Love Mercy

Love mercy.

Don't ignore the nudging of God's Spirit,
His voice in your ear,
His shout from life's street corners,
to love mercy,
lavish mercy.

Pour out mercy
with kind generosity,
with humility,
without conditions,
without disdain,
and not because it's deserved,
it's commanded,
demanded,
or a required task,
a duty.

Bless with mercy,
be extravagant,
without reserve,
without hesitation.

Don't wait for a request.
Don't wait for a word of repentance,
contrition or desperation.

Be the one to take the first step.
Leap forward, anticipate.
In tenderness release mercy
and as mercy is given,
forgive.

If it's a part of what you know needs to be done,
if you have been wronged
offended,
betrayed,
if anger rules you,
find its festering root and forgive.

You must,
for your own sake,
forgive.
Yes, you must!
Do it and let that be the end.

God will enable you.
Ask Him. He will help you.
He did it before you and for you.

Unforgiveness is a poison,
eating its host
from the inside out.
Mercy and forgiveness
a balm,
an antidote,
a refreshing.

Live in God's power
and any and every moment,
when His Spirit whispers,
"Give mercy",
and perhaps also,
"Forgive",
don't hesitate,
plunge in.

Copyright June 2013 Joy Chastagner

Heavy Stone

My heavenly father,
Papa,
Lord Jesus,
forgive me.
I have wounded you
with my impoverished view
of self dependency,
of self sufficiency,
of my chin in the air,
fists clenched,
determination to survive
with my
'just in case'
you don't come through plan.

There it is.  I've said it.
Sad small, small words,
small, silly plan.

In your love for me,
you withheld nothing,
not even your life.

Here I am,
my heart
so captivated
by you,
so hopeful,
so full and satisfied,
and so sadly,
flawed,
divided,
frightened
as the eleventh hour passes,
and the quiet grows
and I still wait
for my miracle,
my answers to expressed need.

My mind is tumultous with questions,
'Will he, will you, Lord  come through for me?'
My heart doubts your goodness,
it doubts despite the evidence of it,
it doubts perhaps because I have 'why?' questions
with no answer.

This unbelief,
my unbelief
is a heavy stone.

Forgive me Lord.
You, whom I so dearly love,
forgive me
this ugly wound,
this unbelief,
my unbelief,
my ridiculous survival plans.

I choose you,
renew me again,
be my strength.
I rest in you,
trust in you,
and wait.

Copyright Joy Chastagner Februrary 2013

Bread

The great fullness
of a yellow moon
hangs low
againt the opaque,
blackness of night.

Quiet clouds
stretched thin,
lazy as they pass
through the light.

The warmth
of your presence
wraps
as a warm cloak
about me.
Winter's bite
stings my cheeks.
My breath lingers
visible in the cold
before me.

My Lord,
Your words
fill my thoughts,
they permeate,
transform,
they give life.
They are bread to me.
They sustain me.

You sustain me.

Copyright Joy Chastagner January 2013

Day's End

We stood in front
of an open window.
"I have a gift", he said.
I smiled.

All was damp from evening rain.
I felt the quiet as it reached for me,
soothing,
holding.

I stood
without moving,
breathing slowly,
deeply.
I could smell winter,
feel her approach,
the air so cool,
fresh.

My eyes closed,
all thoughts silent.
This quiet at day's end
His gift,
His renewing,
my rest.

My Jesus,
my Lord,
here,
so near,
this quiet,
blessed.

Copyright Joy Chastagner October 2012

Unspoken

Sun lit particles glimmer,
drifting,
floating on
cool stream waters.

Leaf song reaches me.
Its tender melody
the voice of my soul's Lover.
The cool breeze His refreshing,
the warm sun
His strength upholding.

I am still.
In this present moment
there is only He and me
and this unspoken language,
in which He so profoundly
inexplicably
articulates
and satisfies.

Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2012

Beacon

Do you see, here, my feeble flame?
My efforts wane without your
igniting, sustaining presence.

You are always present,
yet there are moments
when I look away
as though you are not.

What colossal,
nonsensical,
stupidity.

Now,
here I am,
again.

I have returned to this place
I must visit on my knees,
this place where I remember
I cannot without you,
I simply cannot.

What foolishness is this?
I seek to live in my own strength,
my own wisdom,
rather than drawing from
your lavishly given,
endless resources.

I work so hard to achieve,
so furiously to reach goals
my fingers never quite touch,
until dissonance confronts me,
and brings me to my knees,
here, near to you,
again.

