To be held when I have nothing to say,
To be held when I have nothing to give that will endure.
To be held when my heart is wilting and grey,
To be held when my soul is unsure.
To be held when my face shines bright,
To be held when my heart erupts with praise.
To be held and unshakably loved here and now
Until the end of my days.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
December 18, 2014
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
The Song
It's been a long while since my heart could soar, came her thoughts.
Days, draining by with the straining weight of obligation, staggered her soul. She reached out her hand to grasp the plow, to grasp the hoe, but they bandied to her blisters and weary callouses. The sun was not a warm comfort but an angry, glaring companion. The wind was not a tender caress but a whipping shout. When could her heart ever rise above and circle about?
It is amazing what power can come through a song. The softest, lilting refrain can undo the bars and locks of the darkest cage. And here came the refrain, the one that broke the straining, burning weariness:
Never, dear soul, were you fashioned to wear the ball and chain. Never, little moving wind, were you meant to be tracked and charted, captured or defined. You are like the sea foam spraying up from no-one-knows-where; tossing up your lovely, silver hair from the farthest reaches of the deep to the shallows beyond, where man may see. You take from the store of your shimmering heart to bring food to the lips of the dying. Indeed, this is the mystery: none know where you get this giving from. But I will tell you the secret: it is borne from the Kingdom of Love.
You are like water, which man cannot grasp in his hand. If he reaches for it, it is beyond him. So also it is beyond a man to call you what you are, for you are something new, emerging from My heart. You are the little moving wind, which no one can fit into a mould to shape according to his design. No, for You are Mine.
So now, My little heart: fly.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
May 20, 2014
Days, draining by with the straining weight of obligation, staggered her soul. She reached out her hand to grasp the plow, to grasp the hoe, but they bandied to her blisters and weary callouses. The sun was not a warm comfort but an angry, glaring companion. The wind was not a tender caress but a whipping shout. When could her heart ever rise above and circle about?
It is amazing what power can come through a song. The softest, lilting refrain can undo the bars and locks of the darkest cage. And here came the refrain, the one that broke the straining, burning weariness:
Never, dear soul, were you fashioned to wear the ball and chain. Never, little moving wind, were you meant to be tracked and charted, captured or defined. You are like the sea foam spraying up from no-one-knows-where; tossing up your lovely, silver hair from the farthest reaches of the deep to the shallows beyond, where man may see. You take from the store of your shimmering heart to bring food to the lips of the dying. Indeed, this is the mystery: none know where you get this giving from. But I will tell you the secret: it is borne from the Kingdom of Love.
You are like water, which man cannot grasp in his hand. If he reaches for it, it is beyond him. So also it is beyond a man to call you what you are, for you are something new, emerging from My heart. You are the little moving wind, which no one can fit into a mould to shape according to his design. No, for You are Mine.
So now, My little heart: fly.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
May 20, 2014
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Shonah's Garden
The winds are running like water through the leaves, the translucent leaves
Of many emerald trees.
Shonah sits in the Garden where the depths Your heart move through her mind
Like water over stones in a singing brook.
There in the counsel of kings, Your song the nations shook.
May 11, 2014
By Samantha Lindholm
Inspired as the overflow of my novel-in-progress.
Of many emerald trees.
Shonah sits in the Garden where the depths Your heart move through her mind
Like water over stones in a singing brook.
There in the counsel of kings, Your song the nations shook.
May 11, 2014
By Samantha Lindholm
Inspired as the overflow of my novel-in-progress.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The Breath of Your Mouth
I am finding new life in this passing sound.
Your kind whispers stir and animate this tired, little flame -
Feeding my soul unto bright and fragrant burning.
I flicker and wake 'neath the breath of Your mouth.
By Samantha Lindholm
April 29, 2014
Your kind whispers stir and animate this tired, little flame -
Feeding my soul unto bright and fragrant burning.
I flicker and wake 'neath the breath of Your mouth.
By Samantha Lindholm
April 29, 2014
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Rest (But Not Yet)
It isn't come yet.
The buildings are cast in auburn light.
The heart beats still wildly, the papers
Are still piling.
But sunset foretells rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
It isn't come yet,
But the springtime sweet on my tongue
Is taste enough to provoke me on,
Onward until the papers are gone.
