Good Gifts

God gives good gifts to us. Just because He loves us. Recently as I was praying I asked Him to help me see the gifts, to recognize them when they come. I believe that if we truly saw all of His gifts, it would radically shift the way we see life. We would enjoy life more, be more at peace, just knowing we are loved and taken care of.
And he does take care of us.
I often wonder why I worry so much, because whenever I look back on what has happened in the past, I've never had anything to worry about. Why would that all of the sudden change? Hasn't God proved His faithfulness to me enough?
The answer is yes.
I worry about money, but I have never lacked.
I worry about relationships, but He always restores.
I worry about my job, but He has always come through.
I worry about my future, but He provides unexpected opportunities.
He gives good gifts. He knows I love beauty, so He gives me a clear view of the mountains. He knows I love the sun, so He gives me a sunny day and time to enjoy it. He knows all the little things I like, and He gives me these things, here and there, just because.
Just the other day I was telling my parents I wanted to see a play at a certain place. Today He provided free tickets.
He gives good gifts, and I want to recognize them and always trust Him. If He cares about these little things that bless us, will He not also care about all our provisions and well being?
Trust brings peace. Peace releases what we may not have expected previously to receive.
It's all about perspective.
God gives good gifts. Let's not look at our lack or the circumstances that could be better. He loves us, and we are never alone.

Thorns: Liberty's Garden, Part 2

A few years ago I wrote a short story entitled Liberty's Garden, about a small girl named Liberty who is discovering her purpose as she is growing up in her father's garden. This is a second installment of this allegorical story. You can read the first one here: http://denicalynn.blogspot.com/search?q=liberty%27s+garden Just scroll past part 2 to get to it once you click the link.

Part 2:

I hadn’t come here since I was a girl. It had been far too long—this I knew with no doubt. I grew up here, in my father’s garden. My garden. It hadn’t lasted long. After a few failed attempts at influence and making hearts beautiful, after a few rejections, I gave it up and left.

            But I missed Father, and I missed the garden. Would he still let me linger in its bosom and lets its sweet fragrances whisk peace into my mind? Would it still do for me what it did when I was a girl, after I had utterly abandoned the precious gift?

            The questions instigated a flutter in my heart as I approached the massive white gates. They were different than I remembered them. White, yes, but now the wood looked old and the paint had chipped in several places. Thoughts of decay began to crowd my mind. I had to know. In agony I pushed opened the gate, thinking of how unworthy I was to be entering, even if the garden had decomposed. I knew it would still be more beautiful than my fetid life.

            I staggered through the entrance, and my foot caught on something that pricked my skin. I looked down to find the narrow path congested with about a dozen brown and dry thorn bushes, six on each side. My pulse caught in my throat—where were the pink roses that used to greet me, that used to calm the weary traveler that came to my father for guidance? I was afraid to go on. What more devastation would meet my eyes? But, ever so meticulously, I turned sideways and scooted my feet through the stone pathway surrounded by thorns, watchful so as not to get pierced again.

            I let out my breath as I reached the other side of the unsightly and dangerous obstacle. Tentatively lifted my eyes. Releasing a breathy chuckle of disbelief, I sank to my knees, taking in the sight until tears stung my eyes. It was even more beautiful than I had remembered, and I couldn’t comprehend how. A flock of whistling sparrows flew out from an archway up ahead to the right, dipping and diving through the glowing flowers that lined the golden stone paths. The scene was such a paradox to the gates and the thorns that my senses suddenly felt overloaded. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know if I was breathing any longer. But then one of my tears dropped onto the path, and a brilliant blue flower with seven petals sprang up immediately from the rock.

            How could something even grow from stone? The unexpected growth surprised me. Its beauty was unmatched, I thought, as I gazed at it incredulously. I noticed that the air smelled sweet and spicy, a fragrance that soon filled my head with pleasure. I closed my eyes as I stood up, just breathing in the intoxicating atmosphere. Opening my eyes again, I surveyed all the flowers around me. There were little multicolored ones to my left, and just ahead, several bushes of gorgeous white roses. On my right were tulips of varying shades, and green daisies that stood at least four feet tall.

