The Brilliance.

There is something quite brilliant about all of this. What do I mean? Well, I guess I must say that I am not quite sure yet. And for this I am thankful. What are the brilliant things? What is all of this? Can you name all of the things that make you cry or, at the least, well up with emotion by simply looking at them?

I think for me these are the brilliant things. The moments and words and feelings that make you realize that, in actuality, it is not all about and that, really, it's much more simple. There is far less to it than we have come to expect. It's the beautiful things that make the endless reservoirs in my face flow with ease.

It's the woman on horseback with hair flowing and hands free. Her eyes closed as the horse gallops gracefully through the open grassy field with hooves pounding and main streaming. All the while, some brilliant artist creates a sunset behind her that makes her into an angel. An angel that will ride away, down into the valley near the town, through the forest of willows and straight on into the sun.

It's the hand of a wife that has never let go after sixty-two years. The wife that, after all of your failings and short comings, still sits in beautifully peaceful silence on the front porch with you just so you can watch the fire-flies like you did when you were young. And with feeble joints and crooked legs the two of you walk slowly and somberly down to the valley and you lay low in the grass and watch the wind blow in and out and over and through every blade of grass. Hearts rummaging.

It's the son that grows up to be older than his years; who is named Noble early on. It's the daughter that learns to find herself in the arms of the oak trees and the bends of the river. It's the children that know they were, are and forever will be loved.

These are the brilliant things. These are the things that make me smile and then cry and then smile again. These are the moments and things and words and acts that create in all of us brilliance. Whether that be watching an angel or holding the hand of one, these are the brilliant things.

The brilliant things don't come wrapped in paper with bows. They don't sit on mantels or on top of bookshelves. And they don't really cost anything. Except for our love and time and lives. But in the end I suppose that is truly the brilliant thing about it. It's the loss of ones life to find it again. That is the beauty. That is the brilliance.

Psalm 6

Oh God. My heart sings to you.
My Lord, I givith myself up to you.
Use me Oh heavenly artist.
My life is unto you as the grain
is unto the baker.
Create with me what you will.

Amen.

Psalm 5

Oh God, you are the mist in the valley that wraps around me.
You are the vapor in my lungs, you are the breathe I take
every morning. How I am filled with you O' Lord.
How amazing and awesome is Your love?
How great and perfect is your power?
If all of time was given to me, still I should
not ever understand. Still, the fullness of you
would be too much for me.

But, O' the grace that you have shown.
O' the love that you lay upon us.
Like flowers of the field you shower down upon us
with great care and knowledge.
Selah.

Amen, Amen, Amen to the king.
Unto Him who saves us be all praise and Glory.

Psalm 4

Father, if I were any less of a men, I would be nothing;
nothing would I be. My being would be the dust that
your people would walk upon. But great art thou in
your love of this child. Thankful am I for your
lifting grace that shows me how to stand. Oh God,
how great thou art.

You are the ladder upon which I climb and tree
on whose roots I step and walk. Holy, holy, holy
are you my everlasting God. Hallelujah unto the
one who brings rising hope to the fallen. Unworthy
of such grace are we.

Hallelujah unto the King.
Hallelujah unto our Lord.
Amen, amen, amen I say!
Praise the Father.

Psalm 3

Highest of Priests. I sing a new song unto you everyday.
Unto you I give my finest of gifts.
The gifts upon which I was blessed by your own word.
How plentiful is your abundant provision.
My fields are overflowing with the greatness of
your bounty and my grain houses are filled to their brim.
Each has their portion and each has their fill.

Your provision is never ending. For, in every way, you know your
peoples needs. You know our needs to their utter
limits and give no less than is required.
How good are you Father? It is so great, I do not understand.
Through my utter belief
I am given grace and portion?
This is to great for me. I am not worthy.

Let me have a worthy response. Let my hands and feet
go out and till the soil of the unbroken ground.
Let me wield the sickle of the gospel.
Allow it's edge to reap the harvest that you have so
perfectly provided. Your hands are working always.
Your love is never ending.

