Random Writings

Two Sermons, Two Commands

2012-02-11T14:23:00.000-08:00

Two Sermons, Two Commands

My earthly father engraved his meticulous faith in my skinwith a sharp knife of doctrine.

Ordained and perfect, as my blood seeped.

It left a scar of remembrance.

I learned truth at an impressionable age.

You are wicked and saved by grace.

“Don’t let anyone teach you any different!”

I attempt to escape his handcuffs as a foreign pastorpreaches of a new form of truth.

Speaking of forgiveness, nurture, acceptance, blessing,freedom, and healing.

I run away from my father and listen to this heresy.

You are lovely and God sees your faith.

“Don’t let anyone teach you any different!”

I rummage through New and Old.

Read of Moses, Paul, Abraham, and Jesus.

“Respect your father and love your neighbor”

“Don’t let anyone teach you any different!”

I learned love at an impressionable age.

The Roles of a Son

2012-01-14T09:28:00.000-08:00

This is still a work in progress...

Her psychedelic eyes belong to His covenant community.
Her hair, dyed rainbow, does not disobey His ancientcommandments.
Our blood manifests diverse.
Our hearts pump distinctive.
Our calls erupt unalike.
Yet the Christians are one.

His posture is stoic and his minstrel monotone.
His tie is perfectly straight, and his hair sliced parallelto his forehead.
Our demeanor displays poles apart.
Our faces gaze toward different angles.
Our breath is thick or thin.
Yet the Christians are one.

Yeshua is between two condemned men, robbers and thieves.
He is the only one born sinless and must hold himself up, ifhe wishes to breathe.
The Son of God asks for forgiveness.
The Son of Man asks for forgiveness.
The Son asks for forgiveness.
And the Christians are one.

Who is Judas?

2012-01-06T12:59:00.000-08:00

Who is Judas?

I wait for my husband to fall asleep. I ascend the attic stairs. My King James Bible lays buried under a pile of retired college text books. My hand grazes the leather cover to remove the collected dust. I might offend God if I flip the golden-lined pages without reverence. I cautiously turn to the index. My finger scrolls the list of topics to find it, the name Judas.

***

An unshaven, obese man sets a Starbucks coffee on the courtesy counter. A cigarette lingers on his breath, and I politely mute my cough. He looks at me with peeked interest. I reposition my low-cut shirt closer to my neck. I instinctively smile because that is what a receptionist is paid to do.

“The coffee is for you,” he says.

An elderly lady in the waiting room pulls her purse to her chest. I see her pale blue eyes scrutinizing the man’s dress and judging his character by it. She places a handkerchief over her mouth. I attempt to say thank you to the man, but he hurriedly turns to leave. He leans into the door and disappears.

“I wouldn’t drink that coffee,” the elderly lady warns.

I heed her warning and go to the nearest restroom. The black liquid coats the sink’s white porcelain. I discover red lettering on the bottom of the cup: AFFAIR. I yank my hand away and spill coffee on my skirt. I hear the service bell ring multiple times. I shove the cup into the bottom of the trash, covering it with the used paper towels. I come out of the bathroom to see Dr. Line flirtatiously ringing the service bell.

“What terrible service,” he jests.

The elderly lady giggles. Dr. Line winks at her and her cheeks redden.

“I spilled coffee on my skirt.” I rush behind the courtesy desk and needlessly stack papers.

“Spilled coffee! That is a tragedy. We must remedy that. You must accompany me to Starbucks after my shift.”

“No!” I change to a whisper. “I have a husband.”

“That wasn’t an obstacle last night.”

“I was drunk. I was upset. You took advantage of the situation.”

“You stayed the entire night and woke up next to me. We had breakfast together.”

The elderly lady fidgets with her necklace, and her legs cross away from us. An elderly man comes around the corner. She grabs his arm, pulling him to the exit. He has to hold onto his John Deer hat, so it doesn’t fly off.

“Alone at last.” Dr. Line places his hand on the small of my back, and I pull away. He is genuinely surprised.

“Someone knows,” I say.

“No one knows, except that old lady.”

His beeper sounds, and he rushes down the hall. He doesn’t return before Kelly comes to replace me. My exhausted eyes fall on my cell phone: three text messages from my husband and one missed call from an unknown number. I have an unnerving thought that someone must be waiting for me at Starbucks with intentions of blackmail. I can either return home to my already suspicious husband or drink a pumpkin chai. I send my husband a short text: Starbucks run. I cautiously drive in the slushy conditions and pull into the Starbuck’s parking lot. The car idles, and I turn the heat to its highest level. The radio plays a rap song about drugs and sex. A love song plays next, and I rip the keys out of the ignition.

I truly expect to find the obese man sitting inside, drumming his fingers and reading a newspaper. The only customer is a female student with fashionable reading glasses sitting at a tall table. I order a pumpkin chai, and the chair’s black leather is soft against my skin. I pick up a newspaper to browse the headlines. I pretend to read the front page while I guess who could possibly know.

I hear the door open and close. A tall lady in a business suit enters, still talking on her cell phone. A little girl and boy follow behind her, fighting over a toy. She yells at them, but they don’t pay any attention. She is rude to the man behind the counter, and I start to wonder if there is any hope for humanity.

As the business woman is rushing out the door, she bumps into the obese man as he enters. She gives him a look of repulsion. She grabs her boy’s hand and rushes the two children out the door. The man orders a tall, black coffee and takes a swig before it has time to cool. He causally sits in the chair next to me.

“So my riddle wasn’t hard to follow. I wasn’t sure you’d figure it out.”

He takes the newspaper from me and browses the headlines. He makes himself comfortable.

“I rarely read the news anymore. Too much bad news,” he says.

“How did you find out?” I feel the need to justify myself. “It was only one time. I have never cheated on my husband before. I feel terrible. I will never cheat again.”

“Lady, I ain’t no priest. Confess to someone else.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Settle yourself. You don’t need to worry. We can work this out together. Your husband won’t find out as long as you are willing to help me.”

He leans in closer and hands me a picture of guy with blonde curls who is standing next to an attractive female.

“That girl. That’s my daughter. Her name is Aimee.”

“Who is the guy?”

“He’s the guy I am going to kill.”

I bite my lip. Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I reach for my purse. He grabs my arm.

“At least hear what I have to say. You would want to kill him too.”

I choose to listen. I hear a father, not a cold-blooded killer. My moral warnings are subdued, and I sit next to him like a therapist. He tells me about the blonde haired boy who breaks all the women’s hearts. That was forgivable, but not the rape. We conspire for the next hour.

“I ain’t a professional killer, but I hunt deer. I can aim. I won’t miss, but I need you to reassure him. The blondie is a fighter and he is too confident. If he thinks he’s going to die, he’ll fight. He’ll survive.” The father’s voice is bitter and callous.

“All I have to do is reassure him?”

“You won’t be pulling the trigger.”

“All I have to do is reassure him?”

“No blood on your hands, just a few white lies.”

***

I meet Alex in a shady bar that smells more of body odor than beer. He is wearing a college football jersey, but he informs me it actually belongs to his older brother. I tell him I like his blond curls and his favorite baseball team. He leans in closer to tell me he has never met a female surgeon before. He touches my left hand and wants to know how skilled I am. I tell him I have worked on fifteen gun wounds. We have a few drinks and this encourages his advances. I lure him into the alley, and we hear the shot. For a moment, I fear the man missed Alex and hit me. The warm blood covers my hands. Alex hits the pavement.

He lets out a strained laugh. “Must be fate. I get shot and I have a surgeon by my side.”

I cover the wound with a cloth, but I don’t press hard enough. I pretend to dial 911 and fake a conversation.

“The ambulance is on its way. You are going to make it.”

He rests his head on my shoulder and his arms go limp.

“It doesn’t even hurt.”

“That is normal. You’re going into shock.”

“I am bleeding all over the place.”

“You would be surprised how much blood you have in your body. You can lose tons of blood and it won’t kill you. The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. You will be fine.”

“I can’t get over my luck. I get shot and I have a surgeon…a surgeon.” His chest rises one more time and never again. I call 911. The ambulance arrives. I tell them I heard a shot, but never saw anyone. They question me, but aren’t suspicious. When they release me, all I can think about is seeing my husband.

I arrive home, my clothes still stained with blood. I stumble through the doorway and see our dining room table has two recently lit candles. Fancy maroon napkins are elegantly resting on our best dishware. Romantic music is playing and Greg is wearing a suit. He drops the lilies in his hands and rushes to my side.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

I tell him I witnessed a shooting. I tell him the boy died in my arms. I see a more determined love in his eyes. He embraces me.

“I am so glad you aren’t hurt. Next time call me. I am so glad you are still alive.”

I rationalize that this kid’s death has brought us closer together. Alex may have saved our marriage. Greg tells me he loves me and then kisses me on the cheek.

Near

2012-01-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

The length from heaven to earth
is shorter than my porch step.
He's coming soon!
Riding on a white horse
whose stride is wider than the ocean.
His voice is faster than time.
He's coming soon!
The gladness of His heart is revealed
on the day of His wedding.
He's nearer than you know.
He's Emmanuel.
He's the Holy Spirit.

A Foolish Creation

2011-12-14T13:33:00.000-08:00

The sun gossips.

I eavesdropped to hear this scorchingvixen say,
“Earth’s inhabitants and the catastrophe!”
“They are wild and insignificant.”
“They are unfortunate and withoutfire.”
“They will not last.”

She is cruel and relentless in herhushed speech.

She secretly hates them with lava heat.

The sun pleasurably listens to the moon’s scandalous talk.

"These beings are infinitesimal and the ugliest of art.”

“They are foolish and ephemeral.”

“They don’t know their insignificance.”

These two globes are a pair of conspirators.

A pair of cataclysmic companions who know our final day.

The stars listen to this intrigue.

They say very little in our defense.
They are enthralled spectators in this cosmos conversation.

Suddenly, the greater universe breaks into the conversationto say,

“Sun, you are lonely because you will never know love.”
“Moon, you have nothing to hold.”
“Stars, you are spineless and cold.”
“These humans are His and you have been fooled.”

Indecipherable

2011-10-05T03:02:00.000-07:00

I stand on a precipice. I scrutinize the valley lingering beneath. I see a creek, like a snake, slithering through a gathering of foliage. This valley is a mixture of mud and seeds that are broken.

The wind sneaks up behind me, a gentle breeze. Why this worthless and fragile breeze, when I could have violence? I hear the flapping of the skirt of my dress. It sounds like a violin played by an armature.

I look at the horizon and there is no sun. The sky is melancholy and the air smells of cinnamon. Rather, it smells like autumn leaves and reminds me of cinnamon. I step closer to the edge to drink in sudden adrenaline. The wind builds, matching my daring move.

The wind carries a hum of voices. They are too calm to be distinguished. I wait for them to exchange discretion for boldness. I strain to make sense of: “She should jump.” “She might enjoy the plummet.” “She shouldn’t. It could kill her.” “We will catch her.”

I step off the edge to fly with gravity. This is not suicide; it is an experiment. The valley draws near, and I remember the little snake creek. How it moved along a God given path, restrained to a carved ground. As I hit the soft earth, I feel nothing.

