Ointment.
Garment hem – touch.
Clean water sprinkled.
Bread of Life. Broken.
Blood drenched.
Spit on my eyes!
[Mud packed]
Jordan baptised.
“This is My —“
Scales removed.
“Hallowed —
thy name!”
JESUS.
Heaven sighs.
…Gives thanks.
“Come out!”
Grace – alive.
Dated outside of time
My dearest, Grace
I don’t know how to sum you up; but you do work in me and for that I am eternally grateful; or should I say graceful. Grace, you make my, jar of clay, cracked exterior, good.
I was seven when I first made your acquaintance. I remember clearly when you found me. I had no idea then, who I had been found by. I did not know then, that you were to become my best – but very honest – friend. This truth in love speaking honesty still makes me uncomfortable, sometimes.
Amazing how you put up with me even when I deliberately attempt to shun your patient, persistent company. You wait till I am still. You are pretty tough – I have to admit. I would not have been that determined. I gather that’s why they call you Grace. So much nicer than I am – You are.
You have become more than a beautiful word. Yes, I know that revelation took a while.
I think it’s because your ways are so contrary to mine that I wrestle with you so much. This was highlighted so well once when I was screaming uncontrollably at my child. You used her voice to tell me what you thought. Mid shrill – mine – she looked up and gently reminded, “Jesus can make you talk nicely to me.” I was arrested by you, Grace.
Better than a slap that was! It was a heart stopping, reshaping moment. You left your clear imprint. I still need reminding that my words should be seasoned with more of you. I am glad for that assault.
I wish I could make a cameo of all the encounters I have had with you. I am glad for your grand scheme of eternity where we will have endless days to unpack our favorite photo moments.
I am delighted that all those pictures have you in them- even the sad ones; especially the painful ones; the naked ones. Where we shared my deepest brokenness, my disappointments, my failures, my shattered dreams have become, in a strange way, my favorite. Grace, it was in those that I discovered how you cloth me…painting beauty with my ashes while you dance over me with joy.
In the darkest rooms, you form me into more of who you are. I realise, I have to look forward there, in faith, waiting for the development of the negatives into picture-perfect prints made by the craftsman of all hearts. You want to see so much more of who you are reflected in me. That is why you take me there so many times. I am glad these soul soaking moments are covered by you…Even in the darkness of my transformation you have never exposed me shamefully to others…You hide my nakedness and frailty. That’s why I love you, Grace.
By the way, the snap-shots I really want to see are the ones taken when I didn’t even know you had me in mind; the times you snuck in when I wasn’t looking. Thank you for those especially. I’d be more of a mess if you hadn’t been quite as stealthy. You are sneaky; I am glad. You don’t put bunny ears above my head on photo days either. You know I don’t like to be made fun of.
Mostly though, others should be grateful I met you. When I begin to think about me – without you near – I shudder. You put things to death in me which would have been my downfall. These things would have taken others down with me too. Thank you for putting your heart of flesh in place.
Grace, you are beautiful; but not without sacrifice. i have had to learn to surrender to your beauty. Gethsemane has taught me, Grace. Your humble, weeping brokenness shows me how honest, heart surrendered cries, drenched in truth, release provision and empowering. i have needed these face-plant moments. Humility is uplifting. You said it would be. i have to trust You.
I like agendas but have discovered that you have an outside of time and sight way of operating. That makes this walk with you quite scary. Your track record is good though. ‘You may have scared me to death a few times; but YOU, have never let me down.’
Just one more thing, Grace; there is so much more… Suffice to say, You are more than enough. Sufficient.
Thank you.
I am Anne, Elizabeth
[Graced – Chosen of God- Called by Your name.]
It was only after I had lobbed all the skins into the bin that I realised that in order to make Limoncello the skins were essential. Life can be a bit like that too. No wonder some people resort to soaking themselves in vodka in order to cope. I have discovered recently again, that there is a better way to drink life when you find a whole herd of lemons in your garden.
I had been ignoring them. They kept coming to mind. Silly lemons. Why do you have to all ripen at once? Seriously. It is not convenient right now. [EVER]
A walk through the disheveled, revamped garden (a work in progress) took me past the tree that had too much fruit on it; it had actually snapped off mid-stem.
