Glory Over Everything

The Dance

Happy Monday!  It is crisp and clear here in Northwest PA and most of us are about to watch the glorious dance of letting go.

 

The air is crisp, as the dance begins

The dance of letting go,

ebbing into color,

a glorious sunset in the trees.

 

Glory, turns to fade,

they cling to the familiar,

a twisting, a turning, a wrangling to stay.

 

The winds of change will win,

bringing bittersweet release.

 

The wild finale

floating

twirling

a falling to the earth

 

The place where death, becomes new life.

 

 

Glory Over Everything

Morning Coffee

I have been on a treasure hunt these last few months, choosing to find God’s Glory in every small thing.  It truly is a choice, to choose praise over panic, delight over dejection.  I recommend it, it does a work in the heart that is slow and good.

One delight I wake to each morning is my morning cup of coffee.  I wakes me nice and slow and is truly a gift from God.

 

May you never drink your morning cup the same.  🙂

 

Morning Coffee

 

The glass pot is worn, golden

it sits waits each morning,

my faithful friend

 

I pour the water,

scoop beans, grown from trees,

picked by human hands

 

I grind the beans,

until they look like dirt, rich and brown

a planting, a growing of courage for the day

 

I watch as the hot water pours,

taking bits of the bean with it,

soaking in their taste, their flavor

 

As if magic has taken place,

steaming toffee colored liquid

drops into the pot,

 

drip

by

drip

 

I stand waiting, watching,

waking to the day,

a slow waking is what I like best

 

At last my cuppa is ready,

I curl up in my chair,

wrapped in my fuzzy robe

 

Holding it close to my chest,

a steaming cup of liquid gold

I breath it in, sip it slow

 

Its energy warms me,

wakes me, soothes me,

this simple comfort found in a cup.

 

 

Glory Over Everything

Selah

We are living in times where we feel discouraged and out of control on so many levels. This is a perfect opportunity to remind ourselves, to take moment, Selah, To Pause in His Presence. In those moments we recognize that He is our Shield, He is our Glory, He is the Lifter of Our Head.

But You, O Lord are a shield for me
My glory and the One who lifts up my head Psalm 3:3

 

Selah

I wake and press my feet onto the cool morning floor

What does the day hold?

 

Will I laugh with joy?

Will tears fall?

Will rage rise, or sorrow come?

 

Will I see the unjust,

unwanted and unaware?

 

Will I hear of suffering,

neglect, the cry of the forgotten?

 

Will I wade through lies,

twisted truths and propaganda?

Will sickness suddenly come?

 

The sun begins to rise, questions loom as fog,

I whisper a prayer.

 

I pause in His presence, Selah

 

The quiet purrs in my ears,

no words are spoken, no answer comes

 

A head bent low, must lift

I see the sun in all of its glory, a new day begins

Glory Over Everything

Stones

In Luke 19 some of Jesus’ disciples are following him and joyfully praising Him him at the top of their lungs. The Pharisees, the religious/political guys of the day, told Jesus to shut them up.
 
Jesus’ words to the Pharisees are priceless and powerful. “I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”
 
There are many people talking these days, we are sad, depressed, exasperated, discouraged, mad, political… the list can go on and on.
 
What I haven’t heard much of is God’s people singing out joyfully in praise. Let this little poem be our reminder.

 

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Stones sit quiet 

Setting foundations, rising into mountains,

sparking fire, skipping on water,

pressed in riverbeds,

they bear the imprints of life.

 

In the setting, in the sparking,

In the skipping, in the pressing, they listen.

 

Listen for the silence, that is their call.

Will their voices sing in chorus, as I hold them in my hand?

His praise be ever on my lips, that I may never know.

Glory Over Everything

Mango Salsa

In these days of quiet, chaos I have been searching to find God’s glory in every little thing.  As always, He has been faithful to show it to me.  As I was making a bowl of mango salsa this week, suddenly, there it was.   

 

Mango Salsa

 

The dog days of summer,

the garden is wild and heavy with fruit.

Tomato vines crawl over beans, threaten cucumbers and taunt the zucchini.

 

Tomatoes sun themselves,

ever changing, green, and pink and red,

abundance is waiting, ripe for the picking.

 

Mangoes tarry, cradled in a bowl,

eager to greet their longtime friends.

Their meeting place, the cutting board.

 

The quiet slicing of deep red, and cubes, yellow like the sun

The same knife slides through red onions, grown in shallow dirt

Swaying cilantro is picked and chopped as its scent fills the air.

 

With one brush of the knife,

the patchwork of colors tumble into a glass bowl,

it must be glass, they must be seen.

 

The lime is cut and gently squeezed,

salt and pepper sprinkled, gladly join the bowl.

The familiar wooden spoon tosses them gently together.

 

All started from seed, hidden in the dark,

In the darkness. In the quiet.

He was there.

 

In one moment, He brought them into his glorious light.

They came together, God’s Harvest,

in all its taste, in all its glory.

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#gloryovereverything

 

Glory Over Everything

Hometown

I’ve always lived in my hometown, as a young girl my plans were to leave for a more exciting pasture.  But alas, I fell in love, married young, had a few babies, who have now flown the nest.  They search for exciting pastures of their own.  Though they left us with instructions that we are to never move,  even from this old house.  Now we find ourselves the keepers of home, for them.

I am reminded of words that my Dad spoke often to those he loved, who were longing to leave.  “Go, see the world, just remember, you can always come home.”  

Hometown

I know its streets,

T\the curves, the bricks,

the crumbling ones by railroad tracks.

 

I know its buildings,

the ones falling in piece by piece,

the hopeful ones, being made new.

 

I know its fountain,

the one in central park,

that calls out for children to come and dangle their feet.

 

I know the places that hold treasure,

the coffee shop that pours liquid gold,

the place that smells of books and wood.

 

I know its people,

the familiar bank teller,

who seeing my sorrow, cupped my hands in hers

 

The grandfather who walks in the mornings,

once cradling a bundle,

now steadies the back of a of a pink bicycle.

 

The young man, I silently cheered on,

as he lumbered along Main Street,

now runs.

 

The mother in the electric wheelchair,

who waits at the bus stop,

in the sun, the rain, the snow.

 

It is a place where life is lived,

smiles are shared,

and shoulders rub.

 

Were dreams vanish, like paint fading in the sun,

yet hope can be found around the next corner.

 

I know the place of the white birch,

where the seasons change, each beautiful one.

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