My psychiatrist taps her black ballpoint pen to a foreign beat. I am in a room, not outside. “We will start you on…” I hear words of wind like “paranoia” and “psychotic break”. She hands me a script with undecipherable language. I recognize one word, her name, Bonnie. Suddenly, she is the sun and the cinnamon.

Powerless

2011-07-15T15:21:00.000-07:00

This fire of rebellion rests under my tough skin.
I can't live in that supernatural bliss of sinless.
I bare my teeth, but childhood Bible lessons stop the bite.
I want to rage like a lion, but sing like a canary.
My blood is liquid vengence with draining forgiveness.
I can't give you a "pick up your mat and walk" sermon.
I can only tell you I am powerless.

Performance

2011-07-01T16:50:00.000-07:00

Emotions dance on my playbill.
They appear on a stage of paper.

Expectation rises and tickets are sold.

Miss actress, present these sensations and dress them up.

Color them to the tune of makeup.

The audience waits for the curtain to open and the soul to perform.

The masterpiece is given. Listen to the applause roar.

As always the set is dismantled, just as it was constructed.

The spotlight shines for the monologue and goes black at the closing.

The auditorium is bare.

And still I feel like my soul lies there, just as Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar.

Enduring Envy

2011-06-05T13:23:00.000-07:00

I want to be you
with your
honeyed hair, your diplomatic laugh, and your anorexic advantage.
with your
clear completion, your well-trimmed nails, and your practiced posture.
with your
clever conversation, your unblemished health, and your cost-effective job.
with your
quixotic death, your final breath, and your remaining ash.

My Smile

2011-06-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

My smile is overproduced and cheap.

a simple muscle lift with a buoyant chuckle suppressed.
a calm, universal, prosaic rainbow, too weak to revolve upright.
a polite gesture while my soul drowns in insecurity.

A production, a curtain, and silent applause.
Lazy love, my smile is lazy love.

Broken God

2011-05-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

A stranger once told me your name was Allah.
I spoke with a close friend and she warned me it was actually Yaweh.
I went to my dad and he instructed that your name was Jesus.
I read an epic tale about Zeus.
I spoke to myself and wondered about Confucius.
This mixture is forming a broken god.

Perception War

2011-05-04T16:28:00.000-07:00

The question of another world suppressed by civil society.
Spiders, the demons, and the grandiosity.

Eyes pierce through the common air
to unravel what was hidden there.
A delusion or a discovery?
A hallucination or the holocaust of the unknown?

Perception is weighed on the ordinary scale
schizophrenic or sane, acceptable or not, wanted or worthless, beneficial or burned till ash.

Let the world decide what is productive and what is inappropriate.
Let the other world decide to force the warning on those unelightened eyes.
An invisible war.

Final Abortion

2011-03-24T17:54:00.000-07:00

I am locked away in her flesh,
a womb of ending.
She brought me forth,
but not with intent.

I dare not call her Mommy.
Assassin is more suitable.
Her eyes are bleached.
I have her bleached eyes, I inherit these.

I encounter
the professionalism of his plastic gloves,
he pulls and cuts and replies,

“It is finished.”

Piano's Soul

2011-03-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

You are black and you are white.
I run my fingers across you.
I remember our first love affair.
Piano, you ghost.
Piano, you demon.
You have such potential and you still collect dust.

You are black and you are white.
I pound on your fragile state.
I force a sound out of ivory and hidden strings.
Piano, you beast.
Piano, you ox.
You do what I tell you, whenever I want.

You are black and you are white.
I will leave you to soak in silence.
I will laugh at your soul, which I give and take.
Piano, you treasure.
Piano, you bed.
I will long for you another day.

Awakened

2011-03-24T17:25:00.000-07:00

I start in the illusive wonder-
will He come?
I stare at the ceiling, wishing it was a night sky with violent stars.
I wrap my fingers, like a child is taught.
I try to wispher, but fear the God of heaven can't hear.
So I yell,
I scream,
I pound,
and I wake myself up to a hidden reality.
He is resting inside me.

For

2011-03-22T16:19:00.001-07:00

These words are not destined for men's lips.
These words are not made for women's fancy ears.
These words are not created for you or the other.
These words are not even sold for me.
These words are for

Elder Anger

2011-03-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

There is a beast that roams my town.
During all our gossip and hometown games,
there is a man in the bleachers unwilling to grow old.

He sneers at the cheerleaders for their provocative innocence.
He disgraces the point guard when he misses the easy shot.
He hates the fans who paint letters on their shirts.
He disagrees with the referee's call.
He considers yelling at the top of his lungs
and telling the world to go to hell.

Because with all the hype, he still loses his wife
to old age.
However, to know his soul,
you must be white and play ball.

Abrubtly, a cheerleader shoots a three pointer.
She fails to see the old man (on the bleachers) who hates the world.
Her flirty stare grows as the crowd cheers.
It will kill his wisdom,
remind him of a wife lost.

I Have Teeth

2011-03-14T16:02:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the series Twilight

I have teeth.
They broke the gum when I was young.

Now they bite and rattle when I laugh.
They are white until browned by time.

I have teeth
to eat food
to tear
to manipulate my voice.

I have teeth: baby, sharp, wisdom.
I have teeth that bite and draw blood.

They start white and then fall out.

Nature, How You Fool

2011-03-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

How you tempt us nature; how you laugh.

How you toss the soul; how you cover the grass.
Winter covers the intelligence of fertile fields and men's graves.
This fickle miracle, we have immortalized dirt.

How we worship you as a god
while you, the predator, drown us.

Nature you are against man,
or is it the nature of man to destroy?

Who is the King?
Who is the Queen?
Who is nature’s heir?

America's Freedom

2011-03-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

I have the freedom to vote, but not the freedom to be a couch potato.
I have the freedom to worship as I please, but I can't hate my neighbor.
I have the freedom to be a good Samaritan, but not the freedom to eat that apple.
I have the freedom to eat food...as long as it is healthy.
I have the freedom to drive...as long as I can pay for gas.
I have the freedom to be inspired by Obama.
I have the freedom to be a patriot, so I miss President Gorge W Bush,
wishing he was our current dictator.

The Power of Choice: A Short Story

2011-03-08T09:35:00.000-08:00

The Power of a Choice

Copyright 2010 Tamara Peachy

As the money floated down to the bottom of the wishing fountain, I marveled that my baby girl already had aspirations. She was only three, but still genuine expectancy radiated from her confident smile. She had a secret wish tucked in her heart and believed in her two magical pennies.
Beads of water dripped from her blonde curls. She splashed the water with her delicate hand. Her laughter seemed to bounce off the water and amplify. Several other children were tossing pennies into the fountain. Their youthful excitement was great entertainment.

A thunderous truck engine interrupted the children’s sweet voices. I glanced behind me to see the man driving the truck. Judging from his expression, I assumed he was lost. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him over the engine.

I lifted Sadie onto my hip. She nestled her head into my shoulder. Her grip tightened around my neck.

“It’s alright Sadie. Mommy is going to help this nice man.”

I reached the truck and lowered Sadie to the ground. She whimpered and wrapped her miniature arms around my right leg. I patted her soft curls and tried to reassure her with a motherly smile. Sadie’s eyes shifted toward the driver and grew in speculation. The driver’s expression tightened as he looked me up and down.

“Sorry to bother you ma’am. I am looking for Wade Road. I can’t find it.”

“Wade Road? I don’t think I know that road. I have lived here in Midland, Texas for awhile, but I don’t recall a Wade Road,” I answered truthfully.

I noticed a skinny, red-haired man sitting in the passenger seat. He didn’t acknowledge me; he only stared straight ahead. I returned my gaze to the driver. His eyes were blood-shot, and his black hair was greasy and disheveled.

Suddenly, the man opened his driver-side door, knocking me to the ground. I hit the pavement hard, scrapping my back. I heard the truck door slam and then heard the wheels peel.

“Sadie,” I called.

No answer.

…………………
The phone rang. It startled me, but Warren was a rock and refused to be intimidated. He insisted he should be the one to negotiate with the kidnappers. Warren approached the phone like a soldier. His chest was high, his shoulders tense, and his walk had a noticeable rhythm.

“Hello, this is the Byus’s residence.”

Warren’s eyes darted my way. His facial expression confirmed that these vial men finally made contact. Warren was convinced I was too emotional to handle the situation. I leaned in to hear the conversation.

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Warren said into the phone.

My brave husband shook his head and dropped his chin. He sighed deeply and extended the phone to me. I tried to take hold of it, suddenly realizing my body was paralyzed by fear and grief.

“He wishes to speak to you only. I think we should do whatever he asks. Tell him I am willing to give him anything he wants,” Warren said this while tenderly placing the receiver into my hand.

I looked into my husband’s eyes, hoping his composure and strength would enter my troubled heart. The receiver felt cold in my hand. I raised it to my ear and heard the kidnapper’s faint breath.

“This is Emily Byus. We have money saved. We will give you whatever you want. We just want our Sadie back.”

“Dr. Byus, Dr. Emily Byus. Money is not our concern. Our ransom will be a unique request. One I hope you will be eager to pay.”

The man’s voice was methodical, each word deliberate, and of a low register. I knew he couldn’t be either of the men I saw the day of the kidnapping. He was the organizer, the leader…the faceless enemy.

My mind started to race. I tried to unravel what his motivations could be for kidnapping Sadie. I had money; I was willing to give him every last cent. My heartbeat quickened as I realized this kidnapper wouldn’t be swayed by a large bag of cash. Facing an unknown bargaining price made my palm’s sweat.

“Dr. Byus, do you know how many abortions are performed in America on an average day? You work in an abortion clinic; I assume you know this statistic,” the kidnapper asked.

My eyelids flinched, and my mouth suddenly went dry. This voice belonged to a radical Christian, an intolerant conservative, or some pro-life extremist. I knew working at the clinic was dangerous, but I never expected anyone would kidnap Sadie on account of my career choice. My mind was envisioning various violent scenarios, and I completely forgot I was having a conversation with the kidnapper.

“Dr. Byus? Are you still there? Do you know the answer to my question?”

“Yes, I know the statistic. Approximately 3,700 abortions are performed each day in our nation.”

“Good. I am glad you are educated on this matter. Now, do you consider this number to be acceptable and reasonable?”

“Yes, considering we have almost three million people living in the US alone. This is a small percentage, and the abortion rate is declining. But, I fail to see how this relates to getting my daughter back. Please don’t hurt her.”

“Since you consider 3,700 abortions per day to be a reasonable and acceptable number, I have concluded the ransom for Sadie will be 3,700 babies a day. If you fail to bring us 3,700 babies in twenty-four hours, the ransom will double to 7,400 babies. It will continue to increase every twenty-four hours until you pay the amount.”

“You know I can’t possibly give you 3,700 babies in twenty-four hours. I couldn’t give you 3,700 babies, even if I had a lifetime. We have money; we are willing to pay you anything.”

“I don’t need money, Dr. Byus. Don’t be so modest. We both know you have the power over life and death. You decide if babies will live or die. You have the power of choice. If you can choose to abort a baby, surely you can choose to create one as well.” After that condescending statement, the kidnapper hung up.

