The Words to Your Heart

One thing is well learnt, that my words were made for your heart
I knew then only in part, the power in letters to impart
From my lips to your ears lies a shortcut
My fingertips through your eyes a path freshly cut
Like a key that unlocks a treasure chest, loving notes bring out your best
For the wealth reposed in your smile dwarfs a king’s conquest
May my words towards thee endlessly flow, if only to spark your charming glow
By this God who both us knows, my love for you daily grows
If my words were as a gentle breeze, and your heart the chime
The tune of love would never cease, now and for all time


My Gift To You

His mercies to me every morning are new, and this in many ways describes you
The beauty that covers your face, and the kindness that springs from endless grace
Both the names you bear have new meaning by the way you genuinely care
Mercy flows from your hands to needing hearts, and Joy to oil wearing parts
May your life and days bloom, as He adds pleasures where you’ve known gloom
May we call you blessed when around you others collapse distressed
May your home be rich with wisdom, and all therein thrive in loving freedom
For the Lord will be your glory and the author of your queenly story
The king longs with you to explore, the special joys for us both in God’s store
May this and lots more bring a smile to you, for love is my only gift to you

What Do You Give Someone Who Has Everything

The accolades due you can only warrant a statue

But more lasting than the strokes on bronze,

Are your fingerprints on our hearts froze

Of greater worth than the graceful sculpture,

Would be your impartation on our internal culture

Your work on this end is done,

And now the west and the world await their turn

What is there to give to one who has everything,

Surely only to nurture the seed sown within

To bear the fruit of your intangible wealth left with us,

Till we meet again in both our glorious futures

May you be as a hot blade through butter

Heated by the fire of God’s Spirit, your guide and Master

The Transplant

Today I use a different pen from what my hand is used to…I’ll call this a doodle. When a child who can neither read nor write pens down their thoughts, they tend to draw their heart out. Fill the page with what makes sense only to them. While the ‘more mature’ adult frowns at damaged paper, the child is bewildered by their artistic creation, their unfathomable depth of communication.

As I doodle today, the markings herein are likely to bear meaning only to myself. Not in selfish mode have they been jotted, but in generous appeal to a herald that may consider them pebbles in the woods for their own journey.

When a tree is transplanted, it has a story to tell. To start with, there’s the digging out. A shaking of its foundation. When all form of comfort and security previously known is wedged out shovel by shovel. Inevitably, there’s the exposure of roots. Your core is laid bare for what it is, a sort of nakedness. It is also this process of arduous unveiling that determines how strongly you held to whatever you professed; to what unwitting audience in life either bowed in admiration or grimaced in contempt. The source, strength and sincerity of your convictions is being brought to trial.

Quickly or gradually follows the starvation. Albeit temporary, but here one can tell just how much food was stored in the stem. What value do you actually have? Have you any content at all? The extent of your investment in matters of the spirit is called to account, and much more its ability to sustain your treacherous walk let alone of those that are dependent upon you. Without nourishment from the moisture in healthy soil and adhesive strength of the roots essential to keep one from falling and drying up, what will preserve your core’s satiation, the sparkle in your leaves, the seasonal budding of your flowers and most of all the bountiful fruition?  

Almost as a new-born from cosy mother’s womb into harsh atmospheric composition, bright lights, alien forceps-wielding life forms, and imminent threat from fatal infections, a re-planting occurs. New soil. New water type. New parasites. There’s a forced and drastic adjustment to survive in this strange abode. Like an organ recipient, there’s an unnerving silence to observe whether your roots will reject the soil, or worse still the soil reject you. Was what you hold compatible with where you have come? Is where you have come hostile to what you have brought? Consumption is heavy while renewal is askew. You are running low, if any, on the stockpile. Survival is on the balance.

Minutes, hours, days and months pass…months of onerous unremitting watering to the point of deluging. All this in the vain or rewarding attempt to restore the life almost snuffed out. Remaining connected to the Source has never been more sensible. Salvation seems to be slipping slowly out of grasp. Unrelenting soaking in the Words that are spirit and life must bear what it promised. For at this point one realizes that to leave this walk to convenience, is to dangle a fresh carcass within reach of starved predators.

Alas! There is a sigh of relief mixed with doubting surprise. The fading glow of the remaining leaves and the drooping twigs begin to show signs of continued existence. Weathering the discomfort of change, of leaving what was once the only way to live and now making it past the antagonism of a strange habitation, to finding rest within the stormy borders. This is a new sunrise. A dawning of something far greater than the tree could ever conceive. For the tree is only servant to its skilful farmer. The Vinedresser.

How could the tree possibly figure out the mind of it’s planter? His thoughts are beyond our thoughts, His ways infinitely higher than ours. At this wilful and conscious abandon to the Vinedresser’s omniscience, the flourishing has but just began. There must have been a purpose for the relocation.

