Broken Binds Us

Every once in a while, I find a piece of art, literature, or music that I wish I'd written. I find something that resonates so soundly with me that I feel as if it was my soul that composed it in the first place, and I just reflect upon my own work. Apparently copyright laws don't see things this way. Regardless, this song is one of those. It's called "Broken Binds Us" by Adam Pasion

Aren’t we all so broken, each and everyone?

Our sailboats are sinking in the mist of a setting sun

Need we be further familiar eyes

With the hopelessness of paling water in rising tides

Let me lay my hands on you, let me feel your pain

We’re all bruised and broken left out in the rain

Let me draw you in, let me pray out your name

Let us search you through and through—don’t be ashamed

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In the depths of sorrow we feel alone

But isn’t brokenness what binds us

The song that we all know

It’s the cup that we all drink of until we’re full

It drips down into the belly, seeps into our soul

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In this great big world, see how we relate

We are all in, on our way to, on our way from this lonely state

In this great big world with all its sticks and stones

We are anything but alone

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

 

Let us be broken, for it’s the only place from which you can rebuild

Ground down to fine dust, pour Your water in and mold us with Your hands

A Simile Is Like A Metaphor...

Writing is an odd thing. In so many ways, I feel not only like the words that I put down here reflect me, but that the words are me. Some guy who I've never heard of (turns out he's a sports writer. whoops.) once said, "There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." I like that quote, even though I don't like sports writers.

So often I feel like my writing is just a written record of my heartbeat. That's when I read something that I wrote years ago. Rarely a good idea. Sometimes I'll come across something I've written years ago and I'll just be appalled that I could've called it finished. Sometimes I won't even recognize it as something I myself created. That's never a good thing.

You'd think that if I had taken the time to compose something, and that if that very thing had come from my own passion, that I would remember it, but it isn't so. Some pieces, however, I could write in 15 minutes, then recite verbatim for months. The inspiration hits me like a lightening strike and leaves a scar that I'll never forget.

But what about papers that I write for school? I could make that crap all day and never give it a second thought. Even though that writing is completely meaningless to me, teachers will always praise me for my 5 minute essays that contain nothing memorable. They're simply 5 paragraphs of me telling them what they want to hear, but I could spend 100 years forming what I consider to be my literary masterpieces and no one might ever read them. And as much as the idea of that may bother me, I'm actually pretty okay with it in reality. It's probably just because I find writing so cathartic. So for the 3 of you who follow me, thanks! It means a lot to me. Regardless of who may read this though, it's probably more for me than it is for any of you. I just thought I'd make this known so that if I say anything horrible about you or just start making inside jokes with myself on here, you won't be offended or weirded out, because it's not you, it's me. I still want to be friends though.

A Sea Rages

So I just watched Francis Chan's "Basic. Fear God." and I felt inspired.



As I lay within my bed preparing to depart
To lands of bliss and fantasy hid deep within my heart,
I heard the waves begin to rise—they swallowed all the floor
With arms of foam and feet of sand they held fast shut the door.

As inches of the salty sea began to swell and grow,
I started to unlearn my life. I started not to know.
There was one thing I understood, one fact I held quite dear:
The truest thing that swallowed me was unrelenting fear.

Anxiety possessed the key to shutting out the flow,
But try did I with all my might, I couldn’t help but show.
I jumped upon my bed and hoped the vessel wouldn’t fail.
I grasped the sheets with trembling hands and screamed to no avail.

Then the waters rose above the beaten mattress sloop,
And all I had to save myself was hope I couldn’t group.
The ceiling stared excitedly expecting my approach
I put my hands upon his face and showed him my reproach.

Alas the tide had come in full, and all my breaths were gone.
With acrid tears and widened eyes I bid farewell the dawn.
That moment magnified my fear to heights I’d never known—
The oceans and the weight of dread both chilled me to the bone.

So with the last of all my time I breathed in deep the brine,
Though what I found, not fright but life, filled up those lungs of mine.
And had I known it all along I never would have fought
I would have drowned a thousand times to be so finely wrought.

Broken Dove

These shackles bind my feet to floor and keep me still within,
But restlessly the Spirit stirs the movement of my limbs.
From shoulders weary—slumped and scarred, a hope begins to rise
As sun shines in and pierces dark to turn my tired eyes
Toward One who lives, though once He died; the darkness held Him down.
It didn't know the Plans of Old, deep rooted in that ground.
His blood flowed down, and as it ran, it cauterized my lashes
And from this back came wings to fly—the feathers from the ashes.
I try to run on winds and soar, but pain brings swift decline.
No strength I have can pull me up. My brokenness is mine.
And just before I hit the waves, Your grace lets me ascend;
I feel You lift me from the depths, I feel the holy hands.

So Music Maker hear my cry, Omniscient know my love.
My gratitude will never end, You mend the broken dove.

'Till We Have Faces (When I Was Born)

When I was born I had no face

Or hands or feet, my life disgraced;

But change came quickly from the skies

When brightest lightening gave me eyes

The splendid colors there to see

But hearing hid itself from me.

‘til thunder shook my body still

I saw the quaking, heard the chill.

