Funky. Our van is funky, and I don't mean in a tie-dye, Woodstock kind of way. The original meaning of this word pertains to an olfactory experience. To put it more simply, a stinky smell. Funky. Our van smells funky. We've searched and searched for the source of the smell, but to no avail. What might be the cause, we've wondered... dirty preteen boy sneakers, dank beach towels forgotten in the trunk after a day at the beach, a spilled homemade latte (guilty!), a banana ripened to a lovely shade of black stuck under the seat. Lovely. Our van smells because life happens in our van, and life is smelly. Thus, our van is smelly. C'est la vie.
Today I heard a sermon about worshipping God. When is our worship a beautiful fragrance wafting up to the Lord and when does it stink? Stink? Sometimes it really does stink. Worshipping the Lord in the traditional sense - singing and making music - is a joy for me. Yet in other areas of my life, where my life could be a living sacrifice for God, an act of worship, I know that my offering stinks. Like searching through the car looking for the source of our stink, I need to be willing to search through the hidden places of my heart and find the source of my stinky worship. And then finish the job by getting rid of the cause. This part may hurt, this part may mean discomfort, confession, letting go.
Give me the strength, God, and the insight to seek and find the source of my stinky worship, so that I can turn it all back to fragrant praise for you.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Suburban Muse
When we pondered leaving Brussels, one of my biggest concerns was falling into a sea of suburban mundacity. Being lulled into neighborhood status quo by strip malls and fast food. That was two years ago. I think I'm there - immersed in a normal world. Nothing's wrong with normal. In fact I was infatuated with our newly rediscovered normal, quiet middle class existence up until recently. Then I spent time reading my poetry from Brussels and I was struck by the intensity of the issues that I wrestled with there. Never before did I feel inspired to write poetry, until my experience became so unique that it seemed the only adequate means to express the inner workings of my heart. My current life doesn't cry for vivid words strung together, but it does cry out for words. How can I give those words life?
My desire is to live here in this life, but be inspired like I was over there in that life. Is that possible? Not so much. But is it possible that God might allow me a direct line to tap into that same level of passion, so that I may be inspired to live, think and wrestle deeply with the bigness of this beautifully messy world around me. Please Lord, give me my Suburban Muse.
My desire is to live here in this life, but be inspired like I was over there in that life. Is that possible? Not so much. But is it possible that God might allow me a direct line to tap into that same level of passion, so that I may be inspired to live, think and wrestle deeply with the bigness of this beautifully messy world around me. Please Lord, give me my Suburban Muse.
Another Old Poem
From Afar
Shards of glass and excrement bathe the cement
underfoot, not to care, I ease the trash aside
descending steps into dankness, the cold swallows me
rumbling down, faded lights, the harried crowds spill out
From afar, your veil reaches my sight,
a common scene along this walk
you sit in unassuming meekness, a tattered cup close by
your graceful arms embrace a sleeping child, rocking
Do I meet your gaze, smile a “bonjour”
fumble in my purse, or extend my Evian?
there are days, I trust a shiny coin to ease your plight
hold your eyes, a pained grin, silent prayer my toll to pass
Other times, my heart clenches at the bother, like my fists,
avert my face, scan a poster on the wall,
pretend I don’t sense your presence there at all
dare I say your pain hurts too much.
You remain brave in your despair,
Awed by your strength to barely exist
Where’s the source of your hope?
A vision of life to come, on earth as it is in heaven
So much more to you than the label of the street,
not just a beggar at our feet.
were you once a treasured daughter in another world?
what heartbreak brought you here to your knees?
And your child…as he sleeps does he dream a child’s dream?
green fields and footballs,
ice cream and Gameboys
a different time, another life, anywhere but here
From afar and too near, Lord, I am shamed to know
You perceive my awkward steps as I plod by –
guilt, pity, fleeting grief, and the vanquishing,
your floundering diplomat of grace
Daughter of Eve, bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh,
my heart longs to show this true, my life reflects this not
yet you love her with your Creator’s heart
teach me to love her as though she’s You
Draw near Lord, draw near, and show us that you’re here
In the unseen faces that surround,
the dismissed,
the disgarded,
the least of these.