I dropped the phone receiver in the dark atmosphere of grief. I sank to my knees and knew I would never see Sadie again. The man was psychotic, a dangerous intellectual, and a serious activist. Warren embraced me from behind and kissed the back of my head.

Warren witnessed a protester threatening to cut out a doctor’s eyes. According to the protester, the doctor was already spiritually blind; he might as well be physically blind. After that incident, Warren told me he would understand if I quit.

“Emily, sweetheart. What is the ransom? Don’t worry. We’ll pay it. Whatever it is, we’ll pay it,” Warren said trying to reassure me.

“Warren…they don’t…they don’t want money,” I said between gasps of air.

“What do they want?”

“They are pro-life! They are using my precious Sadie to make a cheap political statement.”

…………………
Three days had passed since the first phone call. We sent out an Amber alert, conducted dog hunts, and plastered sketches of the two men all over our town. The ransom was now $11,100 babies. I collapsed on the living room couch in defeat.

I kept envisioning the day of the kidnapping, the wishing fountain particularly. The two pennies hit the surface of the water, making a little splash. Then those two pennies were tossed by the current, only to come to the bottom for their final rest. Sadie believed in her magical pennies. The wish in my heart was Sadie’s safety. Two pennies wouldn’t suffice now, no amount of money would.

The phone rang.

Warren was speaking with the sheriff at the station; I went to answer.

“Hello, Byus’s residence.”

“Dr. Byus, I haven’t received my payment.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t give you what you want. If I could, you would have it in your possession right now.”

“Well maybe, we can renegotiate,” he said with a businessman-like tone.

I felt relief. My eyes were burning from past tears; nevertheless, the kidnapper’s desire for renegotiation helped ease the tightness in my chest. I straightened my shoulders, hopeful to gain some control of the situation. I was hoping he was in the mood to be gracious.

“Instead of 11,100 babies, I can simply take one. Just one. Sadie. That seems reasonable.”

My childish hope died.

“Please, give my Sadie back,” I begged.

The kidnapper laughed sadistically. He took pleasure in my pain.

“Doctor Byus, you seem to underestimate the power of a choice. Truth is relative, isn’t it? Morality should never be forced on anyone, including kidnappers. Keeping Sadie is convenient for me. I rather like your little girl. I choose to keep her.”

Then I Was Happy

2011-03-06T07:36:00.000-08:00

He told me to wear sexy shorts to show my legs.
Then he had his way with me and left me alone.
Then I moved in with a family who believed women must dress modestly.
So I wore those skirts until the family found another sin to correct.

My doctor told me to exercise to lose those unwanted pounds.
So I ran and ran on that treadmill till I the sweat came and I couldn't breathe.
My doctor looked me up and down.
He told me I had anorexia and looked like bony death.

I got angry at the world
until the church told me to forgive.
Then I was happy
and going to hell.

What Way

2011-03-04T16:47:00.000-08:00

One way.
The only way.
Go this way.
What way?
the only way.
Far Away.

Beautiful Women

2011-03-04T12:56:00.001-08:00

Beautiful women smell like cat urine and stinky feet.

Beautiful women have dead ends and bushy eyebrows.

Hindered by their angry dads and lunatic moms,
beautiful women are being thrown in the trash
because the bills were stacking up.

After all, beautiful women cost of
baths, jewelry, curled hair, contacts, surgery, and laxatives.

The Two Voices in Time

2011-03-03T11:15:00.000-08:00

There were times when I worried about wasting time.
I felt the teacher slap my hand with a ruler.
I heard how to live my life.
There were times when the teacher told me to write my name on the chalkboard.

"But, I am an angel, teacher. I would never do something wrong,” I said.
"Well, Satan was an angel too, little girl,” teacher said.

There is a time when I hate the world.
I curse it with my tongue and kick the dirt beneath me.
There is a time when I color in the lines.
There is a time I fear being wrong.

"But, I just want to love you for who you are,” I sing.

"You can't trust everyone or you might fall,” they sing.

There will be a time when He returns.
He will smile at me and slap my wrist.
He will bring us together and tear us apart.

"I will attend church this Sunday," I promise.

"I may return on a Monday," he tempts.

Out There

2011-03-03T10:59:00.000-08:00

Are you out there person number 3 in 1?
Are you as beautiful as what I saw in my dreams?
Are you out there, leading me to the truth?
Are you coming to save me from my little room?

Spirit, will you continue to run from this broken heart,
the heart that wants you all to herself?

If I hide long enough, will I know you more:
the timid one who doesn't speak; the one who never cries out?
I can't entertain or change you.
I can't create or find you.
I will desire you.

Breathe

2011-03-03T10:43:00.000-08:00

I can breathe the air of winter as my fingers cool.

I can breathe the air of spring with all those flowers and allergies.

I can exhale the air of autumn when the ground prepares for falling leaves.

I can exhale the air of summer when it is full of heat.

But, I have yet to breathe your air as you exhale.

I have yet to kiss those lips, fragile and timid.

I have yet to touch your fingers and hear you whisper my name.

If I believe the seasons of God's creation

I know I never will.

Grace

2011-02-27T14:20:00.000-08:00

When does grace come?
when we want it to come?
When it is Suppose to come?
When there are no other options? No, grace never leaves.

Drummer Boy

2011-02-27T05:54:00.000-08:00

I don't want to give you my stupid drum.
I don't think it is worth anything.
It beats
It hurts the skin.
Jesus, something better than a drum
better than a manger.
I can't give you a drum,
I must give you my heart.

Marriage

2011-02-24T14:40:00.001-08:00

Random ring, tossed to the sky.
If you teache me, I will follow.
If you lead me, I will follow.

If you need Me, don't look anywhere else.

Protect and Serve

2011-02-22T13:21:00.000-08:00

Michael, archangel, is she protected?
"Israel, you need not fear
for God knows nothing of divorce."

Tamara, little girl, is Israel in need?
"Israel, if I could save you, I would,
but God knows nothing of death.

Gabriel, sidekick,
save the church from all her atrocities,
for God knows nothing of division.

Bad Company

2011-02-22T12:11:00.000-08:00

Bad Company:
dirty, smelly, proud, hicks, smokers, and drinkers.
Bad Company:
short, slow, overwhelmed, nervous, weird.
Bad Company:
poor, annoying, talkative, hopeful.
I am bad company.

Insane

2011-02-21T18:22:00.000-08:00

Jesus, they said you had a demon.
Jesus, they said you hung out with the wrong people.
Jesus, they say you were the Bread of Life.
Jesus, they say your thoughts are worth listening tooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Who are they?

Ha RELM

2011-02-21T18:18:00.000-08:00

I laugh at the current realm.
It seems far from Martin's dream.
Ha Ha Ha, I laugh at this realm.

I never lived then,
but Langston Hughes did.

Obligated to back him up and fight his battle.
Harlem, I never touched you.
Martin, never shook your hand.
Lincoln, I am not your man.
I am simply a girl trying to understand generations of war and peace.

To Tall

2011-02-21T18:09:00.000-08:00

On the floor, silent.
Playing a game, I can't reach the net.
That hoop is high above, almost to the clouds.
But, I keep dreaming like my black brothers

whom I never met when I believed your words: "You aren't tall enough".

Feb 21, 2011 9:08pm

Orphan

2011-02-20T14:09:00.000-08:00

All these children    alone
All these children    reserved
All these children     ready to move on from the brokenness and the loneliness.

She is ugly
She is creepy
She is old
She is an orphan at the age of thirty.

Broken Record

2011-02-19T17:22:00.001-08:00

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

I don't want to love him.

I don't want to love him.

They don't want me to love him.

They don't want me to love him.

They give me drugs to kill the pain and rejection

and then I hallucinate that he is with me.

I am a broken record.

Hurt

2011-02-18T15:36:00.000-08:00

       it took some time
to heal.
              it took some time
to forgive.
                     it took some time
     to listen.
                          it took some time
                   to see.

Sometimes we are together.

Stealing My Soul

2011-02-18T09:35:00.001-08:00

You hear my words and don't pay a dime.
You criticize my charity tendencies.
You read and you leave my fellow writers in the dark.
Stealing our soul.
I can't gain the whole world,
so do continue please.

Paul, What About?

2011-02-17T08:14:00.001-08:00

Paul, what about circumcision?
Paul, what about snakes?
Paul, what about generations?
Paul, what about mistakes?
Paul, what about persecution?
Paul, who was Jesus
and did he really come to save?
Paul, what about mercy?
Paul, what about judgement?

Paul, what about you?

Who We Are

2011-02-16T14:55:00.000-08:00

Who we are
what we say
who we are
what we serve
Who we are
We Rarely Know:
THE HOLY SPIRIT never opens his mouth.

Mother and Pancakes

2011-02-16T10:57:00.000-08:00

I woke up Sunday morning,
my dad and sister made pancakes for the family.
My brother was impressed,
my eldest sister wasn't home.
I don't much like pancakes, I told my family.
"They are too flat."
"They are too circular."

she stayed home
The church couldn't help her.
The hospital couldn't help her.
The world couldn't help her.
I passed on the pancakes, so I could help her.
She was hungry.

Yes, No, Maybe

2011-02-16T09:36:00.000-08:00

Are you God?
Yes
Am I You?
No
Do you answer my questions in eternity?
Maybe

Freedom

2011-02-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

Christ, are you ready to let me go?
Christ, do you stil seek me like when I was a child?
Christ, are you still near when I am far away.
When the flames come closer.
When the night cools the breeze.
Christ, will you save me
or would it be better to save Yourself from me?

In That Country

2011-02-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

Shy na?
Shy na?
R u china
you Chinese or Japanese
are you a bomb or are you a new birth.
Is that dangerous to talk about it?
I don't mean to be scared
but my parents were...
Shy na?
Are you shy na?
Om or Oh no!

Drinking

2011-02-13T17:27:00.001-08:00

Thirst

Writing and The Woods

2011-02-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

I am an easy writer.
I am on my couch, falling in love with keys.
But, behind every good computer is a good creator.
So I run from all the technology to find a slave... I seek paper.
However, those trees lose their leaves when winter comes.
SO I RETURN.
I look for solace in the face of my dad.
But, again my mother felt the back of his hand.
So, I run to paper to bring him to court.
But, that gavel is also made of wood.

Eye On U

2011-02-13T12:19:00.000-08:00

Who? They put an EYE on me.
What, they put an EYE on me?
Where they put an EYE on me.
When they put a EYE on me.
Why do i still have two eyes?
How did they put an EYE on you?

Poe Etry

2011-02-13T03:20:00.000-08:00

Poe you were remembered for yur dark, eccentric.
Emily, you were remembered for those things they didn't see or remember
Shakespeare, you were remembered (needd I say more)
Elliot, never read your stuff and forgot your first name.
Tamara, Tammy, Tam Tam, Tomorrow
Will you remembermy true Name.

Random

2011-02-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

Who do you belong to
RANDOM
Who do you go to
RANDOM
What will happen next
SOMETHING
What will take me where I want to go
RANDOM
Who do I belong to
RANDOM
he's greater

A Doll

2011-02-12T17:03:00.000-08:00

A Doll
She is fine when she works
But I don’t much care for her when she doesn’t
Bend or break.
But, I am a doll myself
A Barbie Doll Ken.
So who was the manufacturer
and HIS or her work?

