A Poem: Trust

 

I laid down today
and you laid with me.
My eyes closed inside,
although I was resting upright.

My grasp loosened,
my hold let go.
If this is what its like to die
or be at peace with not knowing, then good.

I trust. All is well.
All manner of things I count
to myself as worth much
are, if not well, still good enough.

And there is grace in movement
and grace still in rest.
There is life and death abundant
in each momentary breath.

There is grace in drawing in,
and in opening up.
Like a flower giving in
to the bee’s appetite.

There is only life’s demands now,
and the need to take a jump.
Draw the deepest breath,
and live within it.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

Image: Fineas Gavre, courtesy of Unsplash

A Poem: Awake

To awake to you,
is my prayer.

I don’t want to miss a moment
asleep,

if I can be more aware of you
near.

To be close in proximity
but ignorant of your presence,

what grief.

Instead,

I want to be as a bird alighting on a branch,
or a leaf on the wind.

Always in tune
with the bearer of the elements,

and depending
on your provision.

Not walking without
the intention

of taking you with me.

To awaken to you,
is my prayer.

A world with senses dulled
is a world bereft.

A world that cannot
see beyond its own self,

misses all the rest
that you would give,

gifts unclaimed at our feet.
 

A world that can’t see
beyond the church walls.

Or the self’s prison,
cannot see itself lit up

against the sky;
with the angelic host of Saints,

and Creeds,
which together make the body

of Christ.
 

To not see ourselves in him,
and him in each other,

what loss.

Lord wake us up.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

Image:  Noah Silliman, courtesy of Unsplash

 

A Poem: Winners and Losers

When you wound me
I wound you.

When I wound you
I wound me.

When you wound me
you wound you.

There is no one of us who wins,
there are only two who lose.

Because we meet in the middle by a sea
that laps at both of our shores.

 
When you love me
I love you.

When I love you
I love me.

When you love me
you love you.

There is no one of us who wins,
there are two of us who do.

Because we meet in the middle by a sea
that connects my heart to yours.

Will you love with me?
Leave the blame behind.

We have a boat to carry us both,
wounded though we might be.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

Image:  Chris Lawton, Unsplash

 

A Poem: We Grieve

We grieve

but there is a love
stronger than death,
greater than the life
given in this mortal breath.

We grieve but

there is life
in a larger sense
that exceeds the limits of
our human experience.

There is peace
beyond the grave,
deeper than the quiet
of this temporal plane.

There is hope
higher than the sky,
lengths of thread
unfurled beyond our sight.

Though we grieve

there is faith
in mankind, despite ourselves,
in each other,
beyond the losses of today.

We are asked to love,
when love is hardest
and restore the life for each other,
that is taken away.

To be the peace and hope
that would be stolen,
as if peace were a fleeting gift
and hope up for the taking.

For our peace and love,
hope and life
spring from a fountain,
fed by an eternal source.

We grieve

but await the answers
to our questions.
We are not without a reason
or a purpose for our remaining.

We are not without,
a morning,
to burn away the darkness of
today.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

 

Image: Kamil Szybalski, Unsplash

A Poem: Not Heavy

They are not heavy,
the seasons of change,
which pass
like the passing weather.

We can sit outside
and watch the night turn to light,
the clouds give way to emerging day,
to remember this.

On a morning that
the rain fell
and the sun shone her face
in the space of one small hour.

In which,
the birds woke to sing,
I am remind that the important things,
can indeed be depended upon.

For it’s true,
that if the birds wake
and the sun rises,
what else is there to want?

All else passing ships
that we can grasp at,
or watch process
across the blue.

No, they are not heavy,
the seasons of change.
Not like the load of those things
we are meant to hold.

Like this good book now
open upon my lap,
and the jasmine’s weight
against the fence.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

 

 

He lies like an eyewitness.
~ Russian Proverb

~ Do not grasp at that which is only passing through.

Image: Oswaldo Martinez, courtesy of Unsplash
Los Planes de Renderos, San Salvador, El Salvador

A Poem: The Communion of the Saints

 



He who sits outside time
wraps us in light.

We, a globe suspended in the sky,
are circled by the saints.

We circle the centre
of our solar system’s place,

in an ancient universe
growing every day.

Yet we are still firmly
and tenderly held.

Secured by laws of gravity,
and grace.

We, who sit inside time
live tied yet to the ground

He, outside us where all is clear,
reigns in community.

