Flake #21
New International Version
“My roots will reach to the water, and the dew will lie all night on my branches. My glory will remain fresh in me, the bow ever new in my hand.” – Job 29:19-20
There is nothing that scares me more than getting old. It’s not the loss of eyesight or hearing or teeth either. I think it’s the loss of heart I see in so many that tumble into adulthood. No longer curious, they are satisfied with easy answers. No longer adventurous, they are satisfied with comfortable surroundings. It’s like their roots rot and their dew dries. They get hollow, withered and brittle. The verdant and vibrant freshness of their soul surrenders and gives up the ghost.
I read this verse and it captures in poetic language what I yearn for as I age. Like wine, I dream of getter better with age. I want deeper roots pressing down into the dark, moist, rich soil of the soul. I want there to be a greenness about my lifestyle that drips with the nectar of hope and passion and possibility. When people rub up against me, I want them to get soaking wet with wonder and expectancy. I want my spirit to ooze a profound “Yes” so that others find themselves refreshed in my presence.
When I think of “glory”, I think of that God-image that was kissed into us by the lips of our Creator. I believe there is a way of staying in touch with this glory that causes some to have a greater capacity of inspiration. They ascend to a higher plain of passion and purpose producing a magnetic freshness that is infectious and contagious. I want that part of me to be peeked and poised as I get older. I don’t want that to be the portion of my life that gets buried under the debris of duty. I want to remain “gloriously” fresh.
“The bow ever new in my hand.” What an awesome way of looking at things that can become familiar. Instead of familiarity breeding contempt, there is a regeneration of newness that makes the commonplace surprisingly new. The idea is that the older I get, the newer I become. My body grows old as my spirit grows new. I want preaching to be newer with every sermon. I want writing to be more innovative. I want relationships to be more inspiring. I want marriage to grow in romantic intimacy. I want fathering to be fresh. I want friendships to be expanding to higher levels of honesty and depth. “The old has gone, the new has come.” 2 Cor. 5:17
Here’s some dew that was laying on my branches recently…
I find myself wandering, which leads to wondering.
This quest for the “tree of life” leads to questions…
“What am I here for?”
“What was I made to be in the beginning?”
“What would happen if Eden was released inside me again?”
I’m left with wishful thinking and thoughtful wishing.
Is it me or are we meant to be more than what we’ve settled for?
Something in me resists asking that question,
Yet, at the same time, I feel unable to stop it from surfacing.
It’s like I can run, but I can’t hide
from the whisper within telling me another story about my life.
Part of me wants to make like I don’t hear that persisting voice
and the safer side of me gravitates
to nurturing life’s smaller dreams.
Meager, yet manageable.
Small, but simple.
Dwarfed, but doable.
These serve as a tiny vent to the billowing dreams within,
but fail in there attempt to appease the original longings of the heart.
Dreams and desires give way to little lives
and I sit here again on the porch of paralysis.
What was made to soar sours.
What was crafted to run rots.
What was wired to dance dies.
What was designed to sing sighs.
With every passing day, I lose heart.
Within wearied hands I clutch the dreams
slipping from my feeble fingers.
Pulling ever so harshly against me
is the world of temporary pleasure
and I’m tempted to yield to its overwhelming advantage.
But I don’t. I can’t.
I’ve tasted the goodness of tears spilling from a noble heart.
I’ve heard the sound of a thousand tongues singing the tune of eternity.
I’ve felt the stirring of a joyful presence
tugging me toward the unknown.
I’ve caught a glimpse of what could be and what should be
and can’t settle for anything else or less.
Why can’t I just let go?
Maybe because I would start dying upon the release.
Maybe because I see the wonderful world of immortals laughing at the
ignorance of a soul who would set down a ruby to pick up a rock.
And so I hold on to my heart…and dream.
“My roots will reach to the water, and the dew will lie all night on my branches. My glory will remain fresh in me, the bow ever new in my hand.” – Job 29:19-20
There is nothing that scares me more than getting old. It’s not the loss of eyesight or hearing or teeth either. I think it’s the loss of heart I see in so many that tumble into adulthood. No longer curious, they are satisfied with easy answers. No longer adventurous, they are satisfied with comfortable surroundings. It’s like their roots rot and their dew dries. They get hollow, withered and brittle. The verdant and vibrant freshness of their soul surrenders and gives up the ghost.
I read this verse and it captures in poetic language what I yearn for as I age. Like wine, I dream of getter better with age. I want deeper roots pressing down into the dark, moist, rich soil of the soul. I want there to be a greenness about my lifestyle that drips with the nectar of hope and passion and possibility. When people rub up against me, I want them to get soaking wet with wonder and expectancy. I want my spirit to ooze a profound “Yes” so that others find themselves refreshed in my presence.
When I think of “glory”, I think of that God-image that was kissed into us by the lips of our Creator. I believe there is a way of staying in touch with this glory that causes some to have a greater capacity of inspiration. They ascend to a higher plain of passion and purpose producing a magnetic freshness that is infectious and contagious. I want that part of me to be peeked and poised as I get older. I don’t want that to be the portion of my life that gets buried under the debris of duty. I want to remain “gloriously” fresh.
“The bow ever new in my hand.” What an awesome way of looking at things that can become familiar. Instead of familiarity breeding contempt, there is a regeneration of newness that makes the commonplace surprisingly new. The idea is that the older I get, the newer I become. My body grows old as my spirit grows new. I want preaching to be newer with every sermon. I want writing to be more innovative. I want relationships to be more inspiring. I want marriage to grow in romantic intimacy. I want fathering to be fresh. I want friendships to be expanding to higher levels of honesty and depth. “The old has gone, the new has come.” 2 Cor. 5:17
Here’s some dew that was laying on my branches recently…
I find myself wandering, which leads to wondering.
This quest for the “tree of life” leads to questions…
“What am I here for?”
“What was I made to be in the beginning?”
“What would happen if Eden was released inside me again?”
I’m left with wishful thinking and thoughtful wishing.
Is it me or are we meant to be more than what we’ve settled for?
Something in me resists asking that question,
Yet, at the same time, I feel unable to stop it from surfacing.
It’s like I can run, but I can’t hide
from the whisper within telling me another story about my life.
Part of me wants to make like I don’t hear that persisting voice
and the safer side of me gravitates
to nurturing life’s smaller dreams.
Meager, yet manageable.
Small, but simple.
Dwarfed, but doable.
These serve as a tiny vent to the billowing dreams within,
but fail in there attempt to appease the original longings of the heart.
Dreams and desires give way to little lives
and I sit here again on the porch of paralysis.
What was made to soar sours.
What was crafted to run rots.
What was wired to dance dies.
What was designed to sing sighs.
With every passing day, I lose heart.
Within wearied hands I clutch the dreams
slipping from my feeble fingers.
Pulling ever so harshly against me
is the world of temporary pleasure
and I’m tempted to yield to its overwhelming advantage.
But I don’t. I can’t.
I’ve tasted the goodness of tears spilling from a noble heart.
I’ve heard the sound of a thousand tongues singing the tune of eternity.
I’ve felt the stirring of a joyful presence
tugging me toward the unknown.
I’ve caught a glimpse of what could be and what should be
and can’t settle for anything else or less.
Why can’t I just let go?
Maybe because I would start dying upon the release.
Maybe because I see the wonderful world of immortals laughing at the
ignorance of a soul who would set down a ruby to pick up a rock.
And so I hold on to my heart…and dream.
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