musings from a heart and mind transformed by the Gospel

A love poem to myself






I am loved with an everlasting love.

When he found me I was dead. Rotting flesh. Death smell.

He had to resuscitate me. The Life-giver.

Get life in my blood and my dry bones because dead flesh can’t do anything on their own. 

Sadly, I didn’t even know I was dead until I became alive.

The things I did as a walking corpse made me want to vomit once the scales fell from my former blind eyes.

I was unable to go back to the way things used to be when my flesh reeked of rotting-ness.

When the dead arises from slumber and climbs out of that coffin in the ground, it would be absolutely insane to climb back into it.

No. The person with new-ness of life, walks….no runs….far away from the stench of death that is inside that coffin.

The first someone I met while running told me I chose to make myself alive.

Patted me on the back. Congratulations.

Gave me a card that looked like a parking ticket that needed to be validated from inside the building with the pews.

They say that I have to work hard to stay alive. To keep running.

They used the Life-giver's book to prove it.

But they didn't use the whole book. Just parts. 

What about the other parts, I wondered. 

Don't worry about those parts I was told. 

Just keep running and work. 

If I didn’t, the Giver of Life would personally escort me back to that grave with those worms of death sitting on the bottom of it.

For years I worked. Fearful of dying again.

I had to learn new words like Programs, Mission trips, Ministry endeavors. 

Trying to earn my keep.

Then the Life-giver sent me to the desert and all that work disappeared.

Fear set in deep.

Was I not really alive? Was it a practical joke?

If that were true, what a cruel trickster that Life-giver is.

Then another someone told me everything I knew about the Life-giver was wrong.

Told me I didn’t have to work. My life did not depend on what I did to stay alive but on what He did to make me alive.

The work was not a burden to check off but a blessing to plant seeds. Not seeds of death or fear but seeds of life.

No. way. I thought.

Too good to be true.

I searched high and low for what was right and what was not.

Old seed planters in suits told me the same thing.

I asked the Life-giver. 

He told me to look in his book. Not just the parts. But the whole. 

His book confirmed what those old seed planters in suits were saying. 

But not just suits. Seed planters in robes of old too. 

Those truths were in his book all this time and I missed them. Why didn’t the others tell me this?

Why did they make me fear and carry burdens the Life-giver never meant for me to carry?

Maybe they were scared too. 
Maybe they can't believe it either. 
Maybe they think its easier to earn our keep than to rest in the Life-givers work and grace- alone.

Maybe they think they can appear more important when they can give themselves credit for the work they do instead of giving the Life-giver credit for what he’s done- alone. 

Whatever the reason, I was just ecstatic that the entire book now made sense.

The book was never about my work or even my life.

The book was always about the Life-giver's work- alone. 

Not just bits and pieces. 

But. The. Whole. Thing. 

From fallen beginning to glorious end.

Relief swept over me like a cool breeze coming in from the ocean.

I stopped running.

I’m enjoying the journey of alive-ness.

With seeds in one pocket to plant as I go, I’m smelling the roses. 

With the Life-giver's book in the other pocket, I want to show shoots what all of it says - not just parts.  

From fallen beginning to glorious end. 

That coffin no longer scares me.

Maybe I will use it as a flower bed.

I am loved with an everlasting love.