It wasn’t altogether the trees fault. The untended garden had meant that the tree (in an attempt to faithfully do what fruit trees should do) strained towards the sun – Inevitably it got thin and straggly and collapsed in a torn and messy clinging to the rest of the tree sort of way on a particularly windy day. Clearly the weight of the tree fruit had been too much. But any real gardener will tell you there were a whole lot of other factors that resulted in this unceremonious demise.
Many fruit gifts lay scattered – rotting.
I felt bad and challenged not to ignore the crop that were still clutching desperately to the misshapen and twisted host – drawing life from the splintered trunk.
So last Saturday, determinedly – packet in hand – the picking and pricking-yanking ceremony happened. These were strangely scarred fruit; No Woollies picture perfect images here. I dreamed of wormy insides. I thought of course of snakes in the tree as I gingerly maneuvered my hand between the broken branches. There is always a potential for serpentine visitors in a neglected, indigenous garden like mine.
Packet full and weighed down I trundled up to the house. The gnarled load needed a good wash before they could be made useful. I was feeling grateful for the electric juicer plugged to an ‘eternal’ source at this point. [assuming Eskom does not shed load… I reasoned] If you have to grind the things on your own that would be nigh impossible.
The wooden slab of surrender was next. Knife in hand I cut deep.
My amazement grew and all my senses stirred to the crushed fruit fragrance that filled the atmosphere. It was crisp insistent – refreshing. I smiled. Even speckled, gnarled small lemons had beautiful insides, I discovered .They just had to be picked, washed, cut open and squeezed so that that useful inside bit could be discovered and not left to rot unattended.
My heart stirred as juice dripped and stung yesterdays paper cut. Already the fruit was at work healing – purging though painful. My mind began to consider the pulp and pip potential. Pulp content is essential for making the best lemonade, I learned; and pips create life. Obviously.
There were so many ways the crushed pieces could be useful to their master.
I began to blog again that day after having abandoned this untended garden for years. I realised again that my snapped and twisted self carried some, neglected gifts that, when graciously surrendered to the Master, could release the crisp fragrance of the Life within me. This crushed self could drip life, bring healing to others as zesty-full life, in me, permeated the world again.
“For goodness sake,” – I told myself, “Do something with life’s lemons so others can be refreshed by the fragrant gift lurking within. The ragged outside doesn’t matter!”
[Note to self: Don’t ditch the outside bits. Apparently, the not-so-useless skins make zesty limoncello which is delicious in small quantities served chilled!]
http://allrecipes.com/recipe/best-lemonade-ever/
http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/1087/limoncello
Hedgehog – no nose – faith
The dog bit off my hedgehog’s nose.
I was already upset when I discovered the ‘little guy’ was missing from his special place. It was not the first time he had been whisked away by the social whizz-kid-dog called Sprokett; who will find companionship in anything that looks vaguely alive.
There he was happily tossing the hog up and down, way at the end of our rather large and all too indigenous garden. And to make it worse it was almost dark. I stomped out and rescued the shabby, shaken creature muttering mild admonitions at the playful pup who really meant no harm. He had just ‘seized his dog-day’ by sneaking in and whisking away my, most loved, soft toy that stands guard on my out-of-bounds to dogs bedroom floor.
It wasn’t the first time the hog had gone for an unscheduled walk. In fact it was trip three. Trip one took place in daylight had also ended badly for the hog – A long damp night outside and a chomped off nose. When discovered the nose which dangled weakly by a thread was suitably re-secured – the dog chastised. Trip two went almost undetected till late one night. There unceremoniously, upside-down lay the now discarded playmate -the nose, this time, intact.
This third unsolicited adventure had not ended quite as well. The hog had lost its nose again to romping pups frenetic flinging. [It was really funny to watch him playing undetected.] I did not want him to know I was slightly amused; after all, he had stolen my favourite thing and made it his, without permission.
Hog in hand I marched triumphantly back across the rambling yard to the house, a 30 meter journey over un-mown grass and twigs. Imagine my shock as I dusted the hog in the dim light to discover the stunted face. The nose was gone! Great, I thought…and it’s dark! Noseless hog-days lay ahead. GAH!
I ambled out thinking, “Good grief!” How do I find a small black dot upon this rambling plot of ground? I sort of rolled my eyes in prayer. Sighed.