Listen to what is deeper,
beyond these long sighs,
hear my soul wanting.

I can only offer what I am.
You know me well.
I am still yours.
Your path is my path,
your ways my ways.
These days past,
all this striving without you,
all this labored hurry,
I put it aside,
I am here with hands open.

You, my first love,
my best love.

Forgive this self-involved heart,
so ferociously independent,
determined to stand invincible
against any odds,
without need,
defying need,
ridiculous, prideful sufficiency.

This heart is not
always a lover's heart,
and its need is great.

Forgive me, Lord,
you are my Lord,
fill me,
consume me,
ignite me,
make me a raging fire,
a beacon to your intimate,
loving, awe inspiring presence,
a beacon to your freely given,
freedom giving
salvation.

Oh how you reach me!
You are good-

Come, now,
again,
set me aflame.

Copyright Joy Chastagner July 2010

Enough For Me

Sit here, now, awhile with me,
hold my hand.
Turn your gaze there,
to the white waters,
the rising waters.
Feel, taste the airborne spray.
Watch the wildness of the whipping green,
feel the slapping sting.
See the great clouds moving in,
they come for me.
These dark wet thunderings
will try to take from me,
who I am, what I will be,
but not today,
not while you are here,
holding my hand,
you are enough
to hold it all at bay.
You are always enough for me,
in every way,
for every need,
my very breath,
you are enough for me.

Copyright Joy Chastagner July 2010

In The Rainfall

Passion dreams,
despite the rainfall,
in the rainfall,
melodic rainfall,
mountains are formidable,
she sees the rising majesty
and sweeps color to the horizon,
her sweet breaths
giving inspired life,
her heart sacrificing,
hands calloused,
never still,
busiest in the quiet,
the greatest riches
present in single moments,
dream,
yes,
dream.

Copyright June 2010 Joy Chastagner

The End Comes

Good bye to what is dear,
tight chest,
uncomfortable stress,
shallow breathing,
long sighs,
looking away,
staring blankly,
in memory living again,
holding tightly
to what is already gone,
the end comes.

Even if eternity is waiting
and right choices have been made,
and time is short
with so much more ahead,
the end here,
on this earth,
still comes,
there is nothing to be done.

Now it's remembrance,
and a vacant place,
odd turnings to speak,
to reach for,
to share,
but no one is there.

Yes, it is only for awhile,
and hope is brilliant, alive,
and reunion is sure, anticipated,
and, yes, there is no fear.

For now acceptance
is what must be,
a continuing,
grabbing hold of today,
and living with passion.
Live!

And in that living,
passionate, alive living,
it's still okay,
it's a wonderful thing,
a good thing,
I think,
a kind of honoring,
to sit back,
now and then,
with long sighs,
and stares to nowhere,
and to remember.

Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009

Earth Creature

A shudder rolled through the land and the oceans rippled.
Startled birds flew, animals tensed
and the air became charged with excitement.
Winds coming from the east
rustled even the strongest of trees.

Clouds rolled back
and even the sun seemed to pale
against the power of that one word

"MAN"

It started as a spark
and instantly became flesh.
Holy DNA infused
into the fabric of an earth creature.
Created not only to serve,
but to have relationship with the Everlasting.

A creation perfect in design,
yet ultimately,
so willing to deny its destiny.
Outworldly creatures,
angels and demons,
marveling at its power of choice,
and yet, despite its inherent DNA,
a weakness of universal magnitude appears.

Sin, an individual rebellion agains the Maker,
a lie passed on by an outcast prince,
and so began the war,
the prize,
the heart of MAN.

Copyright Fred Chastagner June 2009

Known

Come closer, listen.
There was a place,
a place that was, that is,
a place where time is not, was not,
had not yet come.

Your name was and is known there.
You are known there.
Your face, the shape of your eyes,
the curve of your head,
the rhythmic step of your feet,
the length of your arms,
the movements of your hands,
your successes, your disasters,
your celebrations,
the darkness that weakens your knees,
your struggles for significance,
your life span and all its choices,
all is fully known,
nothing is hidden.

There is something else there.
Yes, something else, something powerful.
There is a great and tender yearning for you.
A yearning that cherishes,
that inspires, that strengthens,
that restores, that heals,
that fulfills, that provides.
Many thoughts have lingered over you,
thoughts, desires, plans,
to bring you a hope and a future.

Out of these thoughts,
out of this inexhaustible love,
a decision was made,
a decision that would affect all time.

