tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41678758334138202322009-12-04T00:20:06.659-05:00justinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07938419352942526860noreply@blogger.comBlogger197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-59952218903732690072009-11-27T07:00:00.001-05:002009-11-27T07:00:05.724-05:00

The flow of thought pauses, changes, skips back and forth between ideas, hesitant to settle on one for fear it will be anything less than the right one. The pen lifts, its scratching silent. The paper waits at ease.The pen touches the paper again. Dim in the twilight, words take their place in rows across the page. Occasionally one bears a line drawn through it; occasionally a cluster of tiny

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13100750327077763262009-11-27T07:00:00.000-05:002009-11-27T07:00:04.876-05:00

God's dear son – Jesus – have you so – offended -As Man – so judgingly – hatefully pretended?People: all mocking, People: rejecting, you: in great anguish.Whence came this Anguish? And who was the Guilty?I – treasonous Wretch – you are dying for Me.Yes, it was I denied – crucified – you on Calvary, the shepherd.From this good shepherd who for sheep was offeredthe son who suffered for the slave

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13960814296672536392009-11-24T07:00:00.003-05:002009-11-24T07:00:07.728-05:00

Everyday we deal with decisions of right and wrong Choice is the keyDo we actually choose to listen to what’s right?Not even what's right, but what God thinksBecause he knows what is right So what do we choose?What we think is best?Why not? After all, we are in control of our life, right?NoBecause if that’s trueWe wouldn’t ever live in truth So why would any one want to live a lie?Because it's

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-32121030429029245432009-11-24T07:00:00.001-05:002009-11-24T07:00:06.985-05:00

It's 5:36 AM. I am lying on an over-sized purple couch that has been faded by years of overnight guests, afternoon teas, hours of “four on a couch”, tear stained conversations, random parties, and countless Blockbuster nights. The city lights of an unfamiliar neighborhood stream in through the cracks in the mini blinds. I can already hear the tread of tires gripping the pavement. As my mind

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-85151581154651891992009-11-19T11:19:00.005-05:002009-11-19T11:26:39.004-05:00

“The soul lets go of everything, daughter, so that it may remain more completely in me. The soul itself no longer lives, but I.”I stilled myself.There I was.Staggering. Exhausted. Sweating. Tense. Muscles aching. Barely alive.I looked in my eyes. I looked at myself. I saw myself. Objectively. Sad. The bricks. So heavy. Cutting. Gouging my skin, blood gushing. Me – oblivious. Moving at a snail

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-6910784804982491472009-11-19T07:00:00.000-05:002009-11-23T14:00:33.222-05:00

I drove to that same building on a brisk fall evening. The mountains were glorious, standing high and proud against a sun-set sky. Oranges and reds decorated the grounds and underneath my feet were the crunching sounds of weak leaves. The air was clean and it was so quiet you could hear that strange sound that is really no sound at all; the ringing of silence. Every now and then, you could hear

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-91263277162604156142009-11-17T07:00:00.005-05:002009-11-30T11:22:10.053-05:00

"Is it true that I have seen all these things? That they are real incidents in my life's history? Did I see those brave and noble countrymen of mine laid low in death and weltering in their blood? Did I see our country laid waste and in ruins? Did I see soldiers marching, the earth trembling and jarring beneath their measured tread? Did I see the ruins of smouldering cities and deserted homes?

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-4305206922404959602009-11-17T07:00:00.002-05:002009-11-17T07:00:05.572-05:00

Pace around the fieldWaist to waist in silenceWatch the storm black the skyYou've razed the harborOf pretense from my breastYou're no mystery to me nowRun - your soul crushed callousThe wounds you don't nurseI leave my flowers funeral hazeAnd put my hope in the earthTurn my head awayThe screen oh fatherThere's nothing to sayWhy drink it any furtherYears of empty promiseTo the children it can't

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-21085996577137750962009-11-12T10:55:00.000-05:002009-11-12T10:56:48.384-05:00

What God has joinedin Her infinite wisdomof the who and the what we all needLet no man thinkhe's smart enoughor arrogant enoughor capable enoughto try to pull apart.As the drops of eastdilute with westtwo rivers truly are oneAs one body is madeof thousands of partsthis river is filled from streams.Where this water joinsto become part of the wholeand flows to fill that which wasit becomes one with

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-89814233870289735682009-11-10T11:14:00.003-05:002009-11-10T11:22:04.810-05:00

University Christian Living Covenant Contract Broken Friday, August 28, 10 p.m.Sally O’Reilly rooms with her best friend. They eat five meals together a week, take one class together on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Sally’s best-friend-roommate has a boyfriend. Sally does not. On Friday nights, Sally, her best-friend-roommate and her boyfriend go to a house on Little Cricket Drive for a party.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-25591205711143755382009-11-10T11:09:00.002-05:002009-11-10T11:11:37.577-05:00

I like the freedom of a blue skyAnd the cozy feel of a cloudy oneI want to sit by a fireBut hate it when my legs are coldI want to be with you foreverBut don't trust you like my friendsAny reasonable request is a YesAnd at times the unreasonable tooWhere did my confidence go? I don't want to make you sadLiving across the Western lineI did not throw out my heritageYou taught me to open my armsSo I

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-5619694124839397072009-11-05T11:01:00.001-05:002009-11-05T11:03:39.730-05:00

Stone is not deadMarble comes to life in human handsHe called it carne, meat to carveGod-fired-up with chisel and hammerForged and pounded, forged and pounded To strike and chip, to file and etchStone is not deadStone lives in his handsStone breathes in his loving careStone exalts in his ministryHe sculpted stone into lifeStone is not deadDavid was a damaged slabUntil a flat-nosed

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-48391237906617075982009-11-03T11:51:00.003-05:002009-11-03T11:55:58.162-05:00