Black Out

2011-02-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

This list of life is long and personal. It is sacred and insightful. It inspires and it challenges. It is important and necessary. It is wanting the best and seeking the pure.

Now I realize my words are shortened and quick: less pensive and detailed. I care for those who need the truth, but fear they will mishandle it.

Blackout or no black out?

Him and him

2011-02-10T07:53:00.001-08:00

How do I decide, if the meds...
How do i decide, if the medication...

Love is here, if the meds...
love is here, if the medication...

Perfect is here, if the meds...
perfect is there, if the medications told me to.

Wait

2011-02-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

When we wait
we lose
when we sing
we lose
when we eat
we eat.

IN

2011-02-07T14:42:00.001-08:00

Intimidation
In the end
In the beginning
In the process
of becoming a writer.
In the time
Inspiration.

Hunger

2011-01-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

My queen is a lioness
My king is gentle
My words exploit
And they conceal.
Problem with love is
It has been taken from me.
We stoned a woman and put a man on a cross.
Violence is ingrained in our lives
And I still eat my milk and honey.

Life In My Opinion

2011-01-11T10:04:00.000-08:00

Life I can't translate it.
Life I can't translate it.
Life I can't have it.

Him

2011-01-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

COME ALONG
-Do I come along or do I remain alone.
-Do I stay connected or do I run from
-Do I need a computer to find my love
-Do I need a Christian to tell me what is real
-Maybe I wasn’t even looking, even though I thought I could search
-because when I see His beauty it hurts and then is beautiful
-What stopped me again
-Him
-Him
-Him
You think you are searching for Him
and then you find me and the rest of us.
Unity is a breath of fresh air if you breath.

Gambling in Water

2011-01-07T17:44:00.000-08:00

I linger in a submerged stance just to know the gasping breath above.
A glory hold, stays below, and then intently comes forward-as if giving birth.
The rush of safety- only by possible death.
The body paralyzed, the body alert, the eyes tense…
Will the light beckon me upward, as before?
The lungs beneath dependent on thin lips.

I come above the azure surface layer.
I breathe as if it will never occur again.
As life continues, I forget I am breathing
till I return to test my limits yet again.

The Technology Inside Me

2011-01-07T11:36:00.000-08:00

I see you peering at my screen
As the electricity is entering my fingers through a keyboard of lust
the next rage, the plan’s next step, the “the” and how we define it.
a race against the clock, tick took off the tock.
Come be a rapper or sing a melody.
With all this twitter, I am losing the true me. I love and hate technology.
Spell check told me to change and I lost me again and again and it will happen again.
Writing and burning, writing and burning, lust and how I am returning.

My Book come from a Culture?

2011-01-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Here we are, here we are.
running away from the darkness....
and here it comes, running after us....
looking for revival and deliverance.
And the power of God comes to come.

Peace I come for peace
sinking into a water
coming back up to come.

Culture coming down into her
for her to go to a culture...

MY grave

2010-11-29T19:25:00.000-08:00

I read some poetry by Emily Dickinson. She wrote about death and criticized society. It inspired me to write a poem dealing with both death and society. Here is that attempt.

MY grave

I am waiting in my ornate box-
waiting for what seems like eternity.
Death advised me to rest here while he ventured to all the now living.

In life,
Some sought to avoid me,
Some sought to change me,
Some sought to flatter me,
Some never heard of me.
But it all seems silly now,
for they will all join me.
Yes, even in death I have continued my superiority.

No Need To Yell

2010-09-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

In the wilderness of solitude,
we hear nothing,
not a voice.
Or rather we perceive her not.
We name her, Silence.
This mute vastness,
this expanse of speechless,
this vixen without a tongue.

I break her while I yell,
“No, not a vixen! Merely a stranger who need not yell.”

Jerusalem and Her Creator

2010-08-31T15:20:00.000-07:00

I read a poem entitled "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg for my Critical Literature class. It gave me the desire to write a poem about Jerusalem. Here is that poem:

Western Wall
Garden of Gethsemane
Dome of the Rock

They wear the ceremonial garb and display the law as a treasure.
They walk through the streets with crosses on their backs.
They bow down five times a day.
We admit these three cultures fight, gnarl, and bite.
They breathe the same air: his breath is hot, his is cold, and his is lukewarm.
Israel, they fight day and night with words and philosophies.
But, the trees are in bloom and the blue sky is one color.
The dirt streets are not partial to sandals, sneakers, or bare feet.

They may be divided, but the earth beneath them sings of One Creator.

In Me

2010-07-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

He is
not contained by my words,
not formed by my hands,
not dependent on my strength,
not shaken by my failure,
not far off.
He sits at the right hand of God, yet seeks residence within me.

Burn Everything

2010-07-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

Here I am, releasing the tension of my firm grip.
I leave my little, lifeless deities in jealous hands, the creative hands that made me.
My ache belongs on the altar along with these sacrifices.
Why do I weep when I lie down my treasures and crowns?
Take them! I don’t want such to selfishly return.
These craved idols are dead, worthless, and my enemies.

Stubborn child, you cannot end these riches with this violent fire while you embrace them with your rebellious heart.

Burn the fragments that remain, make them ash…
less than ash, make them a barren womb.

Recycle- Short Story

2010-05-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

Recycle
By Tamara Peachy
Crushing the can and tossing it into my recycling pile was a mundane task. Like most men, I wasn’t a good housekeeper. I had no motivation to go to the Recycling Center that afternoon. Unfortunately, my back porch was avalanching in empty cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and foul-smelling milk cartons. I had no clue this hated chore would initiate my first conversation with the most attractive female in Ashland, Kentucky.

My rusty Ford pickup was on its last leg. I wondered if the mounds of garbage resting in the truck bed would be too much for my dying vehicle. It sputtered and snarled at me, but it survived another trip.

To open my driver-side door, I had to thrust all my body weight against the inside. The door didn’t give way until my fourth attempt. My shoulder was now accustomed to this maneuver and was immune to the pain.

Before I had time to lift the first box out of my truck bed, I heard glass shattering in the distance. I left the boxes in my truck and followed the sound. It led me to her.

She was violently throwing beer bottles into the bin for the glass recyclables. She launched one bottle at a time, watching each one shatter against the inside wall.

She had her dirty-blond hair strung up in a ratty ponytail. Escaping strands were covering her face. She brushed them away with her hand, only to have them fall in her face again.

I wasn’t sure if approaching her was the best option. She was obviously expressing anger with those beer bottles; I didn’t know what she would do to me. Instead of coming closer, I decided to start up a conversation at a safe distance.

“Ma’am, I don’t think you are supposed to throw the glass into the container,”
“Oh? Who are you, the recycling police?”
“Well, as a matter a fact, I am,” I said in jest.

She didn’t get my joke. Her hazel eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way to escape. I tried to keep my face firm, but I couldn’t contain myself and started to laugh. She gave me a look of disgust.

“You think you’re funny?”
“No, but at least I’m not a safety hazard. Throwing glass is dangerous. Shouldn’t your boyfriend be helping you with those recyclables?” I looked around for her possible soul-mate.

“I recycled my last boyfriend,” she said. “I threw him away, so someone else could use him.”
“Then you’re single?”
“Yes,” she said while throwing another beer bottle against the bin’s wall.
“Stop throwing those bottles. You’re going to hurt yourself,” I said while inching a little closer.

She prepared to throw another bottle, I assumed for the pure pleasure of being rebellious. I was instantly glad she rebelled because it gave me an opportunity to take a hold of her freckled arm.
She fought me, but I was quick enough to grab the bottle from her grip. I released her arm, and she went to the bin and began kicking the side. She paused for a moment to look up at the sky. Her expression was vengeful, and she shouted toward the clouds.

“You made white trash! I’m trash, plain white trash,” she yelled at her Maker.

I knew something or someone had made her extremely upset. Even my presence, the presence of a complete stranger, failed to restrain her rage. My curiosity was piqued; I felt an unfamiliar force of attraction. Her anger, her freedom, and her rage were captivating.

“Trash! Do you hear me! You trapped me here in Kentucky!” she continued to yell.
“You’re not trash.”

She didn’t act as if she had even heard me. Apparently, she had a vendetta with her Maker. She kicked the bin one last time. She breathed in heavily and yanked out her hair band, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders.

“Those beer bottles, so many beer bottles,” she said with a hint of regret.
“That doesn’t make you trash,” I said.
“What about these daisy dukes I’m wearing? Surely these qualify me.”
“No, that doesn’t make you trash either,” I said.
She pulled her t-shirt sleeve up to reveal a red rose tattoo with the words “Hot Mama” on her shoulder. She wanted to win this argument.
“Nope, still not trash,” I said.
“Yeah, well, what would you know about it?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” I said without even thinking.
Her eyes narrowed, and she grimaced.
“Yeah, sure, how many other ugly women have you told that to? You look desperate enough. You must be like thirty and still single,” she said, while looking me up and down.
“Thirty-one and still single,” I corrected.

Without permission, I grabbed her box of beer bottles and dumped them in the bin. Now she didn’t have any ammunition. She seemed to appreciate my help for a passing moment, but didn’t let that appreciation rest on her face for too long. Her cell phone started ringing; the ringtone was the song “How Far?” by Martina McBride.

She answered it and began yelling at someone I assumed to be her father. The conversation didn’t last long, and I think she hung up before he was finished talking. Her angry expression was replaced with a look of defeat.

“My dad’s not coming. He said he would run a few errands and then come back. He changed his mind.”

Her eyes gave her away. She wanted to ask for a ride, but pride stopped her from asking.

“Well, I have a pathetic excuse for a truck. I can’t guarantee it won’t die before we get you home, but I’ll give you a ride.”

After we put all the recyclables in their designated places, I wrestled with the errant door, and we climbed into my truck. She looked like she belonged there in my passenger seat. She manually rolled down the window and placed her pale hand on the top of the roof. She only turned to look at me when she was giving directions. It was a fifteen-minute drive filled with silence.

We reached our destination. You might be a red neck if your house looked anything like this girl’s house. She was trapped living in the stereotypical white-trash house with a stereotypical calloused father.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as she opened the truck’s door.
I immediately turned off the engine. The exhaust’s odor was suffocating, and I was already low on gas.

“You do realize I know where you live now. I might be tempted to visit you on occasion,” I said.

There was a German shepherd tied up in the front lawn, and he began barking. The dog bounced back and forth. I couldn’t tell if he was happy to see his owner or angry I had came with her.
“Shut up, dog,” she said to scold. The dog didn’t stop barking.

“See you tomorrow then?” I asked.
“You must be awful desperate,” she said.
“You really think you’re trash? Who told you that lie?”
“It isn’t a lie. Look where I live!”

I took in the unpleasant scenery. Various car parts were scattered around the yard. A broken toilet stool rested on the trunk of a maple tree. A green and white striped awning with a rip hung over the entrance, and there was a foot-long crack in one of the front windows. Two plastic flamingos were planted next to a flower pot with no flowers. The air smelled of stale beer and wet dog.