The calendar foretells sweet rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
It isn't come yet,
But I will repose with You.
Dearest heart-friend, I feel like I've been away long
And long at work.
To sit with you in shade and rest the evening,
To revel in the gold of stars and the balm of summer storms.
You assure me that there will be rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
April 8, 2014
The buildings are cast in auburn light.
The heart beats still wildly, the papers
Are still piling.
But sunset foretells rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
It isn't come yet,
But the springtime sweet on my tongue
Is taste enough to provoke me on,
Onward until the papers are gone.
The calendar foretells sweet rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
It isn't come yet,
But I will repose with You.
Dearest heart-friend, I feel like I've been away long
And long at work.
To sit with you in shade and rest the evening,
To revel in the gold of stars and the balm of summer storms.
You assure me that there will be rest -
Even though it isn't come yet.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
April 8, 2014
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Weak Reachings
Words are too small to package the things that You put in the human heart. Words are weak reachings when their task is to encompass the whole of Your meaning.
Friday, February 21, 2014
The Waiting Place
The waiting place, they say, is a waste of time;
A place where the unwitting and hopeless twiddle their thumbs.
The waiting place, they've told me, is an empty room
Where ticking clocks oppress the soul and the sunk sinks low.
I came into this waiting place today, looking for white walls
And an infinitude of sterile, blue chairs.
But when my feet landed in the waiting place,
I looked down at a bed of waiting flowers.
Waiting lilies and dazzling, wild blossoms fed the air
With a fragrance that beckoned me to linger.
When I looked upon the waiting place,
There was nothing stagnant or sterile about it.
The clocks were erased; wending waters bustled all about.
The waiting place was vaulted by great trees,
Waiting trees that had waited a hundred years to meet the sky.
Their branches were home to nestling, singing birds
And the affectionate movings of the wind.
When I came to the waiting place,
Birdsong and sweetness emptied my heart of all of its hurry.
The waiting place is only a prison to the soul on the run.
The waiting place binds us up and settles us down,
Demanding us to fall back into that chasing peace,
The peace that follows us even when we busily draw away from it.
The waiting place settles me into the seat of the Old Garden,
Where the Beloved of Creation, scarred hands and all,
Comes to walk when the day cools.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 21, 2014
A place where the unwitting and hopeless twiddle their thumbs.
The waiting place, they've told me, is an empty room
Where ticking clocks oppress the soul and the sunk sinks low.
I came into this waiting place today, looking for white walls
And an infinitude of sterile, blue chairs.
But when my feet landed in the waiting place,
I looked down at a bed of waiting flowers.
Waiting lilies and dazzling, wild blossoms fed the air
With a fragrance that beckoned me to linger.
When I looked upon the waiting place,
There was nothing stagnant or sterile about it.
The clocks were erased; wending waters bustled all about.
The waiting place was vaulted by great trees,
Waiting trees that had waited a hundred years to meet the sky.
Their branches were home to nestling, singing birds
And the affectionate movings of the wind.
When I came to the waiting place,
Birdsong and sweetness emptied my heart of all of its hurry.
The waiting place is only a prison to the soul on the run.
The waiting place binds us up and settles us down,
Demanding us to fall back into that chasing peace,
The peace that follows us even when we busily draw away from it.
The waiting place settles me into the seat of the Old Garden,
Where the Beloved of Creation, scarred hands and all,
Comes to walk when the day cools.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 21, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Caresome, Little Heart
Little heart, do you see the poetry in this moment?
The little beats, staccato and sweet; twittering.
The lilting of a little chuckle; let your heart unfurl in this breeze.
One embrace reaches farther than the clock and the tasks,
Pressing and extending into your care-some world.
One pair of arms outstretched and one curling whisper
Can beam through the clouds of a 'too-much' kind of day.
Little heart, do you hear the song in this moment?
If you can't remember the words, pull back and listen.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 18, 2014
The little beats, staccato and sweet; twittering.
The lilting of a little chuckle; let your heart unfurl in this breeze.
One embrace reaches farther than the clock and the tasks,
Pressing and extending into your care-some world.
One pair of arms outstretched and one curling whisper
Can beam through the clouds of a 'too-much' kind of day.
Little heart, do you hear the song in this moment?