Sprokett now lay chomping a hard-won bone. Content. I walked up to him determined to – I am not sure what…Unthinkingly I place my hand under his head and gently lifted up his face. There to my surprise, just next to his new-found thing lay the hog’s discarded nose .
I picked it up. “I found the nose.” I mumbled startled. How amidst the vast expanse of wild, untamed world could it have been just been right there? It was just a stuffed toy hedgehog’s insignificant black dot. Nothing really.
My faith questions this. No real deep prayer went up; just a disgruntled sigh. I didn’t even search, weep, wail or gnash my teeth. Why then, I considered, do my big matters that have heart-wrenching prayer invested not yield the same quick fix?
I paused to ponder hard and long and this was the reply:
Perhaps the little things don’t really matter. Yet, they become the BIG things actually that keep us believing, trusting, hoping. If God can lead us to the ‘hog’s nose things’ without much flap –perhaps we should approach the bigger cares with the same light rolling of the eyes. Look up. Sigh. We’d know then, without a doubt, that those too will find their way out of the darkness and be restored to their rightful place when some unsuspecting “Sprokett” steals from us our joy.
I am inspired to keep hoping for what I do not see in the dark – patiently waiting with Hedgehog-no nose-faith – till God gives back my joy. [I may even laugh a little while I wait]
The breeze was almost still as we walked against the sloping sand….My heart’s eye though was lost in thought to the sights and sounds. I stared at the long enduring ache of confusions masterpiece across my mindscape.
Unexpectedly a glimpse of perfection broke into my reverie of dark endless caverns and waves of defeat that pounded against my scoured landscape. An insignificant, yet perfect shell arrested my morbid inward brooding.
A voice startled, “Here’s a pebble shaped like a heart!”
The words resonated. I smiled…
Then a jaded coincidence word cynically punched the fresh voice. Yet I stooped again to look. There nestled in the grains of sand hundreds of tiny, intricately crafted shells lay discarded by the unyielding waves.
“Mindful of you -” Gently chastised.
This beach, usually shelless, had delivered up – this day – a myriad of minute whole shells and amongst the usual smooth pebbles a strange truth began to repeat.
“Look another heart-shaped pebble!”
Jaded cynicism bowed out acknowledging the miracle echo.
“And another and another and another…” Between my tears love stumbled, seven times in all. It was as if nature; obedient to the Master Craftsman; had tumble shaped in timeless beauty each pebble just for me.
And in the darkness of my cavernous place a light began to shine and the Spirit whispered, “Just for you – to say:
I knew you would walk dull but look down this day…and I have delivered each one just for you. Even in your darkness My light shines and paints the light strokes of grace words upon your scape! You are loved and not forgotten though you stumble deep within the mindscape that your despair paints for you in blotched black streaks of oiled darkness.
I care more for you though, than these…though each is uniquely patterned and intricately woven still.”
The quiet conversation spurred me onward.
In my hand I clutched the little unseen beauties – I took them with me in heart, my hand and head. The pebbles I pushed deep into my pocket till they bulged against my skin…comforting.
The Master Painter brightened my impression with his grace. My mindscape not replaced; but somehow the light upon the canvas now fell differently. I was neither forgotten – nor forsaken.
Hoping that in this amble or ramble you’ll find a little something for your soul.
Dearest Family and Friends
[Disclaimer: mixed metaphors abound in this missive – no apology.]
I have not been very good at what can be deemed heart sharing lately – it has been a few years actually; truth be told. It is easy to talk about the weather and what I did yesterday. But ‘heart speak’ is , to quote ee cummings [somewhere I have never travelled] gladly beyond.
Today I was doing one of those cathartic clean-ups and found a letter I wrote at Christmas about seven years ago. I quite enjoyed reading it and in some ways felt the time was somehow right to write again as we as a family transition into a whole new season. Right now the transition season feels like a jump from 50,000 feet that I am very reluctant to take without a seasoned instructor strapped to my back and some gear in a hold-all. I am not much of a risk-taker and I am a ‘woes’ (pronounced: ‘wuss’) when it comes to anything that the media would describe as sensitive viewing. I feel like this season could be like one of those clips with “flash photography”. [Warning] Most times I walk away from shows like this – not wanting my heart or spirit to be unsettled. Not this time though. I have to go through it – or with it. We have to – all of us – just do it. It’s unavoidable.