My gaze returned to the blonde lingering at my truck door. She watched my face for a reaction to the landscape. I placed both hands on my steering wheel and looked forward. I went to turn the ignition, but hesitated.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” I said.
“You certainly are desperate or maybe just crazy,” she said as she closed the passenger door.

She sauntered up the sidewalk. At that moment, I didn’t see the car parts, the toilet bowl, or the crack in the window. I locked my gaze on her slender frame as she walked toward the screen door.

She paused for a moment and slightly turned to look if I was still at the curb. I waved and went to turn the keys in the ignition. Unfortunately, the truck didn’t start. I turned the keys in the ignition three more times without success.

“Piece of crap!” I said while hitting the steering wheel.

She realized my dilemma and returned to my truck with a wide grin. She stroked the truck’s hood and looked at me through the windshield.

“My truck is a piece of crap! Good for nothing!” I said.

She walked around the front of my truck and lifted the hood. She then came to my side of the truck and motioned for me to roll down the window. I did and was puzzled by her new found smile.
“Don’t call her that. Why, I think your truck is a beauty,” she said after a flirtatious wink.

Strings of My Heart

2010-03-01T22:16:00.000-08:00

This is an intimate retelling of how God used a piano to tenderize my heart. The youtube video is of a song that connects to the story. I want to thank my classmate, Mindy, for being transparent and sharing her gift. I want to thank the Oyerindes for making my transition to Upland a possibilty.

The Keys of a Piano
By Tamara Peachy

I had been on campus for an entire semester. I confidently called The University of Evansville my new home. By the second semester, I was well acquainted with my friends’ laughter and smiles. I had observed them praying with fervency in the campus’s chapel. I had heard their testimonies about the greatness of God. I witnessed them finding their true satisfaction in genuine worship. The beauty of worship, this is where my story becomes mysterious and glorious.

As a worshipper, I relied heavily on my vocal talents. I would sing backup for worship teams, and I would harmonize with those crazy sopranos. When I received an invitation to be a worship leader, I had to humbly admit I couldn’t play an instrument. This hindered my ability to lead others into the presence of God.

Secretly, I always wanted to learn how to play piano. I attempted to take lessons, but I never had the knack for reading notes or being coordinated. I lost my interest in playing the piano because the pressure to master an instrument failed to motivate me. Rather, it discouraged me. There were too many rules, too many expectations, and too many critical remarks.

But, the desire to play never completely went away. Eventually, I realized I could play piano in secret. If I was by myself, I didn’t have to worry about rejection or proper technique. I allowed some of my friends in on my secret, but I wasn’t deluded into thinking my piano playing was beautiful or proper. It was simply therapeutic.

Inside the campus’s chapel stood an attractive, black grand piano. The sound it made was rich and robust, and the chapel’s acoustics amplified this sound so beautifully that my heart never failed to tremble. It was a perfect setting for worship and a few tears.

Eventually my tinkering on the piano grew into breathtaking times of worship. I would fiddle with the piano’s keys and sing spontaneous melodies straight to the Lord. I knew the sound produced by the keys often failed to match the sound of my voice.

Despite this discrepancy, these intimate times before the Lord grew sweeter. His presence was thick when I forgot my inadequacies. I used those piano keys to display my emotions and affections for Him. He responded with words of acceptance and delight.

One dismal winter night, I stepped into the chapel with a deep desire to use that grand piano to remind God how grand He was. I walked up the aisle that led toward the piano, and I wasn’t expecting to face a very foreboding enemy.

The piano was concealed under a rough, black cover that hadn’t been there before. I approached the piano timidly. I inched closer to have a better look. Maybe the cover could be removed. I discovered the cover could be lifted. I made a daring move and pulled the cover off. I spent an hour singing and playing, to some extent worried I was breaking an unspoken law.

A few days past, and I returned to play. This time the cover was fastened with a padlock. I should have surrendered, but the desire to worship God in this exact atmosphere was too alluring. I made my next move. There was a wooden box near the exit of the chapel. I don’t know what gave me the audacity to open the box. But, sure enough there was a key.

I hesitated for a moment, but holding this key in my palm created too much of a temptation. I unlocked the padlock, pulled off the cover, and this rebel used that piano to worship Jesus. The danger was intoxicating, but the worship was more intoxicating.

Eventually, an authority figure informed me that this piano was not to be played. Apparently, it was used for concerts and performances. Haphazardly playing on the piano would disrupt the piano’s tone. It was extremely expensive to keep this piano in good condition.

I obeyed for as long as I could, but one day I couldn’t handle my rage or desire. I was angry that this piano was stolen from me. I was angry that my worship was silenced. I desired to feel the presence that I only felt when my fingers touched those specific keys. I disobeyed, and I was reprimanded.

The day of my reprimanding was also my first day in the hospital. I had a mental break. Maybe I should have been sleeping more, maybe it was in my genes, or maybe that silent piano and the thought of it collecting dust was driving me mad. After my mental break, obtaining a degree from the University of Evansville failed to be an option.

Whenever I saw a piano, I felt a knife in my heart. I didn’t play for years. I was asked to sing for worship teams, and I accepted. I even wrote lyrics for worship songs. But, there was a deep wound created, and worship reminded me of that terrible night when I found the padlock.

Time healed some of the wound, and I started to long for those worship times again. If there was a piano in the vicinity, I would rattle off a few notes, quick and meaningless. Then a prayer ministry in Fort Wayne called the International House of Prayer presented me with a unique opportunity. I wouldn’t be leading worship, but not with known songs. I would simply play the piano and sing spontaneously as I meditated on scripture.

I never had a large audience, but that familiar presence returned. I had freedom to worship again. The padlock on my soul was removed, but that black cover hadn’t been pulled back completely. Playing the piano brought back the memories of mental illness and my experience with silenced worship.

I couldn’t continue playing the piano for ministry while my own heart was hurting. I made excuses as to why I didn’t want to continue with the set; I never exposed the real reason.

One year later I had the opportunity to attend a college in Fort Wayne, Indiana. After the second semester, the college closed unexpectedly. It rattled me slightly, but I had grown accustomed to disappointments.

When I informed all my friends about this calamity, a strange twist of fate solved the problem. Although the Fort Wayne campus closed, the main campus in Upland remained open. A friend of mine was living in Marion; I only knew this friend because I had attended the University of Evansville.

She and her family welcomed me into their home free of charge. Attending the University of Evansville, ironically, made it possible for me to attend Upland. It was a convoluted trip with u-turns and detours. God knew the destination, and he had the roads already mapped out.

Today, God proved to be in control once again. At the end of one my classes, a fellow classmate started up a conversation about the short stories we were assigned to write. This conversation continued as we walked out of the classroom. We started sharing stories beyond our classroom assignments. She mentioned her love for piano; I felt great longing, yet the hidden fear still resurfaced.

This classmate shared how she had tried piano lessons, and how this only made her frustrated. She then began to admit the past few months had been extremely difficult. During these dark times, she mysteriously began to play beautiful melodies on the piano. She asked if I wanted to hear her play.

I had no reservations at this time. She was telling my story. I wanted to encourage her and nurture this gift. It was stolen from me, and I wouldn’t let Satan rob her of this talent. I followed her into a small practice room, which had a small upright piano that was slightly out of tune.
The sounds she created were breathtaking, and I was deeply moved.

“You can tell when I am angry, I pound on the keys a lot harder,” she said as she demonstrated.
“I know. When you play spontaneously your emotions are more genuine. You aren’t following notes. You are in the moment,” I said.

As I listened to her play, we discussed the beauty of not being constrained by music theory. We reflected on how rejection or high standards stilted our freedom. We talked about the fine line between humility and false humility. We bonded, and God was behind the whole event.

He was sitting there on the piano bench next to my new companion. He was beckoning me to return to my secret place. He was playing the strings of my heart, as Misty Edwards so aptly put it. True worship will never be silenced because it is empowered by the Holy Spirit. Every padlock has a key, and God holds all those keys.

Our House Fire

2010-02-21T07:59:00.000-08:00

This short story is a work in progress. If you have any feedback, feel free to share. I have to cut about 200 words. If there is a section you find is unnecessary, don't hesitate to tell me.

Our House Fire
By: Tamara Peachy

The lights went out, and I listened for my mother’s reaction. She giggled with delight because she loved the dark. Maybe my mother assumed that lightening struck, even though there was no storm. Maybe my mother wondered if a bugler had cut the power. Maybe my mother’s hallucinations covered the lights with their black cloaks. The lights came back on again.

My thumb and pointer finger held the light switch. I began to flip it frantically up and down. I watched the lights blink on and off. I heard the click of the switch as the lights responded to my command. It was me; I caused the power failure.

I knew the consequences of my light switch antics. My mother’s attention was diverted from her own isolation and now was focused on my deviancy. I had to be an irritating thirteen-year-old to get her attention. My weapon was a light switch. I flipped the switch up for the ninth time when the war began.

“Stop flipping that switch! You will burn the house down,” my mother yelled.

The first time I played with a light switch, my mother warned me that such an action would cause a house fire. I didn’t know if that was true. I never knew if my mother’s words were true.

My mother’s eyes glazed over. They gradually moved away from me to stare at a corner where a pile of dirty clothes had accumulated. My mother was sitting in the living room recliner slightly rocking back and forth. The chair creaked as if to say such rocking was torture. The chair cried for relief, but the rocking continued.

“Mom!”

I tried to get my mother’s attention, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were transfixed on the messy corner. I waved my arms, which also failed to produce the desired result. I resorted to the light switch again. Up and down. Up and down. My mother never ignored me when I messed with the light switch.

“Do you want to burn down the house? Are you trying to kill me?”

“The house won’t burn down just because I flip a stupid switch!” I shouted.

Secretly, my statement was not resolute. I wasn’t aware of the inner workings of lights or light switches. Maybe the wires would spark. Maybe my furious flipping would cause the wires to overheat. Maybe the house would burn, all because a flip of a stupid switch. But, I couldn’t trust myself to my mother’s ranting even with these reservations.

My dad was a construction worker and an electrician; he would know. I could ask him, but I feared sounding foolish. It was a strange question to start a conversation. I looked at the clock with the broken second hand; I had forgotten it mysteriously stopped working two days ago. I looked at the kitchen clock instead. My dad should have been home by now.

I apologized to my mother for flipping the switch. My mother didn’t acknowledge my apology. I wondered if it was useless to apologize. Apologies are pointless if the recipient ignores them.

After apologizing, I turned off every lamp and ceiling light to cater to my mother’s madness. According to my mother, the government needed to save energy. I cleared last night’s supper dishes off our musty living room couch and sat in the dark.

I grabbed the remote control, pressed the yellow power button, and the TV instantly responded. It illuminated the room with dancing rays of red and grey light. The dust on the entertainment center was thick and the TV picture was blurry due to the various smudges on the screen. The news anchor was reporting on the wildfires in California. Acres of forests and houses were being destroyed.

“Did you hear what I said? We need to save energy. Leave the TV off!” my mother bellowed.

“No! I’m watching the news.” I countered.

Turning off all the lights and lamps was absurd enough. I wanted some normalcy. I wouldn’t give up watching TV too; it was an addicting escape. My mother didn’t approve of my disobedience. I wondered if I should honor my mother’s request even if she was insane.