The Timeless One, the One who is Love,
the One who is Wholly Other,
the Giver of Life,
the unimaginable beauty of Holy Majesty,
unleashed His creation power
and the very fabric of time was created,
it’s doors thrust open.

From nothing, into the darkness
the heavens and earth
were given their place,
deep churning waters,
tumultuous and formless,
rolling across earth’s surface.

The Life Giver, the Creator paused.
He hovered tenderly over the earth.
He knew what was to come,
how history would unfold,
He knew us then, He knows us now,
He was, He is calling us to Him.

Our names were whispered
in the darkness, in that void
where time had just begun.
From those first moments
we were fully known, fully loved.

He looked over the waters for some time,
then, in an explosion of supernatural power,
the Creator set in motion the forces of nature,
His thundering command
ripping through the darkness,

“Let there be light!”

Copyright Joy Chastagner June 2009

Golel: The Tomb Stone

Warmth began its creeping rise above the horizon.
The quiet, still air rested heavy.
The great stone,
stood immovable,
a memory of violent death
only a few days past.

The wails and sobbing,
the tense stricken faces,
the withdrawn holding,
the anger filled confusion,
the aching of unanswered questions,
were all gone to various homes for rest,
leaving behind this quiet, tension filled air.

The banishment of dark night
was almost complete.
About the great stone,
shadow haze moved with the breeze,
giving odd appearance of dance,
as though sentience from somewhere dark
celebrated the setting of this great stone in place.

Bird song awoke
oblivious to
the stone,
the shadow dance,
the strong, leather clad guards,
standing, watching, wary,
glancing back and forth.

In the quiet,
two women approached.
As they neared the stone
the ground lurched,
moving in waves.
Wings pulsed into the skies.
The powerful heaving of earth
growled a deepening rumble,
a groaning.

Electrifying the air,
a man in brilliant white
descended out of the heavens
and stood before the great stone.

Bodies shaking,
eyes wide,
the guards
fell to the ground
as though dead.

Without effort,
the brilliant figure
rolled the great stone away
and sat upon it.

He saw the women,
clinging to each other,
and spoke to them.
“Don’t be afraid.
I know who you are looking for,
Jesus was crucified,
but He is no longer here,
He has risen."

The women moved
tenatively
towards the tomb,
looking in.

Burial clothes were in perfect place
as though the body had whisped away,
disappearing from within.

The sweet,
other world smell
of burial spices
still filled the air,
nothing was disturbed,
the great stone was rolled away,
and the body was gone.

They turned and ran,
running for home
with compelling need
to tell what they had seen.

Only moments down the path
a man wallking towards them
brought them to a stop.
He smiled.

They knew Him,
they knew His face,
He was immensely dear to them.
They could not deny it was Him.
The One who was no longer dead,
no longer a prisoner of Golel,
the One no longer bound
by life's irreversible conclusion.
Conclusion?

The One who defied death
was with them again,
the Son of God, Jesus,
was among men again.

Jesus appeared to over five hundred people
over the next forty days.
He spoke of the cross
and the reconcilliation of man to God.
He spoke of what was to come,
of His departure to prepare a place
for all who believe in Him,
of His, God's, immeasurable love for man,
of His patient waiting, delaying His return,
that man would have opportunity to choose life with Him.
He spoke of His return for those who believe in Him,
and the coming of the Comforter, the Holy Spirit,
who would reside with believers until His return.

Then, it was time,
after earnest address to the disciples,
and tender encouragements,
before them,
He rose into the heavens
and was lost from sight behind the clouds.

Listen now,
please listen,
the day is coming,
and we will all see...

“…the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of the heavens to the other.

No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.

So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”
Matthew 24

"For God so loved the world, He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life.

For God did not send His son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.......” John 3:16-17

This poem was based on the NIV New Testament Gospels of Matthew Chapter 24 & 28, Luke 24 and John 20.
Copyright Joy Chastagner April 2009

Storms and Flamingoes

I find myself holding a little box
with which I can not part
its ruggedly hewn, but intricate,
carved on a little island named Zanzibar

There, mysteries are enfolded
in a labrynth of narrow crooked streets
Brass studded ancient doors remind me
that what was, is not now what I see

Behind those mighty doors
are dusty orphans playing, cobwebs, and disrepair
I remember that long ago illustrious Sultans
kept slaves, riches, and consorts there

Feel the heaviness, the aroma of cloves, and
cardammum, ocean, fresh fish, and coastal heat
Dhows grace the warm ocean currents
and take my mind to places I can sense but not repeat

I am standing on the tallest building in Zanzibar
overlooking the beautiful confusion of life below
Wind whips around me but I am at peace;
layered with dust and sweat, I'm enchanted still

My lungs filling with ocean air, and I remember
the little rugged box, still in my hands
Was it empty, was it old?
I wonder why I hadn't opened it yet.