I had a random thought the other day: God is not a static line that we strap ourselves to when we are about launch into a crazy new thing – that so-called wide open space of new things. He is so much more: all sufficient and His love never fails. He stretches out his hand – it is His right hand that holds us secure. No chute failure, so to speak. He can definitely not be described as static either – thankfully – except maybe when it comes to the spark – the ‘kick’ we need to start the engine on the next part of the journey. With this ‘current’ as a reality, then I am grateful and secure as we take the leap of all the children leaving home in January 2012.
Terence is already planning the zip-lining getaways and the Anne-to-himself time. However as much as this sounds appealing in some ways – actually in many ways – the prospect of being ‘childless’ on a day-to-day basis is for me rather a daunting prospect. Above metaphor extends.
2011 has held many stretches. It is so funny as I write that I smile inwardly as my letter of 2005 started the same way. I still can’t spell “stretch” without a spell check, and the thought of its meaning working on my person still makes me uncomfortable because it speaks of GROWTH. In some ways though, this year I shrank through the stretching and I think that that was God’s purpose. This was and is perhaps more uncomfortable growth I have discovered. It is the powerless-to-do-anything-by-myself growth point that brought about the shrinking. Being quite ‘controlly’ by nature and wanting to be absolutely in charge of the outcome I have found myself hamstrung on every level during this year as God has unpacked my safe boxes and all my heart’s pieces lie scattered on the floor vulnerably exposed in disarray. Just because I don’t control the outcome though – I am learning to understand [slowly] – that does not mean that things are necessarily bad or will end in the worst possible way. Actually, I am discovering haltingly, that when I don’t think I control the outcome, or have any power over the ending of anything or the middle bits, I get to see “faith expressing itself” in loving God and being loved by God; knowing He is committed to see His will fulfilled and so ultimately all things work for good. That’s his plan.
The journey – has been a labyrinth of stop and starts and what nows. I finished the year doing a long marking stint at St Stithians in Johannesburg for the IEB. As we drove into the school on my left I could not help but notice this massive concrete lintel and etched in it were the words: “Be still and know”… that I AM. On the Monday after several grueling days of marking, Sue, our chief marker said, “Take a stroll up past the platform and walk the labyrinth that lies beyond that point.” What I discovered there unexpectedly was a suitable ending to the year. A defining point.
There was no getting lost on that path in the labyrinth unlike Alice in Wonderland on her fantasy trail. There was no March hare shouting: “I am late…” [Thankfully – as I would have felt crushed.] Etched in the paving of this labyrinth so thoughtfully constructed the maker, I noticed as I strolled toward the centre of it all, had placed familiar words of comfort, extortion, guidance and encouragement – words long written on my heart which determine destination – written by the Spirit. The Word reassured me that I could continue to venture beyond this point. It was not because I knew what lay at the centre but rather because I know one who made the path of Grace. The Word written helps us overcome. I left that day feeling strangely at peace deep within myself-as if my maker had wanted me to be there right then to literally see what he was doing in me all this time.
In fact most of this year has been spent on my knees drawing strength from this life source – hence the shrinking. It has been my survival journey out of a very redefining, dry and dark place. I almost feel as if this has been a year of opening boxes. Boxes long closed. Boxes I have not wanted to look at, deal with and some I should have long ago -I am grateful now I did. There is still rather a lot of ‘disarray’ but I am not as sensitive a viewer as I was before.
I wonder if a caterpillar ever gets to think that one day it may be a beautiful butterfly. I am sure as it inches along if it could think it would have some misgivings about not looking that ‘macho’ after the whole process now that it has pretty wings – or maybe there is a sense of relief – that ‘whew! I am not a worm anymore’ – or perhaps at times there is a desire within to rush the process which mars the last magnificent emergence. I have always hated the moments in life when you feel all sticky clinging to the edge of a cocoon waiting for your wings to dry. It all seems such a mess then and yet in the patient moment there is a hope and promise. I am learning to allow the sticky mess to dry by itself so it can be what it is meant to be not what I perceived would be the best way of being.
It is God who works in us for his glory – purpose and Destiny. After all.
Thus has been my journey. I trust that in this Christmas season you will discover the unlimited Word of God’s grace for all of the past, and all of your present and whatever 2012 brings along your path.