We cannot know,
but sometimes have the strangest view

of a world beyond our grasp.
We sense a smile, we feel the robes

of ones gone long before.
It does not matter if we are yet to know,

enough we feel their presence.
The love of those who hold us close

in the communion of heaven.

Ana Lisa de Jong
All Saints Day 2017

Image: Cille Choirill Church in Scottish Highlands, Deviant Art

A Poem: Revelation

Unravelling
God lets down his hair,
that like a ladder to infinity
we might climb to grasp at things
yet too large for us.

Unfolding his scrolls
God lays his knowledge out upon the landscape,
that if we are quick, we may catch
a grain of truth,
in the sun’s slip behind the hill.

Might feel our heart filled,
in the moment,
the golden arch bridges the sky.
Feel we know and are known by
something ‘other’ than ourselves.

And although we turn
to filter what we have found,
to find it run out;
lost behind some obstruction,
just as the sun, which lowers beyond our sight –

we are larger for the encounter.
And he, who keeps us searching,
and climbing ladders to infinity,
is the silent lover,
only desiring our response.

We who try to work out love,
and measure knowledge
by what we have to gain,
have got it sorely wrong.
We succumb to the one, who never ceases to visit.

And trail after him over the hill.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

“…  I don’t pretend to know it all.  I am quiet now before the Lord, just as a child is weaned from the breast.  My begging has been stilled.”
Psalm 131:1-2

A Poem: Learning to Die

Oh Lord if I can die to you in the little things,
I can then die when it counts.

When it matters if I let go,
or hold on.

When all that matters
loses its meaning,

in the bigger gain.

Oh Lord, if I can practice letting go today,
then tomorrow I will with ease,

cross over,
feel the curtain brush against me.

Although I will have stepped from my
skin,

discarded as a set of clothes.

Nothing to hamper my rise
into the heavens.

Nothing to keep me weighted
to the ground.

If I can die to you right now
then I can die to you,

when it’s time.

Oh Lord, if I can learn to live in the little things
then I can live when it counts.

When it matters how I let go,
so that I leave nothing behind.

When all that matters
will be that I have learned to live,

by dying to the finite things

to exchange them for the infinite.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017

Image: Monica Galentino, Unsplash

‘Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.’
John 11:25

A Poem: The Beggar

I am a beggar at your door,
the steps rising before my hesitant feet.

I can hear the sounds within
your kingdom drawing me,

despite my lack of confidence.
My feet unclean,

I could wipe them more than once
and they would still not shed

the grime.

So I turn and sit at the foot
of your steps,

content if I hear nothing
else but the sounds of this place,

if I do not move from here.
For this is where I feel at ease

one foot in and one foot out,
not to soil the floor of a house

too good for me.

I am beggar, come hopeful guest,
and you know I am here.

More aware of those without,
than within,

those who waver at the door
not trusting their right to enter.

And you come to find me,
leaving your guests to usher in

those that linger at the entrance.

The dirt of my feet
you don’t tend to mind,

although you patiently wait
as I scrape at the earth.

And my clothes, seen too much wear for me,
you cover with a robe of lamb’s wool

whiter than the last of the snow
blanketing the hills.

And then you take my hand, and grasp tight in welcome.

As though, I had not been gone,
as though, there were no question of my belonging

here, in this kingdom
wider within than without

with walls extending
beyond the extent of my vision.

Roof higher than my eyesight’s reach,
and a table longer than comprehension

where guests sit joyous and replete.

That I might be one of them?
That I might find my place set?

Is the silent question,
always at the forefront of my mind.

But without doubt,
you know the answer.

You who have come to seek those
who think themselves lost.

You hold a spot vacant

bearing my name.

Ana Lisa de Jong
November 2017
Image:  Charles Mackesy

 

A Poem: Angels

We are angels
to each other

My needs met in you
and yours in me.

At the very least
we keep each other afloat

At peace
and on an even keel

Company in
other’s solitude

Fellow travellers
of this pilgrim’s road.

At best, though
I suspect God might mean

us to reflect
each other’s light

magnifying glasses
of the kind that highlight the good

that we might shed the shame
carried as a weight

on our shoulders
for far too long

and rise still
to greater and greater heights.

We are angels
to each other

my uplift is your gain
the wind beneath my wings

the impetus
for your forward momentum.

And the view of you
against the backdrop of heaven

is the inspiration for my own
becoming

and my journeying onwards
into the wide and beckoning sky.

Ana Lisa de Jong
October 2017

Image:  Pinterest (source unknown)