How Do You Love Me?

How do you love me?

I am an animal, chasing down hateful desires as if my salvation meant nothing. Like Israel before me, my flagrant whoring reeks from the high places. Yet the Lord is faithful? His love carries on. My family remains faithful. My friends still love me and accept me. They see my lewdness, my blantant disregard of the gift I've been given, and yet they love me still. Why?

This is the best I can do to explain:

“Death. I am death. I hunt, molest, and kill. I prey on the weak and unsuspecting, luring them into abandoned trust before ripping their heart out. I destroy because it is what I do.

My name is Peter and I hate.

Love. I am love. I spend my effort, time, and thought for those around me. I give to anyone and everyone that I come in contact with, seeking their benefit with no reserve. I give because it is who I am.

My name is Peter and I love.

I am two men, polar opposite yet struggling for dominance over the same life. I am chained to death, yet living still. The things I long to do, I do not do. I do the things I hate.

My name is Peter and I am wretched.

There is a man who offers life. I chose to follow Him. He gave his life for me, I gave my life to Him. He is my hope. He is my freedom. He is the life in my soul.

My name is Peter and I am forgiven.”

People can love me because they see the life in me. I am reborn. I fight so that the good may defeat the evil inside, but I no longer want the evil to win. The ones who know me best will see my fight and love me for it. Death lives in my body, but I am no longer death. I am love, and I am loved.

-Rock Darkwater

This Earthen Vessel'd Treasure

There once was a man who lived in a town, much like the one I live in today. This man owned a priceless treasure, but it was locked away in a room and he didn't have the key. The man spent his days doing what was good in his own eyes. Then one day, a woman appeared in front of him. She had a key hanging from a chain at her throat. She took the key, unlocked the room, and together they beheld the glorious treasure. They took what they could carry and went out into the town to invest it. The two of them were quite satisfied for some time.

The years passed and the woman grew restless. Whether it was the treasure, the room, or the town, something displeased her, and she decided to go. As she made to leave, the man grabbed her hand. “Stay with me.” He said. But she would not be convinced. She pulled and pushed, slapped and fought to be released, until at last, the man let her go. As he released her hand, he snatched the key to the treasure room. Startled, she considered trying to get it back, but then turned abruptly and disappeared into the blackness that is beyond our story.

The man turned, gazing wistfully at the treasure in the room. Then he gently closed the door and locked it tight. The key, he hung on a chain over his heart.

For the man, the years went by as if he were in exile. He had made something of himself, but it was as if it were a dream, or an unfinished project that he couldn't complete. The treasure he had invested produced returns, but it never grew. The man gave what he could from what he had to people who needed it more than he.

Time passed.

As he spent his days he began looking for another woman. “This one must be different,” He said. For he didn't need the door to be unlocked anymore, he already had the key. He waited and watched for the one who would make the unlocking worthwhile.  

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us." - 2 Corinthians 4:7

With Hands to the Plow

January 2, 1411

     My cozy recliner by the fire is getting harder to resist. The warm crackle of burning pitch, soft fur of the dogs, and the soothing smell of woodsmoke beg me to stay with them. God, why is it so cold?

January 15, 1411

     It's official. Plowing season should be warmer. Gisele has enough fat on her to pull and not mind the cold, but it kills me. It's like pushing a knife through cold cheese. Acres of cold cheese. I just want it to be spring.

February 3, 1411

     Day in and day out. Hand to the plow. Pushing and pushing. Every few feet, lug a millstone off the field and trudge back. Hand to the plow. Push. Trudge. Push. Trudge. Another stone. Acres and acres of field left to go. Blistered fingers numb. Toes chilled in my boots. If I just make it through the day, there's a fire waiting.

February 10, 1411

     Even the fire has lost its appeal. At the end of the day, exhausted and frozen, it just reminds me that early tomorrow I'll be out there again. In the cold. Tired hands pushing through the field again. Where is the spring?

February 11, 1411

     Woke up this morning and thought to take the day off. Realized it would be dense not to get ready for spring. No other choice but to plow. I bundled up and went back to the field.

February 24, 1411

     I hate this. Can I just stop being? Existence is a drudgery. Nothing to do but plow. Spring will come and go. Winter will come again, and with it more plowing. Will there ever be an end? It doesn't really matter. Hand to the plow. Push. Trudge. Stone. Push. Trudge...

Waiting on the World to Change

      Here's the picture.

     I'm sitting at an intersection. The light is red. It's been red for quite some time now. My radio doesn't work, so I'm left alone with the clamor of my own hollow thoughts. It's probably close to 80 degrees outside. The AC doesn't work. Oh, and did I mention it's raining? Yup, windows up, I'm suffocating.

     I know I'm headed somewhere air-conditioned. It's only just around the corner. I only have to hold on for a few more minutes. If only this blasted light would change. God, why is it taking so long? Is it my fault, some sort of grand-scheme karma thing? This is ridiculous. Technically, I could just run it, there's no one in sight. Nope. That conscience thing. Gotta love it. Ugh.

     Waiting.

To the hurting

Hey everyone,

We all hurt at one time or another. I know how it feels.
I wrote this to all those out there who are hurting and alone.
The best medicine is often times made of bone, skin, a little muscle and an absorbent cloth covering.
No talking, no resolving, just crying, just being held.
Because, although we know God is in control and things will work out, it hurts like hell right now.
We just have to let it out with someone who cares.

So here's to you.

Tears

Give me your tired, your broken-hearted.

Give me your lost and all alone.

Give me your hurting, throbbing, and aching

Give me your sorrows, your tears, and your moans.

Share all the pain way down deep that is robbing

your face of the joy it's been missing of late

For I have a shoulder fit just for sobbing

a shirt that will take all your wet tears away

I'll hold you awhile till your shoulders quit shaking

and heartache has left you spent to the bone

Stroking your hair and mildly whispering

Believe me, my love, you're never alone

I'll be there for you when your world comes crashing

down to the ground, your walls paper thin

I'll be there protecting, forever defending

your heart from travails of the wrath of the wind

The storm will be fearsome with clouds above thundering

and threatening to wash you away as debris

Yet shelter within, as my arms encircling

guard you safe in the rock I was crafted to be

I will protect you, guard you, and shelter

I will prevail in the face of the wind

I will ensure your safe survival

For I will be anchored, on the King my eyes pinned

A Bitter Night

I said in my heart,
"I will ascend to the heavens,
I will raise my throne above the stars of God,
I will make myself like the Most High."

A fool in his folly.

"The greatest in the Kingdom is the servant of all"

"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment?
'You shall love the Lord your God...
and the second is like it...
You shall love your neighbor as yourself"






Even my search to see the Lord is tinged with selfishness.

I want to be like him,
I want to be perfect as my father in heaven is perfect.
I want to see his glory.
I want to be in his presence
I want to share in his power.
I want him to use me in mighty ways.
I want to bring him glory.

Though every instance of his love were to shine a bright, burning star, they would remain encapsulated in a black night sky of egoism.

Were the Lord to cast me aside, disdaining my use, a person forever without meaning or worth, I would hate him for it.

Woe is me, wretched sinner that I am.

Almighty, Omnipotent, Author of life
free me from this cage of self,

Show me not my faults and failings,
for they remain beyond my control,

Rather deign to faucet your healing power
through this imperfect vessel

Let restoration fall on those close at hand
and reveal your power

Meanwhile, keep my focus outward,
attending to needs that I see,

content in the moment to be under grace,
to be as broken within as you please.