In HIM-I AM secure-as are you. [without question]
Fond love Anne
Some people say I can be cryptic and that ‘Ambiguity’ is my middle name. I hope that this post explains a little bit more about who I am and what I think matters most about all of us really.
Here’s my story.The other day I found myself happily munching on an Inside Story treat. It struck me as I munched on the dreamy, chocolate, caramel treat that a sweet by any other name could not tell a better tale of what I think matters most.
You see, Dear Reader, some things are too deep-too sweet -too rich- too…; that words fail to express the richness.
I always wanted to put this personalized number plate on my very old car:IN A BUT.
This idea always amused me-inside my head; especially when I used to see another very fancy, red snazzy, sport’s car with all the trims and a beautiful occupent, that declared quite boldly: 2REDHOT. Go figure.
IN a BUT
” Why-whatever does that mean?” you might be asking.
This plate is my Inside Story -which my ordinary down-to-earth-outside does not always reveal.
Let me explain this cryptic, personalised, number plate thing that seems to reveal very little at first glance (like so many other obscure plates I see along the roads of life).
The “In a B-U-T” plate should be read as : I[nner] A BeaUTy or simply,”inner beauty”. Most mortals would innocently read it as : “…in a butt”. Given the nature and state of my car at that point in my life, they would have laughed and missed the point of the treasure in the jar.
To the naked eye-I admit, I am not at first glance a pretty sight, nor do I always put my best me on display. However, to those who dare to find my true centre, those who get to know me eventually love the treasure within-my caramel centre.
My Inside Story has been a grace journey as I have travelled and walked and talked with Jesus daily. Just today I read in Isaiah how we are the symbols and the signs that God uses as a pointer to Him. We are the carriers of an inner truth that makes us-despite our jars, beautiful, fragrant bringers of grace.
Inner beauty…those inside stories are, I believe, the most precious tales others get to read; written not with ink but by God’s Spirit. His Spirit-His work-His BeaUTy IN A jar of clay. Sweet.
Pen poised…Why do I teach?
Why, Do I teach?
Why? Do I? Teach?…
I found myself rolling the thought around my doodle pad– my mind, my heart, my soul.
Reflective, I contemplated the years I have taught.
I felt challenged afresh to examine the reasons and I realized that the teaching journey started in a shallow stagnant, dry, limited pool. Now, years later, I find myself in a deep ink-well of diverse, creative rich purpose.
At sixteen I had no purpose. I faced a vague future with no sense of what to write on the pages of my life. The journey began with filling in a form with a ball point pen; the chance of a bursary. It seemed like an option .It was available. The ink spluttered, stopped and started. At 21 I had completed my degree with little clue of what would soon become my passion; my ‘Life’s Work’.
Years later-by God’s grace, in hindsight, I now know that: Anne planned in her heart (sort-of) but the Lord determined Her steps.
I now have to acknowledge that God must have intervened on my life choices even without my consent. He knew the days ordained for me- the days written in His book- ‘My God Purposed Life’s Work’!
That is why I teach.
Out of that revelation and insight I determine to write HOPE daily, through a smile, a fun lesson, a gentle word, a firm correction, a dynamic, creative, relevant lesson and a keen sense of humour. I have begun to recognize that if I can bring a sense of purpose through ‘ Life Word’s’ to someone, then I have brought meaning to those walking on a bumbling, directionless path to nowhere.
Like the often told ‘star fish’ story-I teach because it makes a difference to that one’s life story!
I teach because those children become my letters known and read by everyone!
They are “My life’s Work” .They in turn, will write on the hearts of others…and they too can become hope bringers. I determine to write well so they too can ‘write’ well.
My dad penned these words for me once: ‘A pen can write many things but not of itself –The one who holds the writer determined directs its course across the page-and whether for good or ill the ink will flow.’
I as a teacher, I recognise that I am a pen in the hand of God. I try to use “Spirit led” [sic] It is infinitely better than anything I can produce. I am called to inscribe His wisdom on hearts, with patient and deep understanding. I am called to write truth on the hearts of the young-not with the letter but with the life of the Spirit!
This sense of ‘writing purpose’ on the tablets of human hearts, is about understanding that the World View we as teachers write, will determine what future pen writers will do when they sit with their pens poised above the blank page of another’s life.
I want my ink to flow for God’s: “You wrote well!”