My life is unto You and You alone. You are the caller of my actions.
Oh God, you are the compass in which my journey is guided.
My paths are lit by your simplest of blessings.
Unto you I give my all. Unto You is given my life.

Psalm 2

Oh God, my soul is downtrodden within me.
Oh Father, my heart is blackening now.
Do you hear me there on the distant star?
Do you recognize the voice of this lost sheep?
Can you see my brokenness and trifled mind?

Watch over this wandering lamb, for on my own
I shall wonder without end.
But in the arms of my Lord shall I ever be satisfied.
You are the fullness in which this soul longs to rest.
How wonderful is your grace? I tell you the truth, it is
to great for I. This simple man knows nothing of your vast
perfections and absolute power.

Oh God, my soul is downtrodden within me.
Oh Father, my heart is blackening now.
I know that you hear me from every corner of the universe.
I know you recognize every wondering ewe in your flock.
My brokenness is at the front of your sight all the days of my life.

Oh sweetest of Loves. Oh most tender of passions.

You are the highest point in which I escape the floods.
You are the most faithful of lovers.
You are the most caring of friends.
You are my Lord, my God and my King.

Psalm 1

How great are you my Lord and guide!
How perfect is your grace and love in my time of strife.
You are the shepherd that leads me from the thicket.
You are the light that brings forth the day.
In you I am made whole through thine perfection.
How great are you my Lord!

My feet fail time and time again.
My hands grow feeble in my working hours.
My mouth is dry and I swallow often.
My eyes tire and fall shut at the sight of strife.
But onto the rock does my sight fall.
How great are you my Lord!

My family unknowingly cries to you.
My brothers require your filling word.
My sisters call out for your provision.
The family groans in longing for the
perfection of the tree of life.
How great are you my Lord!

As I walk among the thicket and throughout
that desert place my resolve is this: My strength and life,
my heart and sight, my soul and my love sit
quietly in the hands of my Father.
The Great and Mighty one!
The one whom all call to in the dark of the night.
How great are you my Lord!

By morning you are my rising
and by night you are my rest.
By day you are my portion and
my holding hand in the weariest of times.
You are the rock onto which this poorest
of children cling.
How great are you my Lord!

Perfection is thine own creation.
Love was a thought upon your brow.
Grace is the throne on which you dwell.
Kindness is your right hand and forgiveness your left.
Your feet tread upon my heart and in their wake
is left the sweetest of life giving drink.
How great are you my Lord!

Unto you are my endless praise.
Amen unto you my King.
Amen unto the mother of rescue.
Amen unto the helper who has come.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Amen to you my Father, my peace, my resting place.

Sell Everything.

He locked the door and put the key under the mat. The truck was running in the field and walking towards it he remembered her and her hair and how much he hated remembering.

The house sat quietly on the banks of a small creek that ran through Magnolia County in northern West Virginia. It has white washed walls and dark blue shutters and windowsills and handrails and pillars. The front porch ran from end to end and creaked when people were waiting to be greeted at the front screen door or when filled rocking chairs moved back and forth. The dark blue screen door stood before a very large,heavy, dark oak door that would sing when the wind blew in form the east. The house rested in front of the creek which was lined by large trees of various variety and width and height and in the evenings the trees would shield the house form the sun. The field that the house sat in was pure and unplowed and rested and capable. They could have planted, but they never did. They used it as a resting place on warm summer afternoons and a romping ground in the spring after swimming in the creek.

The house was theirs as a gift after they had wed the winter before. His parents owned it as a summer home and when they had died they left it to him. When they were married his parents had already been dead for three years, so it seemed fitting to revive the house once again. It seemed right to want to fill it with life and to graciously reintroduce warmth back to its walls. And for a time it was wonderful. For a time it was right and good and it worked. But then she got sick.

Four months after she died he and some family buried her in the south corner of the field near the creeks edge. He couldn't take staring at her grave anymore and decided it was time to go. He found that it was the proper time to leave this place and to go out and reach for new adventures and a new life. So he took the furniture and some things from the house and sold them in town. The house wives and plantation servants came and paid for everything and carried it all away on open bed wagons. Then he began letting family come and pick up the things that they wanted to keep. He didn't want any of it.

