Wind blowing through dying leaves.
On huge cottonwoods swaying.
Sounds like the ocean.
On a day when I have nothing to say.
No desire to obey the Lord in this.
This writing.
When my voice feels vacant.
My heart empty.
The wind-waves crash against me.
Knocking over my will.
Again.
And I come to the keys.
Because He asks.
Because I love Him.
And I trust that all this obedience is not empty.
That He is not making a fool of me.
As I pry open the truth with these tapping fingers.
Just reaching for what is real.
Because I'm worn out with fake.
All this trying.
Killing me.
Oh, Wind,
Bernadette
Hello Bernadette,
ReplyDeleteThank you for your wonderful comments at my blog. You have a beautiful gift with poetry and expressing yourself! So true, that empty place of "death" ends up being the very place of "life" for Christ. A painful journey, and yet a victorious path on the other end.....it is truly HIM who carries us, heals us, changes us, makes us....we are HIS workmanship!! Much love ~ alice
Your honest words remind me that it's okay to write that way. That we can learn from each other and encourage each other and know we are not alone. I'm so glad I stopped by from Ann's today...
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