- anne d kittrell, May 2006
Shards of glass and excrement bathe the cement
underfoot, not to care, I ease the trash aside
descending steps into dankness, the cold swallows me
rumbling down, faded lights, the harried crowds spill out
From afar, your veil reaches my sight,
a common scene along this walk
you sit in unassuming meekness, a tattered cup close by
your graceful arms embrace a sleeping child, rocking
Do I meet your gaze, smile a “bonjour”
fumble in my purse, or extend my Evian?
there are days, I trust a shiny coin to ease your plight
hold your eyes, a pained grin, silent prayer my toll to pass
Other times, my heart clenches at the bother, like my fists,
avert my face, scan a poster on the wall,
pretend I don’t sense your presence there at all
dare I say your pain hurts too much.
You remain brave in your despair,
Awed by your strength to barely exist
Where’s the source of your hope?
A vision of life to come, on earth as it is in heaven
So much more to you than the label of the street,
not just a beggar at our feet.
were you once a treasured daughter in another world?
what heartbreak brought you here to your knees?
And your child…as he sleeps does he dream a child’s dream?
green fields and footballs,
ice cream and Gameboys
a different time, another life, anywhere but here
From afar and too near, Lord, I am shamed to know
You perceive my awkward steps as I plod by –
guilt, pity, fleeting grief, and the vanquishing,
your floundering diplomat of grace
Daughter of Eve, bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh,
my heart longs to show this true, my life reflects this not
yet you love her with your Creator’s heart
teach me to love her as though she’s You
Draw near Lord, draw near, and show us that you’re here
In the unseen faces that surround,
the dismissed,
the disgarded,
the least of these.
- anne d kittrell, May 2006
An Old Poem of Mine
Somewhere Between Here and There
Somewhere between Here and There that’s where I am
No border can say, no stamp can tell,
No language portend, no fashion reveal
Somewhere between here and there
“Come,” you offered. Can I trust your voice?
One foot out, now two overboard
Fixing my eyes through the lake’s mist,
Toward your embrace, and a Belgian kiss
“Follow me,” you whisper, “follow me.”
In one month’s time, Brux intrigued me,
In two month’s time, she deceived me,
After six months’ time, You’ve freed me,
Six months more, who’s to say where I’ll call home,
somewhere between here and there
Wearied by the survival game
Escape seeps in through the clinging rain
Dark mornings the quiet excuse
Ten minutes more drowns my muse
“I am here,” you soothe, “I am here.”
The gate beckons like a gameshow host
What’s behind gate 23? Coast to coast
Back to the future in 9 hours time
I fade in the sea of homogeneity
“You are mine,” you assure, “you are mine.”
somewhere between here and there
Out of the chute into the race
Reunions decry the victor of space
Faces from dreams, realigned hearts,
Where does the old end and the new start?
Somewhere between here and there
Somewhere between here and there
anne d kittrell, jan 2006
Somewhere between Here and There that’s where I am
No border can say, no stamp can tell,
No language portend, no fashion reveal
Somewhere between here and there
“Come,” you offered. Can I trust your voice?
One foot out, now two overboard
Fixing my eyes through the lake’s mist,
Toward your embrace, and a Belgian kiss
“Follow me,” you whisper, “follow me.”
In one month’s time, Brux intrigued me,
In two month’s time, she deceived me,
After six months’ time, You’ve freed me,
Six months more, who’s to say where I’ll call home,
somewhere between here and there
Wearied by the survival game
Escape seeps in through the clinging rain
Dark mornings the quiet excuse
Ten minutes more drowns my muse
“I am here,” you soothe, “I am here.”
The gate beckons like a gameshow host
What’s behind gate 23? Coast to coast
Back to the future in 9 hours time
I fade in the sea of homogeneity
“You are mine,” you assure, “you are mine.”
somewhere between here and there
Out of the chute into the race
Reunions decry the victor of space
Faces from dreams, realigned hearts,
Where does the old end and the new start?
Somewhere between here and there
Somewhere between here and there
anne d kittrell, jan 2006
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