He only needed the memory of her in his mind and that was enough. The memory of her swinging back and forth on the rope swing in late April over the swelling creek. Wearing her cotton nightgown with her head flung back and her hair waving and flowing and sweeping in the air. That was how he wanted to remember her. That's how she wanted him to remember her.

So he took the next few weeks and cleared the house of everything and swept the floors and dusted away the few cobwebs that still remained in the corners. He sold the land and the house off to a man from the south that wanted a northern home for vacations. This suited him fine and the gentleman paid more than he was asking. So that next Sunday he packed his final bag and set it in his truck and then walked down to the creeks edge. He thought one more time about all the hours and heart and love and peace spent at that place and then left; locking the door behind him he placed the key under the mat and walked to the truck.

As he drove away from the house he wept for so many things. He cried for the house and for her and for the children that they never had. But most of all he cried for the fact that he was, once again, alone. So he locked and closed the gate behind him and then left the one that loved him as no other could.

December for me.

I want to live on a window sill soaked in sunlight.
I want to be a set of steps that welcomes everyone.
I want to be the diner that warms the christmas shopper.
I want to the lamp lighting the book.

I want to know the lamp post at the end of the street.
I want to make friends with the wreath hung on the door.
I want to spy on the dog sleeping under the tree.
I want to learn about the cookies on the counter.

These things.
Simple and quiet and perfect.
Perfect in pictures and perfect in person.
So mellowing to the summer ridden soul.

John.

And the men paddled down the mighty river in their boats. In their minds and in their hearts feeling as small as the sparrow on the branch of the shore. As they continued on slithering through the waters anew they came to a fall where the waters met the ground. One of the captains ahead gave the call to shore the boats and that they would be resting here for the night. They quietly brought the boats up onto the shore and turned them over onto their chests to rest that eve. John was a tracker and farmer back in his home land of New England. But here, even with all of his knowledge and experience, he felt once again like a boy lost in the woods. His heart beat with passion in his chest as his eyes did gaze out upon the creation before him.

As a boy John's father would take him out into the forest on crisp mornings and they would watch the sun beams stream through the tree tops. His father would explain to him the mysteries of the forest and tell him stories of great trackers and hunters that came before them. John listened to these stories with great attention and care. Listening carefully to each word and paying close attention to each detail and trail mentioned. John loved his father, this was not the question. But most of all John knew, even with a young heart, that his father was preparing him for his own personal journeys into the forest.

The men unpacked the boats and began planning the next days travel with their Indian guides. They were nearing the coast that had been foretold to them existed. They all sat around fires resting against the rocks of the shore talking about trails and rivers and mountains high. The guides told tales of great Indian chiefs and their most grand hunting adventures. Of the great kill and the pride and joy that comes from sharing the kill with the gods. But John thought of other things. Greater things than he. As the sun set John looked to the west and sought after it. In his mind he cursed that the moon had chased away the day. But then found himself embracing that same moon as it's brother and sister stars came into view. He thought of God and the great power that carved the mountains and the finger that placed the rivers into being. He stood up slowly and walked quietly to the river bank just as the sun was setting and thought fondly of his Mother.

John's Mother was an ever watchful servant of God. When he was still quite young she would prepare his bed for him as he readied for sleep. When he was ready he would come to bed and his mother would cover him in blankets and even bear pelts in the winter. Then, with blessed candle flickering, she would read to him the Bible. Tales of a savior and of those who loved him. She told of a God whose power was never ending and who, with a word, could move the mountains.

As he remembered these things the sun fell beneath the mountain peaks and waved goodbye to the land below.

John washed his hands and face in the cold water of the river and stood, walking slowly back to his bedroll in his tent near the other men. He crawled inside his tent and lay down to rest with firelight still glowing and illuminating the trees around him. As he fell asleep he remembered his father and mother and their love for him. And then he spoke up towards the sky speaking quietly, saying, "Father. O'Lord, Guide me now and forevermore. Let not my path wonder and make my heart steadfast. You are my light and my Strength. Amen."

And John fell asleep under the stars that held within them the light that created the universe.