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.
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