“She isn’t my daughter. I am not responsible for her actions.” my mother began to converse with her hallucinations.

This was one constant delusion in my mother’s insanity. She believed I wasn’t her daughter. It hurt the first few times I heard it. However, such a mantra becomes background noise after a few years. I rolled my eyes, and I strained to hear the TV over my mother’s nonsense.

“Numerous people still residing in parts of Ventura are being asked to evacuate,” the news anchor reported.

I heard a car door shut. My father’s work boots clunked on the front porch steps. He entered the door with several green grocery bags in his arms. He almost tripped on a pair of old sneakers left in the middle of the floor.

“Some help would be nice,” my dad said with a moan.

I came to his rescue by grabbing a gallon of milk that was hanging from his finger. I noticed a bottle of Dr Pepper in one of his grocery bags.

“No! Dr Pepper? She can’t have caffeine! Why do you always buy her caffeinated pop?” I said with complaint.

“Your mom wanted a Dr Pepper, so I got her a Dr Pepper,” he replied.

My dad placed the grocery bags in the kitchen, and then handed the Dr Pepper to his wife. Her eyes lit up, and she instantly unscrewed the top to take drink. She looked at her husband with approving eyes.

“President Nixon wants to promote you,” she said.

After hearing that absurd statement, my dad gave out a muffled laugh. He then leaned down to give his wife a tender kiss on her lips.

“How can you kiss her when she talks like that?” I said in disgust.

My dad sighed. He didn’t answer me or look at me. He continued to look into his wife’s eyes with affection and delight. He gave her another kiss, and then he went to the kitchen to start supper.

After an hour, the awkward confrontation had been forgotten. I watched some evening shows with my dad and we ate our supper without conversation. I couldn’t build up the courage to ask him about the light switch.

That night I would test my light switch theory. I waited till both of my parents were asleep. My dad went to bed around 10:00PM. I didn’t know when my mother would fall asleep. There were nights when my mother didn’t sleep at all. But, I was fortunate this night. My mother fell asleep around 1:00AM on the living room couch.

I decided to use the downstairs light switch. The light wouldn’t disturb anyone this way. The paint around the light switch was pealing. I helped peal some of the loose green paint. It revealed a dingy grey underneath. I placed my fingers on the light switch. I flipped it to the “on” position. I waited a moment before flipping it off again. What if I caused a fire? Maybe I should ask my dad like I planned earlier.

Ignoring the possible danger, I decided to continue. I flipped the switch back off and then flipped it on again. At first my rhythm was slow and steadied. I heard each click and witnessed the light’s instant response. Nothing happened outside of the expected. Maybe I needed to go faster.
My pace quickened. Up and down. Up and down. On and off. On and off. I became aggressive. I needed to know the truth. Could the light handle such fury? Up and down. Off and on. Would I cause a fire?

I could see the house going up in smoke in my mind’s eye. The red, orange, and yellow flames of hatred, aggression, and destruction were devouring the wood. The smoke was stealing all breathable air. I imagined my father being broken and devastated at the sight. All his hard work, all his devotion, and all his efforts were useless. The fire was unrelenting. The house was burning.

I continued to flip the switch until I realized the futility. There was no fire. The light was harmless just as I supposed. I was angry. I wanted the wires to spark. I wanted the wires to overheat. I wanted the fire. Then I could repent. Then I could look my mother in the eyes and say, “You were right, I should have listened to you.”

Shy Suicide

2009-12-07T14:46:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: This poem was inspired by someone else's struggle with suicide. Don't worry I am not suicidal.

Suicide, why do you hide beneath my white skin?
Suicide, why do use my fake smile for your sin?
Suicide, why do you keep your cover until
the rope is tight,
the trigger is pulled,
the pills are swallowed,
the wrists slit?
A black phantom behind my face.
A dark word behind my lips.
A night in my day.
Suicide, why do you ensnare all my companions?
They didn’t know.
They didn’t see.
They didn’t recognize who had overtaken me.
You left a message on paper;
they read in disbelief.
Suicide, you are shy,

and yet you have the audacity to kill me.

Morning News

2009-08-01T20:49:00.000-07:00

I was alive during those days.
Those days were dark, but no one noticed because of the haze.
We all walked on the sidewalk, we all drove on the street.
We all watched TV, we all used air conditioning to avoid the heat.
But, we were killing babies, we were killing babies.

I survived those days.
Those unpleasant sunrises, they gave way to sunsets.
We all laughed at jokes, we all ate hot dogs with ketchup.
We all danced to the music, we all washed our dirty dishes.
But, we were killing babies, we were killing babies.

I remember those days.
They can't ever be forgotten, despite my best efforts, those days were certain.
We all woke up one morning, we all made our beds after waking.
Poured some orange juice, read the morning news.
What was it saying?
We are killing babies, we are killing babies.

Naked Finger

2009-08-01T20:36:00.001-07:00

Remember you and me,
forget us.
Remember this and that,
forget these and those.
Remember his and hers,
forget ours.

Ownership disconnected.
Love ended.

Remember mine and yours,
forget ours.
Remember one and the other one
Forget two.

I had a ring,
now I remember a naked finger.

Waiting Room

2009-01-17T12:44:00.000-08:00

Author's Choice

2007-11-28T20:20:00.000-08:00

Barren, He named me.
With dirt, dressed me up.
Set my heart in frailty
My mind in chaos
Shaped my structure to decay and rot
Directed my fallen state
and continued His art
Made sure to diminish the vessel He bought.
Merit unable to justify my soul
I am miserable, nothing, and wretched.
He is the author
He wrote this terrible novel
I, as the critic, assert.
He the only justified critic who stands in awe of His work.

Her Dark Night

2007-11-28T20:02:00.000-08:00

Dark
Night became exclusively pleasant.
Not lovely for another.
This night was for her distinguishable soul.

Was the air sweet or the moon romantic
Was it serene and accepting
Blissful or enchanted

Not this night.
For all men can own such verse.
This night was specific,
a telling of her grieving soul.
She related to the night song.
Nature's color became her explanation.
Draped around her
Was a similar atmosphere to the one developed inside her.
It was black, silent, and dead.
She owned the night.
Creation, a testimony of her experience.
Not for another.

Chance

2007-11-01T09:57:00.001-07:00

How expensive a chance is.
How desperate a moment of decision.
The power given to a partner to hold another
or leave one lonely.
But what a power a chance can withhold.
A hope burning in the unknown.

Love Had I

2007-09-10T23:16:00.000-07:00

Love’s thorny soul, why does this linger?
Continuous, too long
Etched from memory
Sweetest worth be forgotten!
I would render love helpless
had I the ability.

Love’s piercing soul, why so diligent?
Wound, injury
Born from his reluctant pursuit
Never did he feel such a longing
I would embrace the empty reality
had I the capacity.

Confounded soul, why are you so partial
To void, to naught
To this one forever forsaking my heart
He wasn’t in love
I would recoil and hate
had I the intensity.

Not Another Wedding

2007-08-03T13:32:00.001-07:00

Usher, come forth

lead me on the path
to the wedding party of merriment

to the sacred song at last.

Pull me down the side aisle
where I watch in glory
ever to be amused
but never to marry.
Usher hold my arm
so I feel like a princess
who never wears the white dress.

Seat me next to couples and the few left single.
Usher, keep smiling
as you consider your occupation.
A vantage point of honor
to seat all the guest.
Even me who will take a nap and rest.

I realize this is a horrible poem. It is dreadful, but it made me laugh!

Escape

2007-07-26T10:41:00.000-07:00

I am invisible
Dare you, embark on a constant misapprehension.
Your perception haunting the reality.
Tainting the truth.
I speak, but a riddle remains.
I muse and you hear it not.
How I deceive unwillingly.

I make a gesture,
Form a breath,
Send a glance
With fallen eye you will try to obtain
Truly in vain.
Fighting to identify the tragedy within
or the joy contained.
Locked away, concealed
But still real .
How these realities are captive
Held by skin and murderous paraphrases.
It is futile to weary yourself

For I escape even myself.

Kisses Undeserved

2007-07-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

Ever pleasant

never coming with lack.

Kisses from a blazing thrown room

usher their attack.

My inner avoidance can't escape full pleasure

when grace ushers this kiss forth.

My troubled heart says, how is this so?

As the God of love compels that man does not know.

I assure myself He will keep His distance.

It is a mere fiction I read.

But God in endless jealousy
won't heed.

Gentle to propose with violence underneath.

Grace has none to oppose and needs no reprieve.

As His lips touch my weak and vulnerable hesitation

I find my true jubilation.

A holy igniting of passion so pure

that revelation of His coming is no longer obscure.

For He is unable to hold back

this kiss He foreknew.

He is fixed and needs no council.

He is coming and will not delay.

Stolen

2007-07-13T11:53:00.001-07:00

Why has He ventured away?
His authoritative distance mastering me,
making me worthless to find.
Violent tossing and turning
in the midst of an empty gaze.
I have no power to control Him,
no word to usher Him forth.
He declares His beauty and sings the love song,
in the midst of shadow.
Holding out for the wedding day,
Holding out for a wedding kiss.
His patience, a constant piercing,
a constant ache.
Oh glorious presence
how long have you eluded my search.
Oh glorious appearing
how long you have burdened my soul.
On earth I am fallen.
Earth, how you have stolen my Treasure
and mocked my pursuit.

Love’s Expectancy

2007-07-02T21:47:00.000-07:00

You shake soft
as you envision the loss.
You muse on the end.
It is displayed in your reluctant eyes.
They gaze down ready for defense.
She must be deceptive.
For in the midst of your terror,
Her affection is devoted.
She is captivated by the utterance of your love.
She is taken.
You hold Love's breath, fearful of rejection.
And yet she comes undone when you expose love’s revelation.
You shake soft
as you slowly fight against your deception,
for she returns with affection.
While this doubt lingers,
She calls to you to acknowledge her illusive confession.
You shake soft and she will endeavor with a frail reply
to give you rest and welcome.
But love is not displayed rightly by her reaction.
Never convincing.
For her love is beyond your expectant vision.

Thought of Me

2007-06-26T06:21:00.000-07:00

(This is dedicated to Josh for giving me the motivation to speak of the Love of the Father)

To say God is captivating would be an understatement. At the full revelation of the Godhead there will enter divine pleasure that will grip us for eternity. His beauty is unmatched and this is verified in the spirit man. His enormous power radiates an invitation of undefiled attraction. This beauty is tangible in human form and worthy of seeking out. God goes to great length to describe His physical beauty in the gospels. Often these descriptions fail to reach our appreciation. These veiled comparisons fail to unlock the richness. Revelation states His hair is as white as wool for example. This is biblically sound and holds the weight of inerrancy. But the complete understanding of this physical revelation has not reached its full potential. If we had full understanding into this feature of His hair being as white as wool we would radiate full purity. We would know His authority and sovereignty and not doubt. We are veiled to the knowledge that even His hair, in its strength, will manifest our obedience. God’s beauty in its fullness will cause an indisputable groan in our flesh and cause us to turn. This is indisputable because it is known that God is the completion of our pleasure and delight. This delight will demand our perfection. He made us and is therefore the exact representation of all that we could desire. The perplexing statement comes when one places their minds on the fact that God delights in us.
God’s delight in us is immeasurable. When God finds something He enjoys the universe shakes. How could a God of immense beauty and full knowledge ever find something that elates Him more than Himself? One would try to conclude that God must be satisfied in Himself because He is beyond fascination. Surely the human race must be of little importance. Just as the Psalmist said, “What is man that you are mindful of him?” But, God is mindful of that which He created. Not only is He mindful; He burns with love toward us. He finds us fully entertaining and acceptable. In Ephesians we get an insight into this reality.
Eph 1:3-6
For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love He predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will- to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.

