing near me. Then, I stopped and looked at the filtered sunlight through the trees. That's when that inspiration, that wonder, began to flow from within:  The Soul's Dawn The dawn of a new light Is my delight Water flows Tree-lined forests glow Green grasses grow My soul rests I can only attest To what is new And what can be restored From the holes of my soul.

There are times when I feel that my life lacks a clear vision.  If you're an INFJ, everything (your job, your residence, your relationships, etc.) must come with a meaning and purpose. However, on many occasions, God has turned the tables on my preconceived plans and left me with a far better vision than what I could ever imagine. One day, God spoke to me about my life here in Poznan and gave me this revelation:

Over the summer, a story about a farm horse started to unfold in my mind: "I'm standing at the edge of the meadow. I look beyond it. I see a new horizon. The wind tickles my face. I wonder how many more times I'll run this race. You wave the sword and Proverbs 3 crosses over my face. New is coming. Be ready for it. I see that woman with that fiery, red hair. So long, it blows in her face and beyond. Her penetrating eyes of green gaze at me. I'm at a farm, and she has a horse. She takes my hand and puts it on the horse's back. I stroke his hair, and it's muddy and coarse. Rough-hewn and rugged your life may be, she says. Rub it some more and soon it will be silky and smooth to the core. Take the living water. I'll put it on your hand. Keep rubbing that fur and let me wash away your soul's burrs. Silky and smooth it (your soul) will become. Keep rubbing and washing. Then you will see the riding and the shining. "

A story about betrayal and giving our bitter pills of life another try.

Hello friends, My first recording of a meditation is finally up! One day, God spoke to me about the topic of friends. Making friends and maintaining friendships can be difficult, especially in a foreign country.  I can say that I've been fortunate to have met a handful of good friends here in Poznan. In the Bible, Jesus makes an unconventional move when He calls His followers friends instead of servants (John 15:15). God already approved them. No striving necessary. Good friends never set out to get but always give. They love unconditionally through the eyes of God. Our friends will come and go from our lives. But God is always near, untangling our messes and bringing the love of a thousand friends.  Note: A weed wacker is a motorized, garden tool used to trim the sides of lawns in the US.

In April, I created a reflection and poem about my previous relationships and the painful breakups that came after them. It's a heartfelt cry to God. May God's love become a healing salve to the wounds in your heart: I waded in a tide pool of many emotions. My eyes were wells of endless water flowing down. The wells were dry And the tidepool was a pit of sand. So many distractions So many hurts So many disappointments Led to a great numbing of my mind Numb I became. Another man gone? My muscles are flexed. It's just another fly on the screen. Look the other way And it's out of sight. But no. The sting After a large dose of a loneliness inoculation, it permeates and penetrates to the recesses of my soul. I feel. I'm hurt. I want to say, "Ow." But I can't stop now. I'm out of breath in this hot house. Is there a way out? Will You unlock the door? Will you take Your hand, your fingers, and sew my heart's torn seams? Will you fill the...

The story: One of my students approached me with a song he produced. I listened to it through his headphones. He asked, "Would you be able to write the lyrics to this song?" I agreed and listened to it several times throughout the cool, spring evenings in May. Pictures followed by words began to surface. I quickly grabbed one of my colored pencils and wrote what I saw. A pregnant woman. Labor pains. A cry. A scream. Hope is coming home. My student recorded the musical poem at his studio in June: The Lyrics: Four A.M./ The sun almost rising/ A cry, a scream/ Hope is coming home/ Hands open wide/ Shakes and sweats/ Hearts are racing/The newborn crowns and lands on its side/Still and quiet/Purple and blue/Light still shines/Will this baby see life anew?/ Dawn breaks/ Light cracks in my window/ The last breath/ Mother enters her final rest/ Life turns down low/ Hope is coming home/Hands open wide/Tears flow on my mother and baby’s side/Lifeless and cold/ Will this baby g...