I open the box. Nothing inside.
But suddenly gushing out come
beautiful, powerful storms from Africa
and fleeing pink flamingoes by the droves.

Years later this memory still brings excitement to my soul.
But only now, in this very moment, I realize:
Those storms and flamingoes are my stories,
and they must be told!

Copyright Cherie Teasdale 2009

Whispers

The signs are there.
The fragmentations evident
long before the carnage begins.
The signs are visible as small comparisons,
lifting up one and tearing down another.
Undermining criticisms and
phrases of division are oft spoken,
spoken with tones of puzzlement,
advice seeking, “innocent” passing observations
given in “friendly” camaraderie
with disclaimers of all sorts.

Over time, it is evident, there is a fixation.
The statements grow in boldness
as they are told over and over.
Motivations are assigned and character is maligned.
In no time at all, the words spoken
have little, if any, resemblance to fact or reality,
they only serve the cause of the one who speaks.

I first encountered such a thing,
one day, in a crowd, a gapping,
bleeding wound of a man smiled at me.
He spoke to me with sickly, warm tone,
pointing out another’s weakness, the incompleteness.

“Shocked” and “aghast” with whispers,
“heartbroken” and “sad” with undertone of pride,
chin lifted high, eyes searching for agreement,
for a comrade to build momentum of cause,
as though pointing out another’s imperfections
rendered his own festering sores invisible
and him lovelier.
He was a whisperer.

The subjects of his fascination were
those who were unafraid.
They were imperfect, yes,
and they were unafraid of the messiness of life.
They were busy embracing the wounded and loving well,
lending strength and courage,
sharing their lives,
generous, compassionate,
faithful in their commitment
from moment to moment.

In an awful way that makes us forget to breathe,
whisperers have a terrible way of proliferating,
undermining, tearing down, destroying, and
“drawing blood.”

The whisperers strike from behind.
A trail of “blood” marks their path.
They smile and extend a “warm” hand of friendship.
They watch for any perceived imperfection
and then the whispers begin.
Their fabricated words and implied meanings,
in a bizarre reality,
become truth,
merely by the fact they are spoken,
their hearers giving life
and the appearance of truth
by constant recitation and regurgitation
to anyone who will listen
to their wind sewn words.

Standing against a whisperer
and their whispers
is a tricky thing.
If you actually find one and confront them,
if they are even able to understand,
if they are repentant and never whisper again,
there is till nothing to be done
for all the whispers
they have given flight to.

Who can identify where the whisper went?
What other person spoke
the fabrications into life
in another ear?

The ones the whispers feed upon
are forced to battle with a wind
that draws “blood”
and drains life, indefinitely.

Scar tissue and, tragically,
when there is no forgiveness,
open wounds,
unable to heal,
putrefy
memorializing
the whisperer’s deeds.

We don’t always know
much about the whisperers.
Often we don’t know who they are
or why they whisper.
We could speculate,
but that would be whispering.

We do know,
they are wounded,
they have lost their way,
and they allow
their own unattended,
gapping,
bleeding wounds
to drive them to battle
and into a whirlwind
of destruction.
Copyright Joy Chastagner November 2008

Before Words

Love letters are made of words,
but I have
silence in calligraphy
and utterences in unknown tongues.
I sing in silent films and sometimes
Sign language.

Silence, my sage.

I give you eloquent sighs and slow motion smiles.
My laughter settles into placid lakes.
My kisses quietly wade
into your deep places.

Before words, I knew you.

Copyright Aimee Turner 2009

The Two of Us

Looking up at the great mountains,
at the cliffs, crevices, slopes and varied color of the trees,
at the plants, grasses and rocks that cling,
following the lines, the contours,
I almost see, very much sense,
God's hand there creating the grandness,
stroking, forming, pressing in here, drawing out there.
Holding my breath,
right now,
my God,
wondrous Lord,
friend,
heart keeper,
head lifter,
here,
very near,
the two of us,
gazing,
enjoying the quiet mountains.