There is no better motivation and that is why I teach.
[Teacher: 1985-2011 and beyond]
Can my black heart yet praise you?
How can my black heart praise You?
-reflected against your glory
it turns to powder-ash…
Consumed by pure refining fire.
Only your Spirit in me can cry out
-to you the Living God.
Your purity expresses life
through death.
All I have within me is pure dust;
ashed by your infinite Glory.
(26 july 2009)
For Carryn:
(picture of you)
The Master-
Painter,
paused-
distracted
thoughtful…
(mind full of you)
The colour pallette’s
paints,
slid slowly-
mingling oils:
grace
mercy
loving kindness
patience
promises…
onto
discarded canvas.
Your heart
Arrayed with Love’s
Masterstrokes…
Ingenious.
(Anne Bloem 27 July 2009)
Psalm 8 v 4
| Reflections-Revelation-release! |
TWO EAGLES
On eagle’s wings
You lift me-
The thermals
intervene-
bouy me
intercept my
d
ow
l) nw
a a
r r
D (pi
S
“Where can I go?”
Your SPIRIT
even there…
YOUR hand will Guide me:
d O
r N
a W
w A
p R
U D
FORWARD.
Into-
More of YOU.
The land now viewed from Eagle’s wings.
(Anne Bloem 12 October 2008)
MERCY REMEMBERS (Jan 28, 2009)
Mercy remembers
…we are dust
flourish like a flower
MAGNIFICENT
…the wind blows
g
o
n
e .
not remembered
by the place in which it bloomed.
“mercy”
Remember :
…eternal LOVE
UNENDING
p
o
u
r
s
OUT
L-I-F-E…
those who drink
willingly
flourish: a
C
E
D
A
R
planted in the
courts of the KING
ESTABLISHED!
Sowing precedes reaping…
“I give you everything.”
YET , my fingers grip the notes
I think will meet my needs…
forgetting :
YOU have given all.
YOU seem to have to prize everything
from my selfish, childlike finger’s grip;
A reluctant child with too much candy:
Sick and needy;
unable to let go-
to recognise
YOU.
YOUR warm , firm ,loving grip-
WISDOM that speaks reason to a soul
-Resolute on selfish control of nothing-
Does not rip it from me;
Gently you coax it
from my sad hand
with promise of
better-more-REAL
I wrestle senselessly
with all that I am
then
surrender
To all that YOU are and have.
(Anne Bloem 10 May 2008)
| …children leaving home. |
Dedicated to Shae
“Letting go-”
It’s 18 minutes ago,almost-give or take an hour or so-
A rainy day-with the leaves all soggy,
Not a touch line in sight-just an old guitar- which you used to play
Your first unsure notes on , then, like a gifted rock star you were
wrenched from the home stage, the notes drifting away
Behind a car window smudged with rain and my tears,
I saw you wave-distracted by the journey on;
Your mind flustered : your hate to go- how is my mom-
the work load! Screams…into a wilderness of quiet;
Simple echoes from the past…a hesitant figure, driving away
Like a reluctant player onto a stage performing where: “all the world are players“
You don’t like center stage and yet, you find yourself there
Striving to be the best—you give and others take… the scorching
Ordeals which fire your irresolute clay.
I have had worse partings, but none gnaws at my mind still.
I know it is roughly saying what God alone
has shown me now, so perfectly, in the letting go…
It’s not so much “Walking Away” as Grace – “Letting go-”
I love you!
(apologies to C.Day Lewis…and other great poets!)
Anne Bloem 13 April 2009)
Anyway so there I was bumbling along and wam it hit me-right between the eyes. I had no vision.
What worries me most, more is I am not sure where it died. Just know it died.
Clearly I need to attend to what you God are revealing!
I remember the daffodil days where the picture was sunny, yellow-clear. Sadness overwhelmes me.
Yesterday I painted the wall with iridescent colours and happy characters sprang to life…i remembered and wept for lost dreams-forgotten hopes-discarded letters that I had meant to write-felt called to write-never did write on the hearts of many.
I mourn for all the dreams that died-or faded to grey- mushy piles of faded often handled photographes.
[Boxed]
Without vision the heart is dulled. It no longer beats inside with passion. Hope. [sits boxed]
‘Restore our fortunes, oh, God for this is a desolate place.’ .
Greater grace now 