            I was so enthralled with the beauty around me that I didn’t even hear the soft footfalls. Until he stood before me and took my hand in his. I knew that touch—gentle but strong, confident. But I couldn’t bring myself to look up into his eyes. What would I read in them? Anger? Disappointment? Sorrow? Slowly, he lifted my chin with his other hand. I couldn’t resist his gentle ways—in fact, now my whole being shook with longing for him; my heart beat with a desperate mixture of fear and desire. How could I know what would happen next?

            My face was now in line with his, but I couldn’t seem to tell my eyes to lift themselves.

            “Look at me, dear one.”

            At once his familiar voice melted my resistance. I finally looked up and gazed into those green pools. And what I found there was not what I expected. My father’s eyes glimmered with moisture and yet they were oceans of love. Stronger than I even remembered. They smiled at me, accepted me, and I didn’t understand. The next thing I knew was that I was encompassed in a warm embrace and I felt my hair being stroked gently as another strong arm was wrapped firmly around my waist. I could hear his heart beating, and somehow I knew it beat for me.

            After this reunion that felt like an eternity, my father finally let go and looked again at my face. I could feel the thoughts swirling in his head, and I knew there was a matter he needed to attend to.

            “Come with me. I need to show you something.”

            His tone had grown sober, and shadows of doubt began to darken my heart. But I let him lead me away just the same. He took me to the archway covered in greenery, the very one I had seen the sparrows make their exodus from earlier. He glanced at me once before leading me through the arch.

            Darkness. My eyes had to take a moment to adjust. It was very dim in this part of the garden, and as my eyes finally came into focus they took in our new surroundings with astonishment. All that was here were what once had been flowers. Now, they were dry and brown, much like the thorns at the gates. Then I saw our bench, and my heart twisted. I doubled over and dry heaved, but sturdy arms lifted me.

            “Come,” he said, and he practically dragged my drooping body over to the bench, the one he used to take me to when I was scared, the throne where we shared joys and tears and stories. Loads of stories.

            We sat. My spirit felt crushed.

            “What… happened?” I whispered, distress lacing my tone.

            As if in response to my question, a low rumble split the air, followed by a streak of light that barely missed the bench. Then the sky gushed rain in sudden torrents, and we were instantly drenched. Father stood up and gazed out at the damaged haven, water beading on his hair and streaming down his face like cold tears.

            “This is your heart.” He spoke with sorrow. “You have neglected it for so long that its fruit has died.” He turned to me, his mouth despondent, yet his eyes still pronouncing that love would have its way. “You neglected me for so long that the flowers couldn’t grow in the storms anymore.”

            The realization hit me broadside, and I doubled over again, moaning in grief. Oh, how I wanted to tell him how I was sorry, how foolish I had been! How I longed to throw myself at his feet and beg for him to take me back, even as a servant! Anything. I would do anything for him. But somehow I knew that no attempt of mine to make amends would prove sufficient. So I sat there and cried a cry of despair. I had lost so much.

            A low groan reached my ears. It began to rise both in volume and pitch, causing me to lift my head. Father stood with his back to me, his form illuminated every so often by a flash of lightning. Could the sound be coming from him? The groan gained even more volume and then unexpectedly exploded into a guttural scream. Father’s face was lifted to the sky and his arms hung tensed on either side of him, fingers tightening and spreading apart. The sound threatened to burst through my ear drums and I began to breathe hard, not understanding what was happening.

