Turning Tables

 
In this season of bright sadness
a voice in the dark says:

"Go. There is nothing left

for you here," all is madness

We go. In silence we slide

out into the night,

round moon slicing the sky

above, its sadness bright

The table is turned,

the wine swallowed burned

its way down inside

now part of us, blood of Christ

Christ, bloody and torn

turns universe-tables,

Son of Man crowned with thorns

endures epithets, labels of scorn

Dark sun shades that day

we remember as this weekend

crawls on toward the ember

of new fire, night turning grey

Ashes of sadness form a nest

for Heaven's Fire to rest

before He leaps upward

in life—excelling mythic-bird

There is nothing left

here in the tomb—death bereft

of corpse and terrible sting,

Life holds in hand the final victory

The Fullest Extent of Love 

exited the grave on His own two feet,

turning the sadness of sorrow sweet. . .

Ash Wilderness

No ashes smudged my brow,
no fellow pilgrims gathered 'round,
no bread was pressed into my hand,

there was no wine for parchéd tongue

no taste of Christ's body or His blood

Instead, white flakes upon my crown

Ash-like, they blanketed the ground,

My empty home was filled

with candle glow and a beating heart

a chamber of blood for the body of Christ

Empty space became hallowed

my knees pressed in, head bowed;

Desolate darkness filled with little flames,

the silent void invaded by a chant

breaking forth from the Body of Christ

In this season of sadness bright

the valleys become hollows to catch light,

the negatives show up outlined clear—

Our Lent has been a year-long affair

sustained with only the Body of Christ

We who see the edges of dark

find the contrast stark 

between Advent's rising Sun and its setting,

where we befriend lament and night,

swallowing deep the body of Christ

'No ashes' leaves an empty space

where I learn to receive a crown of grace

for expectations unmet and things lost—

And a single heart is not alone

when it is part of the Body of Christ

Hollowed hands are a channel of

opportunity to be offered in love,

to be raised in repentance, 

and lifted in worship, open to be

the physical signs of Christ's body. . .

Loving isn't gonna burn us out

Missing Aaron a lot tonight, so I picked up a letter of his from Easter ten years ago... Inevitably, he was quoting Switchfoot songs, which landed me somehow at the feet of this Jon Foreman song. The verses sum up my past four months, the chorus flooded in at Holy Week. 

Thank you, friend, for reaching out to me across time and space; for speaking truth into my life; for the flame of your love burning still. I miss you. So. Much.

YOU ALONE

My soul
Sing the one you know
Sing like a soldier
Whose hopes are running low
I fold
I'm giving up the ghost
I surrender any illusion of any semblance of control

You alone
You alone
You alone
Can heal my soul

It feels like you're running but
you're not getting nowhere
When did your fire get so cold?
It feels you're fading out
Into the jaded crowd
Look to the One who calls you Home

You alone
You alone
You alone
Can heal my soul
Come heal my soul

💔 Johanna

Shadow Reflections

I walked home from the stars

last night, and found upon my way

a branch, as an elderly hand in sway,

its shadow on the wall made scars.

Painted limb appeared more real

than the mesh of winter twigs

twining about in grey-green sprigs;

the shade-tree’s lines dark enough to feel.

I pondered how I would like to be

a clear shadow on history’s wall,

though I could only grapple with the Fall,

redemption shown in depths of two, not three.

All we are is but flickering shade—

yet in this season of Bright Sadness,

even shadows reflect in crisp blackness,

the glory of the King, fresh made.