We are holy and blameless in His sight. That means His eyes are toward us and this sight can’t be penetrated by sin. He keeps us in His fierce gaze not once lacking pleasure. When He looks upon His chosen saints He sees something holy, set apart. Nothing compares with us. We are a unique treasure for His entertainment. We are vessels of His glory. We are blameless because God’s love exceeds our frailty. His grace goes beyond our accusations. It was by His pleasure and will that we were made and formed. He found utter delight in fashioning us and planning our destiny in Him.
Since man is not fully awakened to the grace and pleasure of the Father in Christ it is easy to reject the beauty of man. Still the word of God echoes that man was created in the image of God. The word continually restates that God can’t help but communion with His creation. He even delighted so much in what He made that He became as one of us. This is a mystery that could be studied for ages. But, despite its mystery it is fully revealed as God’s orchestrated plan. That Father God would find pleasure in His Son. His Son is the fullness of God dwelling in human form. This is what He was well pleased in. This was His beloved.
God loves the human race and is zealously demonstrative towards it. He has gone out of His way to show human kind that He is bound by covenant to love His chosen vessels. God covenanted, married us. It was not out of obligation or a safety net. God acted out of full free will and out of necessity. His pleasure in man fixed His Son’s death before the foundations of the world. God was so agonized over His separation from man that He took His greatest pleasure and sent Him to a brutal cross. Oh, the sacrificial love of God toward His creation is too enormous to expound on. To speak of it would defile it.
There is nothing prideful in relishing in the fact that God loves you. God hopes to reveal His immense fondness toward you. There is no degrading of yourself that would glorify God. He wants you to see your full potential. He wants you to radiate as lights to a dark world. He wants to love you and He wants you to be fully aware of His enchantment in you. In all my years of seeking out God there is one revelation that God is bold to proclaim. God so loved the world that He gave His only Son that whoever believes in Him may have everlasting life. God gives His saints everlasting life not merely as a reward for faith. He gives it as a time where He can enjoy His people forever. It is His need.

Unseen

2007-06-15T08:13:00.000-07:00

You move invisible

You speak inaudible

You breath undetectable

You dance unseen

You sing soft

yet your affection is near

You draw me in to mystery.

God of a vast, telling universe.

God of a quiet, gentle voice.

First

2007-06-08T16:34:00.000-07:00

My possession of the first command

is laid out bare.

I will allow all to see the affection

I lavish on You.

My vows are to love you beyond my capacity.

To kiss the Son endlessly.

To stir His groan and steal His gaze.

To love with heart exposed.

To need with no requirement.

To haunt His steps till I find His fullness.

To simply love.

Fairy Tale

2007-05-29T16:58:00.000-07:00

You are my fairy tale, my happy ending.
My lovesick obsession.
You are the hand that fits well in mine.
The gleam in your eyes reminds me of how lucky

I could have been.
Should have been.
Might have been.
You, hope, are the seed of rejection.

Where They Kiss

2007-05-22T18:28:00.000-07:00

Where justice and mercy kiss, I rest.
Where justice and mercy collide, I stay.
Where God crushed His Son for sin, I hem myself in.
I will fix my gaze on this terrifying revelation of beauty.

Fully able to save a sinful man.
Committed, devoted Trinity.
I give myself over to Your fragrant mercy
I render myself helpless to Your judgment.

Where justice and mercy approach one another, I bend.
Where justice and mercy are content, I pause.
In the paradox of love I remain.
He hasn’t come to condemn, but to save.
Nail pierced hands stroke my back.
In His comfort and anger there is no lack.

Possession

2007-05-15T17:01:00.000-07:00

It burns within me
A longing that lingers too long.
More than a seeking,
more than a striving,
more than a stirring.

Can I just have You.

Tempting holiness.
Endless habitation.
More than longing,
more than a leading,
More than a laboring,

Can I just have You.

Pant no more
Lovesick no more
More than a calling,
more than a craving,
more than a chasing,

Can I just have You.

Slow to Speak

2007-05-03T07:03:00.000-07:00

Words are the enemy.

Like Daniel I acknowledge the power of silence

in the realm of You.

In the moment of encounter

I see the vanity of words.

In the depths of revelation

I hear the power of my silence.

At the sight of holy glimpse

I order my tongue to cease.

Words that groan in the inner man

can't be spoken.

Lioncloth Idol

2007-04-21T05:45:00.000-07:00

There are concept and theologies that are needful of reverence and trembling because they deal with the humanness of God. They deal with the reality that God became as one of us. He came in human form, exposed himself to the elements, lived within the earthly limits, and even embraced death on a cross. Essentials of his humanity have been overlooked and demeaned due to an undisclosed fear in the Christian circles. This fear is grounded because the scripture itself says that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. But one must also assume that the depth of love displayed in God’s human nature is as well worthy of seeking out. In this arena we do not throw off the fear of the Lord, but wholly embrace it. We embrace areas of God that are holy and therefore tremble at His word. And this, my beloved, is in the realm of the state of undress of the Son of Man. The moments in scripture where the Lord disrobed Himself and proved that He indeed took on flesh. He disrobed before He washed the feet of the disciples. He pointed out His side to Thomas to prove that He had overcome death. And my dear friends He even fully exposed Himself on the cross. The loincloth idol will be torn down because it is an assault to the brilliant truth that God went to the full extent of His love to show His mercy and great judgment. God is not a God far off, but acquainted with our frame. Not to make it any less cheap, but when the holy baby came into the world He was not covered in a supernatural blanket of secrecy. He was fully bare before His mother and she had to ponder this in her heart. How could the God of the universe in all His holiness come in such a way? Truly the mystery of Godliness is great.

1 Tim 3:16
16 Beyond all question, the mystery of godliness is great: He appeared in a body, was vindicated by the Spirit, was seen by angels, was preached among the nations, was believed on in the world, was taken up in glory.
NIV

What depth have we forsaken and what intimacy have we avoided? Even in the garden Adam and Eve walked naked in the garden. They walked in the cool of the day with their Lord, fully innocent and fully pleased with such a state. Now due to our sinfulness coverings are given us, but let one consider that God values the creation He has made. Let us consider that God is fully aware of our frailty, but still knew what He was doing when He created us in His own image. He knew there were parts of us that were so delicate and treasured that the realization that He would come as a man would convince us of His love and compassion. The flesh profits nothing, but the realization that God was humble enough to disrobe himself before mere men leaves one astounded. It is in His humility and great desire to reveal His nature that one finds the true treasure of unveiling. Not in the flesh itself, but the understanding that God in all His fullness did truly become one of us. This, my beloved, should make you thirsty for understanding and insight. Why would He?

Washing The Feet
The words echo through the house and my mind’s eye. Never, Lord will you wash my feet. Quickly the defenses raise their strength. All the reasons Peter made such a proclamation are often validated within my spirit. He saw the dirt on his arms and the dirt on his feet. He knew that such an act of servant hood made God human. It took Peter’s idea of the magnificent God and boiled Him down to a tangible image. A picture Peter had been well aware of. The picture was of a slave, the refuse of the world.

John 13:3-5
3 Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; 4 so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. 5 After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.
NIV

Jesus knew who He was in the Father. He knew all power was given Him, so He did the unthinkable. He did the one authoritative act that His disciples would not allow Him to do. He undressed Himself and put a cloth around His waist. He became a little exposed and took on the form of a servant. God in all His majesty and power chose the correct form. He was not trying to teach them a cute parable about serving. Although He does mention serving later this still was no parable. He wasn’t speaking of a secret story. He was near in all His bareness. He came close to the disciples and served. Any of you who desire to be great must be a servant. Servants in Old Testament’s time didn’t just wash the feet. They had an identifying clothing style. God was being very clear to show Himself strong in weakness. His muscles fully exposed as He scrubbed the dirt and grime off the children’s feet. I see His eyes staring down as a sign of subservient love. This is the mystery of Godliness my friends. We don’t know the position of His head. We don’t know the tone of His voice. Oh, the ocean of revelation that has yet to be tapped.
This undisclosed ocean must be aligned with the gospel and God so subtly allows us to find the wealth of His humanity. Thomas touched the very cuts in his side and wrist. This amazes the soul. Thomas is a venture that is often ridiculed. Doubting Thomas the preachers dictate to his character. But, how many of those judging preachers dismiss the revelation and unveiling of Jesus’s flesh. God came before Thomas in a resurrected state just to prove to him His love for this disciple. “I have not lost one of them that you gave me,” God echoes. God took His hand and pulled back His robe and exposed the spear’s wound. Another treasure worth searching out concerns the many other stripes the Lord received. Did the Lord heal of these afflications or is His whole cross bearing experience still exemplified in His current bodily form? Woe is me if this is so. To ever behold the slain lamb would have many falling at His thrown calling holy. He is worthy of every treasured gift stored up in heaven. Wealth, honor, power, wisdom, and strength are due Him.
Another worthy moment of God encountering a human is in Mary at the tomb. Mary clung to Jesus. She gripped His resurrected body. She was near Him. Jesus quickly begged her not to cling. But, for a moment the Father allowed a closeness to be upheld. Often we sing of embracing Jesus. I don’t think we catch the full weight of the matter. Hands upon the small of His back. Our head resting on His chest to hear His heart beat. God in human form grasped by a human. This is life eternal to know Him. No wonder Mary was sent to witness. She touched Him.
Again we have yet another desire of encounter. The woman with the issue of blood didn’t just reach out for some supernatural encounter. She came in direct contact with the Son of Man. She chose to humble herself and just touch His robe. This is what made Jesus turn. More than a robe my dear one, but an acknowledgement of His tender voice and conversation was granted this possessor of such faith. God goes beyond our expectation.
Now to the heart of the matter. A loincloth idol set up in our churches. I am actually very fervent about not drawing pictures of my Lord. I have fallen into tolerance of it, but at the heart of the issue I hold to the commandment not to make a form, image, or idol of the God man. This is because it dulls our wisdom to seek. These images take the Godhead and make Him stationary and unable to speak. This is evil and ridiculed by every fiber in me. We can’t perceive what the apostle saw and try to depict it on a banner or on a canvas. Especially when the reality of the cross is full nudity. We should be on our knees in repentance if we think that such a discloser is worthy of man’s brush. We are incomplete with the blindness of our eyes. Though are faith is more worthy and given a blessing outside of sight one can acknowledge that our souls feel emptiness until we see Him as He really is. Fully God and fully man.

In The Mirror

2007-04-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

As she touches the surface of her mirror

this potrait eludes reality.

For her defined description is merely at a loss.

Evidence of herself is subsiding.