We are all suspended in a state of waiting, and it’s hard not to notice the people around me:Two teenagers on their way to a rodeo. I had no idea you could buy a cowboy-hat shaped box for your cowboy hats. An elderly couple sits closest to the gate. He blows his nose and clears his throat intermittently—his wife ignores him, focusing her attentions on her Sudoku book. A group of men and women are

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-980441167560574932009-10-29T07:00:00.001-04:002009-11-03T11:49:20.756-05:00

I search for God. In rainy days with books,debates and prayersdirty looksand condescending stares.In the heart of intellect,the corners of the mind,all thoughtsand words defined.I search for God.In the heartbeat orhymn or chantor the embrace or tear.Aching to find Godeverywhereanywhere.what great fear;if found nowhere.I search for God.Wag my finger at the skysay“Make yourself real!”The heaven’s

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-42118944084275149392009-10-27T10:52:00.003-04:002009-10-27T11:08:27.717-04:00

Hope deferred makes the heart sick...Life is a constant succession of transitions. As I look back and ponder my life, there have been five pivotal points of transition – high school graduation; the summer after my freshman year of college; the semester I lived in France; graduate school; AND moving to Lebanon.Each transition carried with it a certain amount of joy, anticipation,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-35794400477570417622009-10-27T07:00:00.000-04:002009-10-27T07:00:00.605-04:00

Sitting here, trying to pull something out of my heart,Wondering why it’s so hard to just writeBecause me and you both know that’s where I amI don’t want to make some unrealistic statement that sounds goodSo my words are accepted by my audience Because when my eyes open,I come to find myselfUp on an empty stage with the spotlight in my eyes, blinding meAnd only a couple pieces of scrap paper in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-52078938627645387312009-10-22T07:00:00.003-04:002009-10-24T17:15:47.308-04:00

Look across the street from my home and you’ll see what made me want to write tonight: a little black girl and a little white boy face one another on the steeply slanting front lawn of a Pittsburgh home. She holds a dandelion, makes a wish: "I wish I had a dog". She blows on the tufts of white seed, and passes it on to the boy.Pan out just a little to the sidewalk with the Asian, Caucasian,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-17795198955980123012009-10-22T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-22T07:00:05.467-04:00

Some years ago, I heard a tale of a letter to Dear Abby--or some other such advice columnist--that came from a woman wondering rather desperately how to stop her husband snoring. It provoked several months of dialogue between readers and the columnist, until one woman wrote in with the following abrupt statement: "Snoring is the sweetest sound in the world. Ask any widow."I heard that story long,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-34694078575390143742009-10-20T17:07:00.001-04:002009-10-20T17:09:17.503-04:00

I woke a strange place,my father was gone,he must have wandered somewhere.Mounted brown bassLargeSolid bodied;Careens from wall to balsam lureSooted with dust.Stacks of important work,Cabinets of stuffAnd the smell of coffeehe must have wandered somewhere.He cancelled the newsAlong with our talksAnd the Canadian vacation that went to pieces. The year of the big stormWhen growing up burned down.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-8683279434294478102009-10-20T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-20T07:00:05.166-04:00

Do you know what this is?" he asked one day, handing me a dead piece of wood no longer than my hand but twice the length of his, wide at one end and sharply, but evenly, tapered at the other."A stick?" I offered."No, Daddy, it's a gun – and this is the bullet," he corrected obviously, pointing next to a tiny speck of wood about the size and shape of a grain of instant rice."Can we cut a hole in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-66924949623697111712009-10-15T10:53:00.002-04:002009-10-15T10:56:17.292-04:00

They weigh nearly nothingbut they carry the world:just five pennies,one dime -- the extravagance of his love."It's just one more gift;you can buy something nice,for yourself...or maybe someone special"His intense eyes searchfor the worth of my soulas they beg my approval"I know it's not quite what you wanted,but it's all I could find."I wonder at the simplicity of these small bits of

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-70163858667958238912009-10-13T13:58:00.002-04:002009-10-13T14:00:50.196-04:00

Truth jumps from my six story windowI am left to discernWhere did it go?Naked to my eyeI scan the ground and find its affectIn a bite of fruit and a smileThe watchman knows when they come and when they goBut the wealth behind his eyes goes unnoticedBelieving he is just the guy behind the gateChildren dark and dirty run andLaugh to forget what was lostWhen the coal burned their lungsBut kept them

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-69616182062148211122009-10-08T11:13:00.001-04:002009-10-08T11:15:25.855-04:00

Yesterday I wasAlmost done with an ode to DavidMarble giant marvel of Michelangelo. The most beautifulMan-made object I will ever see(Not hyperbole)But then there I wasAn hour laterDriving a back road by a Foggy autumn bogUnder a full moonA white christening gownShrouding a painted marshLeaves in vibrant arrayAwaiting last ritesEven as they are baptizedBy the fogAn October morning Will fade in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-47610728638123852372009-10-06T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-06T08:57:10.592-04:00

Nat exited the train and stood blinking on the platform, dazed and disoriented. Her current state of shock lasted for sixteen trains which arrived and left again before she began to move toward the turnstiles that would lead her to the marble staircase, the glass corridor, and the cold January sun. She carried a battered cardboard box in her arms and had a bandage on her hand. The heels of her

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-43796376389533259812009-10-02T17:18:00.002-04:002009-10-02T17:22:32.536-04:00

Two hoursseems an interminable lengthto the husband, fatherwho stares into the eyesof his tiny daughter.Newly thrust intoa darkened roomin this darkened world.And wondersif he will have to go aboutthis enormous taskwithout her.Two hoursseems so longto the mommy, the wifewhisked upstairsto stare into the bright hooded lightsof a sterile room.And wondersif it is her dayto see the face of Jesus.And

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6