            At last the scream settled, but it quickly turned into wrenching sobs that shook his entire body. Tearless sobs. My own heart coiled into a knot and sorrow crept up my throat as I watched. But then I saw the blood. The crimson liquid began soaking through his garments and pouring from his face and hands like sweat. I panicked. Had someone hurt him? Several drops hit the dry ground, and when they made contact, the earth began to sizzle and then bubble like boiling water. What was happening? I wanted to rush forward and be with my father, to hold him and tell him I would never leave him again. But my legs were rubber and refused to move. Was it I who had hurt him? The revelation constricted my heart and I wanted to scream. I may have, but any sound I made was drowned out by the intensity of my father’s sobs.

            Father sank to the ground. There were now pools of blood all around him, causing the ground to hiss and boil. His clothes were entirely drenched in red, and I wondered if he was dying. He’d grown quiet.

            Several breathless minutes passed before I heard a soft note proceed from Father’s mouth. I began to inhale air again, relieved. He was singing, softly. Then louder until I could hear the grief mingling with the beautiful notes. He was crying as he sang. I watched in wonder as his tears hit the bloody ground. When the first drops descended, the blood vanished to reveal dark, moist soil. And as the tears soaked into the fertile ground, bright and colorful flowers began to spring up all around him, illuminating the atmosphere and soon returning light to the once desolate retreat. He stood, his garments now white.

            The song escaping his lips seemed to flow out and cascade down through the dried up beds of flowers. Though the melody was broken by his tears, it was the most stunning song I had ever heard, a song of love. As the notes reached the dead flowers, they bounded to life again and were pigmented with purples, blues, and oranges. Tears still fell to the earth around his feet, and each time one of them hit the ground, a new flower instantly grew up until he was encircled by a crowded bed of brilliance. The fragrance from all the new flowers flooded my nostrils, and they flared in delight. The perfume swelled through my head and heart, bringing relief and peace.

            Then he turned to me again. If I could, I would have dived into those green oceans of love. He smiled and came towards me, swept me up in his arms and carried me out through the archway again. He gently placed me down on the golden pathway and scanned this part of the garden.

            Walking forward, he placed his fingers on a bright yellow gardenia and smiled as if reminiscing.

            “Liberty, every one of these flowers has bloomed from my heart. In fact, this entire garden is my heart.” He looked at me. “Every tear I have cried for one of you has produced a beautiful flower that has become a part of who you are now. Every tear one of you has cried that you have allowed me to touch has also turned into great beauty. And it’s all here.” He spun around once, with his arms outstretched. “In my heart.” He came close to me again and gazed into my eyes. “Dear one, stay here with me. Every storm will plant a seed that will ultimately help someone else. Don’t run away before you see its fulfillment. What you just witnessed in your own heart was my promise already fulfilled.”

            He broke away and headed towards the white rose bush I had noted earlier. Breaking off one of the roses, he laughed. As the sound left his mouth, a score of white butterflies fluttered away from him and scattered every which way. My heart surged with joy. This was my father, revealing himself in a way I hadn’t even seen as a girl.

            He walked over and handed me the rose, and I knew what it meant. I was clean. I was accepted. He loved me. He loved me, and his love hadn’t diminished with my lack of faith. The way he looked at me I knew he wasn’t judging my past.

            I was his.

            Suddenly I felt I had to do something. I whirled on my feet, feeling like dancing, and ran to the part of the path that was right in front of the thorns by the entrance. I bent down and tenderly picked the blue flower than had sprung up there from my tear.

            As I handed it to Father, he took it gently and wrapped me in another embrace.

            I had given him the first fruit of my healing to use as he pleased.

            I stood there in his embrace and inhaled his scent. I had missed it deeply. And as my doubts and fears were smothered in his arms, I was confident I could never leave this place again.