The quiet voice that gave me ears

Ne’er ceased to speak through silent tears

And now I listen quietly

Though footless running tires me

My name was entered in a race

I ran to win and feet were placed

Upon my legs that I might run,

Not stopping ‘til I reached the sun

Yet running didn’t do me well

Since I could see but couldn’t feel

I saw a rose and heard it call

I needed touch once and for all

And as the thorns brought pain and harm

I found some hands upon my arms

Then the rain fell down in floods

As from Your side came gushing blood

It splashed upon the pavement here

And washed away my every fear

I saw it fall down from the sky

I heard it hit my tired eyes

I ran to hide myself from cold

And caught the drops with fingers bold

When from the ground aroma rose

The raging storm gave me a nose

But all of this without some lips

Left me alone, a sinking ship

An angel flew from heaven high

With burning coals he cauterized

My mouth and what it left behind

Not scars, but lips, a tongue refined

And also the ability

To taste, to speak, to breathe, to sing

The death that brought me everything

Taught me to die in heaven’s wings

And now I’m born in glory’s grace

With hands, and feet, and now a face

Inspired by Luke 8:10, the classic novel "'Till We Have Faces" by C.S. Lewis, and the hymn "Let Us Love and Sing and Wonder"

"Let us love the Lord who bought us Pitied us when enemies Called us by His grace and taught us Gave us ears and gave us eyes"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvpGKFHR10Q

Beggars

     I met a beggar today. I was wandering through the city and saw the wretch sitting alone by a dumpster. Anyone could see that the container held nothing but trash, but to this man, it was a source of treasure. As I approached him, he turned his eyes to me. The lids that had once been still now widened with childlike awe. He just stared at me, as if I were some sort of king. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been bathed and wore intact clothes that astonished him, or perhaps it was just the fact that he had never expected someone to come and intentionally talk to him that left him amazed, but either way, all words abandoned his lips. That’s when I decided to speak. I asked him what his name was. Immediately, the look of wonder was changed to a look of wondering—pure confusion. Like so many others, he hadn’t one.  I pushed away some debris and sat down beside the man. “When was the last time you ate?” I asked him.

     “Oh no, sir. I’m quite full, but thank you for the offer,” he responded.

     “Surely you must be hungry,” I pleaded. “You mustn’t have eaten in months.”

     “I get by quite well,” he insisted.

     His withered arms and emerging ribcage were more than content to disagree. I couldn’t stand to see him like this. If only he could see himself, perhaps he would be willing to eat a meal with me. I rose to my feet and walked over to the dumpster. Throwing the lid from its resting place, I began to search for something reflective. A short escapade resulted in several pieces of a broken mirror.  I chose the largest one and handed it to the man. He looked into the mirror and beheld his disheveled appearance: a thick beard dressed with dirt, skin stained by the asphalt, tattered clothes, and lips cracked like the very mirror he held in his hand. Certain that this would alert the man to his desperate condition, I began to smile. Then he did the same. His state didn’t bother him in the least. He was nearly at the end of the walk down the pier to death’s gates, ready to knock at the Tyrant’s door, and it didn’t register in his mind as anything of importance. In fact, he began to grasp the looking glass even tighter, taking in the entirety of the person staring back at him. The man finished looking at himself and handed the jagged mirror back to me. As the edge departed his weathered hands, the glass nicked his feeble finger and drew out a small rivulet of blood. The look of contentment disappeared, and his eyes grew empty. As the blood ran down his finger into his palm, his fissured lips began to quiver. Then the tears began to flow, mimicking the red life that ran from his paw. “Do you see what I am?” he wept. “There’s nothing left. Don’t you see? I have nothing.  All that my hands can hold is the very blood that gives me life, and even that escapes.”

     It had all been a façade. His refusal of a meal and acceptance of his condition were a poor mask for the broken boy that hid beneath. The filth and pretend solitary contentment served only to cover the identity that he didn’t have. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to be this way!” His words echoed through the alley, displaying his bitter isolation. “Food that doesn’t fill and clothes that never warm. It’s maddening. Keep your dirty money. Keep your selfish compassion. I don’t want either.”

     “I don’t have anything to offer,” I solemnly said, “but I do have something to give you.”

     I pulled out the letter that I had been protecting in my coat. I knew it truly was for this man. As with the mirror, when I handed it to him, he stared. This time, however, his gaze was directed at the seal. The imprint of a magnificent lion held this letter shut. He knew whom it was from. It had come from the man in the mountains. All of a sudden, the vagabond jerked his hand away. He had forgotten about the gash that had covered his hand in blood. Not wanting to ruin the beautiful envelope, he tried to wipe the stains away from the pure white paper, but was unsuccessful. The more he wiped the blood, the more it covered the envelope. That’s when he saw it. Script that had been hidden before was now revealed. He again placed his bloodstained hand upon the letter to reveal the one thing he had always yearned for: a name. The face of the envelope had a mere three letters, but they were his three letters: Son. Without even opening his message, the man arose and told me he would follow. We both set out for the mountains. He’ll know soon. You see, I’m a beggar, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2f09EDaPAag

As if Mark didn't have enough already...

so, it turns out that facebook has the copyright for any material that you put up on facebook (or so my brother tells me, and a mild amount of research supports said information). that's why I'm on here I guess. first I'll just repost some old stuff that I've written, then who knows what will happen. hopefully I'll keep writing and keep this thing updated, but who knows what will happen