I am struggling to pray but I woke at 2.00 am to write a dream.
I went to make a drink in my little cottage kitchen and decided to also wash the pots from last night …..!!!!!
As I stack the cups away, I realise that not many of them match (I had bought them at random) but all are delicate and beautiful in their own way.
As I rinsed and turned them over (and in my mind), I knew that God was showing me similarities of how he sees us as his vessels -we have and were made, for a purpose and each one chosen by Him, in His time.
A prayer comes on reflection:
Dearest Father, wash me also from my iniquities, be proud of your chosen vessel, hold me up to the light so that your mark, your seal and your glory may be seen.
Protect me when I fall, take not your Holy spirit from me; Fill me with your spirit, your wine, your water, your oil.
As I walked back to my bedroom – cup and coffee in hand – (symbolic to my mind, of the blessing and the curse), I ponder my life and my gifting and my current spiritual state. This is what flows:
… I have been dealt a death blow over the last year, physically , spiritually and emotionally. Some of those scars are my own making – ie gates I have opened, or permission I have given to the enemy to inflict me, by forgetting who I am. By taking in, by being offended, as the darts were hurled.
I need healing in the inner parts, but unclear what actually ails me which parts of me hurt- who is to blame? I am numb to the pain.
I think about King David and thank God for him and the pattern he set us in the Psalms. David encouraged himself in the Lord. At times of distress and despair, he wrote songs and poems and poured out to God. I am encouraged to hang on, to stay awake and to write into the night.
My writings have been a great comfort to me, when there is lack of fellowship and I can’t express how I feel. This is how I first met the Lord, at the age of 7 when the Holy Spirit would minister through me for myself and others.
He is ministering to me just now and my reason for being, is restored. Without my thoughts transferred to pen, I would die – at least spiritually. When my mouth becomes tight as screwed up paper, my heart and spirit lives on, soaring through my pen.
Thank God, for his blessed Holy Spirit. He teaches us different forms of prayer. Tonight, this night, this is the prayer of my heart.
Often we know not what to say or how to say it. The flesh is indeed weak, but the spirit willing, just to be. I will let Him be and do of his good pleasure, as it is also for me.
A poem starts to come :-
I could fall out with my shadow
Let down and disappointed
The foxes are out and on my tail.
Cruelty reigns and dispassionate, empty, people abound.
There is turmoil all around,
I know, but wallowing in the comfort of chaos, feels sweetly rebellious. I am truculent despondent, screamish. How old am I?
He has made my heart ‘soft like butter ‘, but it is uncomfortable turning cheek.
I want to hit back, I want to scream and shout, but I bottle it up and sprinkle my pillow with tears each night.
I hear Him say
‘my people have forgotten me days without number’
I see my life as a paradox. I understand Father’s pain and the part I play. I am in distress.
My clothes haven’t been folded or hung for weeks – books are discarded here and there. My nest looks like an advert for “The mad professor returns ” …..
When the rest of the world sleeps, I wake . The stillness and silence of these early hours soooh refreshing.
I can breathe
I can think
I can hear
The cacophony of noise abated as the world sleeps.
Can you hear the voice of my heart?
I have forced myself to go to church on Sundays and have been able to draw and to tap into streams of living water – but it is hard and I feel such an outsider – If I go too often they might think I want to stay, desire a place, a position, to bed down.
If I pop in here and there and now and then, they might be disgruntled think me rebellious, and refuse to care.
I know I am jealous of my Father’s love for others. Do they know how much he loves me? I look for opportunities to say.
There have been chinks of life and light. I hold onto these knowing Father will pull me through, through to the other side.
Oh I wish for the sweet fellowship we had yesterday. My mother’s refrain ‘you never know a good thing until its gone’ a stark reality.
As I look back at the years 2004 -2010 , I long for the bitter sweet wrest(sic) of a time when I thought I was disadvantaged, but was actually blessed..
The grass isn’t greener on the other side; there are peaks and troughs -the troughs for me much longer .
Oh for a couple of elongated peaks right now…’away with the troughs’.
Oh for the mountain top – to relive that dream.
Don’t laugh at me when I stumble and fall,
Don’t smirk when I get it wrong
I am my Father’s daughter – despite my failings He loves me.
Don’t judge me with your own crooked yard stick.
Don’t make assumptions about my dress, laugh, smile or your perception of my confidence.
Don’t silence me when I cry out in worship and prayer – let me be, let me be……..
You don’t know, don’t know , you simply don’t know – where I have been or where I go. You don’t know how long Ive been in the making and He hasn’t finished with me yet.
For God maketh my heart soft,and the Almighty troubleth me: Because I was not cut off before the darkness, neither hath he covered the darkness from my face. Job 23:16-17
Written in the dead of night by Evangelist Linda in the year of our Lord 2013