This was and still is an interesting turn in my Christian walk. It is far from well defined in my heart’s eye, the nature or magnitude of the work He is carrying out within me. I can only rest in the comfort of affirmations such as this one; that “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus”. My numerous status updates have been cognizant of this and at any one point describe the check-points along the path. To trust in God’s wisdom and eternal love for me is sine qua non to holding fast to His moulding.

Faith is free-fall in the gravity of my circumstance, knowing that God’s Promise is the ground. I therefore have chosen to adjust my vast imaginations, knowing that they are far below His desire and ability to perform. I have traded them for His promise. I am also learning to abandon my prescriptions through seeing that God’s best is not always dressed in my ideal, it may more often be concealed in a package that makes you have to trust Him. I do not fail to desire, or to ask what I desire, I only seek to make my asking synonymous with His desire. I also pray Him that I may not long for where I should not be or to possess that which I should not have, for to reach such a place enabled by His permissive will may be at the expense of His favour. I would risk losing both what I had and what I was seeking.

I have many times wondered through this process why I almost helplessly seek to hold on to what I have, when God wants to take it and exchange it for something far better. For something more than I could earn. Something more than I deserve. More than I perceived. I have come to my end, and have laid it at His feet. The mind of the Vinedresser is beyond my conception.

The time of harvest has arrived. To check both the quantity and the quality of fruit. But this would no longer be a question of whether. The patriarch Isaac had a similar journey. His outcome is the basis of my determination. He sowed in the famine and reaped one hundred fold. Surely he must have known about composition of soil, the suitability of the wind, the intensity of the sun, the essentiality of sufficient water, the wealth of his experience, and for us, the reasoning of our modernity. But he traded all that for a voice that said “Behold, I am the LORD, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for Me?” It is the voice of the Vinedresser.

This same voice said to veteran Peter to cast his net against reasonable advise. At this voice I too lay my crown at His feet. It is through this that my song has borrowed much from the Israelites’ joyful declaration: that I have fallen heir to that which I did not build, eating where I did not plant, receiving what effort did not earn. This bounty harvest cannot be credited to man. It did not come easy, but I certainly didn’t bring it forth.

As I rejoice in and through all these, both trouble and pleasure alike; I can only reflect briefly on the ground covered. Much more is ahead than is behind me. Things I never bothered to imagine would be taken away from me: church itself, born-again friends, family, relocation from a place where I could serve with my gift in music and sharing God’s word under His grace, a bible study, or interaction with believers of any nature.

I expected change, but never the altogether removal of these aspects of cardinal importance and most recently, my day of worship has joined the list. Everything convenient to support my walk is no longer in sight. Surely God is up to something. I know that the devil too is. Satan comes to steal, to kill and to destroy. Christ has come to give life and to give it in abundance. Abundance of life is not in the abundance of convenience, but in the presence of Jesus.

It is the time to rejoice in both trials and rewards. It is the time not to give in to failures or get comfortable in the victories. To re-dig wells stopped up by the enemy. To tear down altars where I have sacrificed to sin and other vain pursuits. To erect new altars and those past where God first revealed Himself to me. This wilderness, this famine, this strange land is away from my father’s household. Away from what I knew, from what both sustained me and restrained me. It is the place to establish a lasting covenant. A covenant of greatness, of greater greatness, of exceeding greatness.

My story is still being written, but His Word has already been spoken. “For they are transplanted to the LORD’s own house. They flourish in the courts of our God.” Psalm 92:13 NLT.

The Gem Shaper

The thing that disqualified me,

Has become the envy of many,

My shame and scorn is covered in honor,

Your grace upon me my joyous demeanor,

When men laughed or turned away,

You set a date for my grand array,

You hid my rough, unpolished edges

Only to craft them into elegant wedges

That the glory not be the precious gem,

But the One that gracefully shapes them.

Kingdom Minded

Young and made to be king,

Yet the thorn of obscurity daily a sting,

This season of scorn and bruising,

Makes the heart grow weary from my enemy’s constant musing,

But beyond the pain and battle unrelenting,

Is a truth worth noting,

That a man with riches yet lacks understanding,

Is as the beasts with imminent death their ending,

At this the thought of giving up,

Gives way to patiently bearing this cup,

For this journey ends in producing character,

What will sustain the kingdom under my charter.

The Memory of Me

May life and rest be found in my ever increasing knowledge of You,
For in You I am now and ever being made new,
A new creation has no past,
Failure and gain alike into the sea of forgetfulness cast,
The cry you now hear is not in sorrowful wailing,
But announcement of arrival to a world for me waiting,
I must play the piece written for me in this divine symphony,
For to fail is to condemn the audience to lasting cacophony,
The memory of me must bear the indelible mark of lives altered,
And a faith in Christ that never once faltered…

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