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.

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

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

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

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

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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.