Because He loves me

…He keeps showering me with gifts…

December sun
shining green blades of grass under snow
the second when tears stop

the way newly dried tears feel on a smiling face
walking to music, keeping the rhythm
frozen lake white with sunshine

laughing at myself
trusting still
the endlessness of music

His Word in my hands


“It is by the consecration of one special part that we are enabled to consecrate the whole. We keep the Lord’s Day holy, so that all days may be sacred; the Lord’s Table holy, so that all our meals may be sacraments; the Lord’s House holy, so that all creation may be His temple.

The special times of prayer, therefore, whether in the quiet room or in church, are not to be regarded as ends in themselves. They are not intended to be little islands of fellowship and peace, cut off from the great continent of ordinary life. Rather, they are to be observed in order that the whole of life may be fellowship with God.”

(Stephen P. Winward, “Teach Yourself To Pray”)

The story and the painting

He’s large enough to contain a million stories; large enough to contain my own. Yet He has come to dwell in my soul, this narrow, often dark hallway, home to anxieties and doubts. To Him I say, Make me more like You. Make me large enough to perceive Your horizon of freedom. Of peace about this Unknown Future of mine which is a painting hanging on Your wall already. Make me bold enough to join Your happy laughter as it travels across the sea.

(Joan Miró – ‘Ceci est la couleur de mes rêves’)

Great Things…

Great things indeed. I am thankful beyond words for J. S. Bach. Bach the Great, the Ocean.

I am positively afraid to try to write about Bach’s music. But while I lack the theoretical understanding of his mastery as a composer, I feel so blessed because I can genuinely enjoy his magnificent works. And be nourished and transformed inside – in which ways, I do not know. All I know is Bach’s music opens my eyes to the wonders of the unseen world my soul calls Home. A world that has been there from the beginning, before my earthly loves were born; a world large enough to contain, transfigure and redeem them all. Bach makes me want to get there sooner, and teaches me to laugh at death.

Fears To Laugh At

Sometimes I hear a fearful whisper say

You will give deadly snakes instead of fish

You will allow unnecessary pain

And all my lonely hopes will turn to dust

Will it be a diamond, my mind asks

Or will it be a simple river stone?

Yet Lord, I know that coming from Your hand

All river stones are precious beyond price

Sometimes I hear a fearful whisper say

You will forget my story after all

You will somehow get tired of my sin

Somehow refuse to hear me when I call

How well I know all that will never be!

That sign of nail is glue enough to keep

our hands together for this very day

and for eternity

Not only don’t You want to walk away

You cannot do it – all You are says so!

You paid too high a price to make me Yours

Too high a price to ever let me go

Ten Gifts Today

unreasonably sunny autumn, this year…

every single golden leaf

words of encouragement

bittersweetness of missing



glasses being invented before I was born

being led by the hand, eyes closed, to see  ‘all gold, a moon of gold!’

being a sister

a stubborn, chronic sense of being blessed

Let me give up my death…

I think sometimes, because I feel it, that I’d give up my life for Those I Love; but would I, for real? Would I, when look, I am so often unwilling to give up my death for their sake?

Moments of stubborness, blind anger, gloomy silence – those moments are death-in-life, sin anticipating its wages. Poison in my cup. Yet I cling to my ridiculous selfishness, to my so-called rights, even though I know this clinging causes pain. To those I love and to my own soul. Yet I refuse to give up my Death.

Moments of irresponsibility, when I am harsh to the time I have been given. When I don’t make my time into something useful, or nurturing, or beautiful; when I neither work, nor enjoy life, nor truly rest. I just watch minutes slip away like pebbles. The death of my time is my death – and I refuse to give up my Death.

Mornings and afternoons and evenings without Him. Yet the Word is so close, so ridiculously handy. So gladly would the Word inhabit a few more minutes of my day, so gladly would He stoop down to enter my mind’s cabin! Life without Living Bread is slow death by starvation. And there are  days when I refuse to give up my self-imposed Death for Him who gave me His own life.

These are things too heavy for thought, too painful for mere remorse. Too painful for my ears – but not for His. He will help me spot them early, bury them young. Lose them in the depths of that sea of which He only knows the blessed shores.