If you can't remember the words, pull back and listen.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 18, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
Love Wins Us Tenderly
You can't live like a brick in a fortress wall forever. This is how you've learned to cope: harden so that when the fires roll over, you're not burned raw.
There's a Man refused to shut His heart. There was no reserve, there were no walls of bitterness built when His Betrothed took Him out of the City Gates and broke His heart. And when the burning fires rolled over and over, His eyes witnessing more suffering than what you and I pass by on our American streets, there was nothing in Him that drew back or said, "I can't handle this."
You can't live like a brick in the wall forever. He will shake you from your place. The dimensions of your heart, even calcified by years of compression, years of abuse, will find their melting point before those Eyes of Fire.
His commitment of love is a force so fierce that it rends every obstacle, eating its passionate way through the veils of the heart. This fire that burns is a fire that heals. This war that lays siege to every wall is salvation. Thundering, Love wins us tenderly.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 14, 2014
Happy Valentine's Day
There's a Man refused to shut His heart. There was no reserve, there were no walls of bitterness built when His Betrothed took Him out of the City Gates and broke His heart. And when the burning fires rolled over and over, His eyes witnessing more suffering than what you and I pass by on our American streets, there was nothing in Him that drew back or said, "I can't handle this."
You can't live like a brick in the wall forever. He will shake you from your place. The dimensions of your heart, even calcified by years of compression, years of abuse, will find their melting point before those Eyes of Fire.
His commitment of love is a force so fierce that it rends every obstacle, eating its passionate way through the veils of the heart. This fire that burns is a fire that heals. This war that lays siege to every wall is salvation. Thundering, Love wins us tenderly.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 14, 2014
Happy Valentine's Day
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Lifted
Granular, the straps of the packs of too many burdens
Chafe at shoulders and neck. The
Half-hearted breaths steam out and burn on the wind.
The curling of the autumn chill under the
Downturned chin. This heart has learned
To distrust.
When heaving sighs and crippled beneath a
Mountain of yesterdays -
Breaking, breaking, breaking -
The twine of the straps groaning as
They're pulled apart. Gravity yanks the weights
To the ground - because they belong to the earth.
My heart, my head are lifted;
In praise like birdsong,
I rise from the dirt.
I am Zion singing.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 13, 2014
-------
For no weary busy-ness or burden of expectation can tether my soul to this earth. My heart is heaven-born, and there 'twill fly when the songs remind me of my birthright.
Chafe at shoulders and neck. The
Half-hearted breaths steam out and burn on the wind.
The curling of the autumn chill under the
Downturned chin. This heart has learned
To distrust.
When heaving sighs and crippled beneath a
Mountain of yesterdays -
Breaking, breaking, breaking -
The twine of the straps groaning as
They're pulled apart. Gravity yanks the weights
To the ground - because they belong to the earth.
My heart, my head are lifted;
In praise like birdsong,
I rise from the dirt.
I am Zion singing.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 13, 2014
-------
For no weary busy-ness or burden of expectation can tether my soul to this earth. My heart is heaven-born, and there 'twill fly when the songs remind me of my birthright.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Meekness
It shackles the lofty heart,
Binding with ties that tame the wild thrashing.
It is the cord of silence;
It is hands that fold instead of fist.
The music of it makes us pliable,
Tender when the walls have crumbled down.
It bridles and tempers all that beats within us,
Reconciling the warring factions of the soul.
What can we speak of this, the nature of love?
Its meaning is not to tremble and amble,
Nor to live sorry, nor to whimper.
It is the fiercest fire of love, but
It will not raise its voice in the streets.
Its advent is liberation; its rule is justice,
But the nearer it comes, the lower we bow.
The louder it rings, the more we are the dust.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
January 26, 2014
Binding with ties that tame the wild thrashing.
It is the cord of silence;
It is hands that fold instead of fist.
The music of it makes us pliable,
Tender when the walls have crumbled down.
It bridles and tempers all that beats within us,
Reconciling the warring factions of the soul.
What can we speak of this, the nature of love?
Its meaning is not to tremble and amble,
Nor to live sorry, nor to whimper.
It is the fiercest fire of love, but
It will not raise its voice in the streets.
Its advent is liberation; its rule is justice,
But the nearer it comes, the lower we bow.
The louder it rings, the more we are the dust.
Written by Samantha Lindholm
January 26, 2014
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