She will fade as the grass.

She will melt like the ice.

She will leave like the wave upon the shore.

Seek her no more.

Vanity calls and asks for a return.

To see again the curves, the depth, the creation.

For a moment of elation.

But, for a moment she remembers

the figure has not defined her.

The reflection has faded as she has grown stronger.

Stoop Low

2007-03-29T06:32:00.000-07:00

His vastness, near

His depth, appear

His presence, bending to creation

His length, stretching beyond me.

Reveal the milk and honey.

Grace poured on your lips,

and you who had fingertips.

A God of mystery,

stepping on a land,

seen by those who didn't know Him.

Crying out in a wilderness.

Fire is on every side

hidden from their eyes.

Why Do They Rage?

2007-03-23T07:54:00.000-07:00

In all their glory, the taunt.

In all His glory, silence.

In all their glory they stand shaken.

In all His glory He stands with a whip.

In all their glory they rage.

In all His glory He is bathed in annointing.

In all their glory they come to nothing.

In all His glory His is the Alpha and Omega.

In all their glory they sentence Him to death.

In all His glory His willingly accepts.

In all their glory they reap what the sow.

In all His glory He moves the stone.

Punishing Love

2007-03-23T07:20:00.000-07:00

Where for art thou Romeo
I cast the idol.
This lover will take Your place tonight?
This emptiness will feed my flesh.
This conjured emotion will deny my lack of words.
Oh how this description will fail again.
What idols I have fashioned,
how they ridicule me and steal my love.
For a fleeting beauty I waste effort.
For a single glimmer of false hope I make the heart sick.
Burn oh Lover with jealousy
that I may come to the end of all I created outside of Thee.
For I long to give an answer.
But HE alone is my word.
In charging You to love Him oh earth
I have sent you to your grave.

For this love is unyeilding.

Essay on Aboriton

2007-03-15T14:01:00.001-07:00

There are many cases, discussions, and considerations as to why abortion is either permissible or intolerable. Heated debates have climaxed to violent hatred resulting in the abortion clinics being raided with gun shots and the decapitation of children at the moment of birth. This matter is weighted and a lengthy undertaking. Approaching it with mere emotion is toxic, but disregarding all emotion is callous.

Is abortion a grey area? Is this medical procedure falling under a category of relative truth? Truly if the underlining case for abortion is the right to privacy then our government has deemed women able to make moral decisions based on their own conviction and beliefs. These convictions not strained by an outside dominating influence. We live in a democratic society where religion or in some cases morality is not to be forced upon anyone. As we spend time pondering this political landscape more children have been swept away and chosen for destruction. A principle problem with abortion at the present time is we have made it a political issue when it is in fact a moral corruption. We spend our time discussing the Constitution and what exactly our laws dictate as permissible and tolerable. We take lawyers to our judges and try to sway a nation to righteous by lofty arguments. We have yet to rend our hearts, put on sackcloth, and admit our sin as a people of God. We have bowed to democracy as our God and forgotten the knife at our children throat. We have looked to a supreme court to act justly when they have constantly failed us. Who has suffered from this delay and vain tactic? I dare to say it is no one other than the faceless, nameless generation of our God, the aborted babies.

So is the point of this book to sway one to believe abortion is wrong. No, for there is no need to defend such a truth. For indeed it is not a grey matter. God in all His majesty and beauty has made it clear, in all good faithfulness, that the eradication of an unborn child is murder in the first degree. Anyone to disregard this fact is a liar to his or her own conscience. I am not out to assault and slander the pro-choice movement. Judgment starts in the house of the Lord, my friends. To be brutally honest those of you who have been passionate about ending abortion might even admit to working fruitless deeds. You have come before the judges of our nation and the persecutors of life with boldness. But, you have yet to rectify yourself before the ultimate Judge. Being emotional and passionate can either lend itself to impulse and striving or it can press you under the weight and break you. Then you find yourself weeping as bitterly as Hannah. With little breath left you find yourself proclaiming, “Not by might or by strength, but by Your Spirit!” As Moses before Pharaoh you cry, “Let His children go!”

It is no longer a case of maneuvering around technical terms and finding loopholes in flawed law. It is giving God the right to punish a wicked deed. As Daniel lived among a Babylon Empire he was given his moment to stand in perfect timing. God afforded him the chance to take on an edict of immorality. Then God showered the land with a miraculous encounter in the lion’s den. God has placed anointed vessels to carry this weighted message and not everyone who is pro-life will have the authority to tear it down. Just as Martin Luther is synonymous with all men are created equal, so too will these voices be synonymous with every life is valuable.

So where do we begin? We can’t let hatred rule our conversation. Angry only heats more killing. The Bible makes it clear if you are angry with your brother you have committed murder. So we can’t point fingers when we have a plank in our eye. But, there are strategic places in God’s word that rends our zealous pursuit of ending abortion. I do not just mean making abortion illegal. I mean making sure that our nation is fully aware of the ramification of such an act. Do I long to instill fear? I don’t think I have to apologize if I were to desire to do so. I am not. In fact I want to pour mercy on these poor women who no doubt live with emptiness everyday. But until we come to grip the full weight of our complacency we will suffer from God’s wrath. I am not talking about signs in the heavens and on the earth beneath. I am talking about the deep depravity felt in one’s heart when we turn to repentance for an act done upon the innocent warrior. We are the captains of an army allowing are men and woman to enter the Valley of Slaughter.

Jeremiah 19: 4-6

Because the people have forsaken Me and have estranged and profaned this place [Jerusalem] by burning incense in it to other gods that neither they nor their fathers nor the kings of Judah ever knew, and because they have filled this place with the blood of innocents

5And have built the high places of Baal to burn their sons in the fire as burnt offerings to Baal, which I commanded not nor spoke of it, nor did it come into My mind and heart--

6Therefore, behold, the days are coming, says the Lord, when this place shall no more be called Topheth or the Valley of Ben-hinnom [son of Hinnom], but the Valley of Slaughter.

We haven’t just sacrificed children to our own convenience. We have fashioned an idol. We have dictated to God that child sacrifice is appalling and still deem innocent life as dispensable. We made our God of life forgiving of taking life. This never entered His mind or heart. So what must we do?

Rend our hearts and not our garments. This means a full out repentance for the blood that is rising a violent cry. What will God’s response to this cry be but vengeance or mercy? We can’t approach this subject desiring to escape wrath. We must approach it with full expectation of wrath. We need to become serious and know that our God does not remain silent. He speaks for these children. He spoke in the day of Moses when the Hebrew babies were massacred. He spoke in His Son’s appearing when Harod sent out a decree to kill babies. Every time God rose up a Deliver there was an attack on innocent life. Could it be that another delivery is in the making. The earth is groaning under the weight of slaughter. The intercessors are giving birth to the Lord’s return to set things right. Do we need a constitution change to make us feel better? Or do we need a great high priest to speak a better blood over shed blood we can’t atone for? I will leave with one statement from Jeremiah that always pierces my soul when I consider our dependence on democracy to change abortion.

Jeremiah 8:19-22

19Behold, listen! The cry of the daughter of my people from a distant land:
"Is the LORD not in Zion? Is her King not within her?"
"Why have they provoked Me with their graven images, with foreign idols?"
20"Harvest is past, summer is ended,
And we are not saved."
21For thebrokenness of the daughter of my people I am broken;
I mourn, dismay has taken hold of me.
22 Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
Why then has not the health of the daughter of my people been restored?

Surely there is a king and He has the power of resurrection in His hand. The only cure for the wound of abortion.

Brother's Dwelling

2007-03-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

Where will you dwell?

Together or separate?

David stood weeping.

Jonathan embracing, kissing.

A friendship of holy sacrifice.

Jonathan giving up his standing as king.

David knowing His anointing would eventually shine.

Would it decide this sacred friendship.

Where will you dwell?

Together I hope.

Wilderness

2007-03-06T00:40:00.000-08:00

Make my wilderness like Eden

Hide me in the sand parched land.

Make my wasteplaces a miracle

as mannah comes from Your hand.

Lead me by the oasis

that is temporally seen.

As I reach the illusion

and then remind myself You are all that I need.

Make my wilderness like Eden.

Allure me off to places I have yet to see.

Make my wasteplaces a luxary,

while on my Lover I lean.

The Holy Spirit’s Palace

2007-02-22T19:46:00.000-08:00

Lack of closeness is pressing against her, as she lies alone.
In the midst of evening’s thick, black cloud she muses.
Now that the night is summoned and she rests in deep stillness, what reply will He give?
Under covers and under her veils, she hides from the world.
She pauses to revel in the distance of her lover.
“You are fair, a delight, and loyal,” He responds.
Her nature fights against such claims.
She replies with truth,
“I, in my love am stubborn and pressing advantage with pure seduction.
What bitter shame.”
Come, her heart beckons Him, but still he presses His need to be away.
How selfish she is, but so pleasantly.
She coils up into a ball and convinces herself that He will be fragile.
Can her impatient longing quicken His pace?
Surely His reply wouldn't bring disgrace!
Her despairing sigh in the night is given the same answer.
No hope of aroused completion.
His voice, firm, fixed, and longing.
“I must prepare a place. I have many delights to give you. I must prepare a place. Wait”
So like Him to delight her and make her lovesick with another trait.
He carves the rafters, saws the beams, hammers the nails.
To His hard effort, not thanks did He receive.
From His being He exhales such patience.
He looks upon the place He is building.
He envisions more beauty for His love that beckons Him so.
He takes out another nail.
She hears the sound of his carpentry.
The echo carries love's renewal across night air
to reach her there.
She repents.
Love achieves.

Hasten the End

2007-02-10T09:22:00.000-08:00

Hasty is my soul.
I confess, impatient my whole being.
This stubborn craving is ever cleaving.
This desire, never leaving.
Eternal cry be satisfied or be silent.

I survive this panting,
Endure this earthly breathing,
I pause and plead for perception.
As I exist in the midst of Him, who never leaves or forsakes,
I settle once more for the unseen and my heart aches.

Soul, admit to this grief.
Groan, responds to this vexing veil.
Spirit, perceive what present observations are failing.

Will He return in tangible beauty suddenly?
Attending to my want with severe appearing?

What has held this violent force captive that it hides?

Contained this affection?

May it arrive.

Who am I that I darken His beauty, halt His astounding?
How I long to weep and wail at nail pierced hands.
To burn all lofty idols that have failed to describe Him.

To chastise those who deny Him.

To burn and chastise myself.

Hasten the End of me.

Hasten the End.

Bought

2007-01-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

Anthem of heaven incased in this CD on the market.
A devotion song reformed to a green collection in his pocket.
Culture how it has sought us!
Taken our reverence and bought us!
Worship sowing designer clothes for the artist.
Melodies in bondage begin to simulate the masses.
We have the radio to blare the repeat.
Give us our fame and retreat
This noise of adoration motivates a half hearted beat on the steering wheel.
We can no longer own the heart and we can’t preach our message.
We are just a copy of a man’s heart once spilled to His maker
given over to another to do as he so pleases.

We are bought. Owned.

I want to work on this one. It seems a little hard to follow. I want it to be concrete and to the point but still lyrical. Any comments or suggestions?