Sometimes too,
the quiet of wet, heavy, dense snow falls,
snow weighting down the trees,
dampening all sound,
everything soo white,
nothing seeming to move,
except the falling snow,
life sheltered beneath,
waiting for renewal,
my God,
wondrous Lord,
friend,
heart keeper,
head lifter,
here,
very near,
the two of us watching,
sharing quiet words.

Copyright Joy Chastagner 2009

Hard-Line Religion

Heavy stones are
each parable twisted
each imperative thrust’d
with hard hands.
Hands that are angry
Hands that stopped touching
Stopped healing
Stopped feeling
Stopped loving
Stopped embracing
Hands that need a healer
Hands that hurt
And hands that hurt others
And yes I flinch at those hands
I fear those hands
I hate those hands.
Are those the hands of justice?
The hands that exegete and apologete;
Who pronounce, who proclaim, the Truth, the Way, the Light?
Justice is cruel
Their words are cruel
They sever
They disconnect
They blunt
They barr
They shut out
They shout out
Hard words though directed at enemies not present, not me,
oh and evils unseen,
in the hearts and the minds of the hearers,
all four thousand eighty four of them,
still they crush me.
For with them I know that I could never entrust my heart,
my life, my love,
my confidence, my thoughts,
my struggles, my challenges and dilemmas,
my humanity, even my salvation,
Unless I wanted those heavy stones
to be cast at me
with those hard callous hands.

Copyright Cherie Teasdale 2009

Jesus, Champion King

You broke through.
You came for me.
You reached for me,
lifted me,
carried me out.

My eyes are for You.
My heart is for You.
Savior, Healer,
Protector,
Champion King.

Your sacrifice is everything.
I trust Your love.
No one stirrs my heart as You do.
I trust Your love.

Champion King,
no one compares to You,
no one compares!

I am Yours,
Lover of my soul,
Champion King.
I am Yours.

Copyright Joy Chastagner 2008

We Choose

From where have we come?
Does it matter?
To whom do we belong?
Does it matter?
We have a need to belong.

If we discover the beginning,
if we follow a trail into the past,
if we ask questions and demand answers,
do we add worth or meaning to who we are?
Do we subtract worth or meaning from who we are?
We have a need to know we are valued.
We have a need to know "why" we are.

Do we look to our side, at individuals there,
and determine their roots are "lesser"
and so we must be "greater",
or do we determine their roots are "greater"
and so we must be "less"?
We know, without doubt, that man does just this,
and war, horror, subjugation
and all manner of darkness result.

Only some believe we are all created equal.
Only some live as they believe, that we are all created equal.
As evidenced by history, man is broken.
We are broken. We are broken.
We have a need for touch, the touch of the Healer.

Roots can be meaningful, inspirational, motivational.
Roots can elicit fear, terror and grief, but they do not define us.

We choose what defines us.
Our choices define us.
Whether we choose from delight and peace,
pride and arrogance,
or fear and sorrow, we still choose.

We have freedom to choose
at any given moment,
on any day,
in pretense or sincerity,
by action or inaction,
consciously, unconsciously,
whether victor or victim,
we choose as we wish.

Our freedom to choose is foundational, it is God given.
In His great love, He chose us first.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son,
that whoever believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.

For God did not send his Son into the world
to condemn the world,
but to save the world through him. John 3:16-17.

It was by Him and for Him we were made.
Apart from Him we continue to search.
Quests, tests, experimentations and ponderings of every kind,
yet none fill, quench or still.

I found the One who heals.
He reached for me.
I made a choice.
I am cherished and no one compares
to my God and His amazing love!
Nothing can seperate me from Him.
I belong.
I know my "why",
to love my God with all my heart, soul and strength
and to love you, my neighbor, as myself.

You are cherished.
You belong.
He is near to you, reaching for you,
but He will not take your freedom to choose.

Copyright Joy Chastagner 2008

Subtleties

In this frozen land I am finding, at last, rest.
Sighs continuously burst from my soul
and I discover, once again, words to speak.

The protective walls around my mind have collapsed.
A few stones were jostled loose and then fell.
In thunderous cacophony the walls plummeted down
and were suddenly gone.

A restrained silence followed.
My prison had disappeared.
Yet, I retained the form it had shaped me into.

It was only as the purified air engulfed me,
that I realized the pressure had dispersed.

My soul gulped and drank.
New life saturated the deepest places of my heart.
Freedom brushed against me and I fled that place.

Now, having found my freedom, I look back and recognize
the hand of Jesus in my release.

I wonder, though, what subtleties had persuaded me
to close my eyes as that prison was built.

Copyright Joy Chastagner 1992