Touching

As you place your hand over my heart
Your river of love washes through every part
And life beats again, removing all trace of sin
Peace floods me until I can breathe
In your sweet melody
Gently in and out, my eyes close and I melt
Under the pressure of your hand
Warm and careful, touching what’s broken
Healing, watering, restoring
I linger and wait
To know you more
The God who ignites with touch
That makes war with peace
And loves us to our undoing
I lose myself when I’m with you
I can dance all day when your eyes smile
When I know your favor and your laughter
Nothing is sweeter
Than my Creator
May our hearts be close and flow like water
Embrace me, lift me in your dance
So my confession can match your cadence

River

My desire grows deep like a well planted seed

Spreading its roots and now flowering

Into a fire that burns to go further

To grow closer to you

To dive deeper, love stronger

You come to me gently

You’re strong and you’re meek

You come where I’m at

Place your hand on my cheek

You say to me “be still.

I’m here and I’m for you

I am your strength

Let my water come near you

Penetrate the surface

Reach the deep places

And heal as it flows

Let it come

Let it come.”

Your sweet peace washes through me

It’s your river of life

Reviving my heart

Go deep

Come near

You’re all I want to hear

Move me

Kiss me

May your blood flow through me

For I am made new

And known through and through

Useful

Have you ever had one of those days when you just don't feel like you've contributed anything to the world?
That day is today for me. I'm off work and have no other plans to fill my day. My goal was to work on my novel, but I wrote less than a page and it honestly felt stale.
These days happen; I understand that. Sometimes I just don't know why. I mean, I'm an artist, right? So when I have a free day like this, I should let creativity take over. But it doesn't always, despite my supplications to my muse (who is none other than Jesus Christ.) So there must be a reason the inspiration didn't come, right?
When I experience days like these there are some questions that arise within me. Questions such as: Does God still consider me useful even when I haven't been productive? Am I really doing anything good for the world? Was my life meaningless for a day since I didn't accomplish anything?
See, I feel that in this season of my life I'm living in this tension of knowing what I'm made to do and who I am but not always doing that or being that.
I'm waiting.
I have become but am not yet unveiled. I am a writer but not yet recognized as such by a large audience. I have a job but have not yet stepped into the fullness of my calling.
So in this place and in days like today when I am seemingly not moving forward, who am I? Maybe I need to start asking different questions. Like: Do I matter to God when I am not doing, but simply being? What does it even mean to be? How do I separate my self from my actions and accomplisments?
I know that I am always God's daughter and that he always desires to pour his love into me. So perhaps it's okay sometimes to not do anything, to stop and just exist for a moment. Maybe I'll move forward more than I thought was possible if I do this.
I keep hearing this word about waiting on God, and he will accelerate you.
I'm waiting.

Grateful

I just want to say
In the midst of all this pain
Jesus you are still the way
And I’m grateful
I just have to worship
My body has to dance
When I think of what you’ve done
How you’ve given us a chance
Free, undone, mercy overtaking
Washing what I’ve done wrong
Covering me as we are one
Creator, Father, friend, provider
You are higher than my words
My creativity lacks flare
And power
But when you overshadow
It speaks louder
I’m grateful
I’m grateful that you care
For the little ones down here
That you come and fill with purpose
And commission
To carry your very nature
And reveal your glory
In color, in light, in words and poetry
Movement, grace, wonder, hospitality
The privilege of this gift
I can’t describe
Jesus I’m grateful for this life

My Guide

Jesus

You tell me life can be
So full of joy I’m like a tree
Planted by your stream
Strong and well fed
My heart that once was dead
Now beats again
And proclaims your hope for those
With eyes to see
I hear your voice and see your eyes
They speak of love, abundant life
So why does dullness creep in seep in
And seem to steal the life within?
Why am I still blind at times
When your river runs right by my side?
Why can I not see your beauty
When it’s displayed right before me?
My fragile mind
It breaks with big agendas
It falls apart when plans are plenty
And fails to grasp that you are here
To steal the voice from my fear
And give me your hand
So I can follow you and trust again
Jesus
You speak of love so bold
And demonstrate it every day
So that I may follow you in every way
My fingers find your hand
They’re grasping now so don’t let go
I’m trusting you
I’ll see, I’ll go
I’ll follow you where you go
I’m blind in faith but free in life
Jesus
Lead me through this day as my guide