“God Moves In A Mysterious Way”

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

- Wm. Cowper

Jaded Beauty

Being an English major has its boons and its curses. I read the richest literature in my language, relish the insightful lectures from wiser heads than mine, and find much delight in dwelling with such beautiful stories.

However, there appears to be an ugly underbelly to this beast I’m trying to tame. “I liked it better when you were reading Herbert” said a friend, after I began rambling about Faulkner (taking Southern Lit and American Lit II simultaneously means that I’ve read 5 Faulkner novels and multiple short stories in the space of about 10 weeks). Another friend commented on some poems she was reading by some of the guys back home, saying “I like the one’s poems better than the other’s–his are just too hard to read and they’re not about God. [The first fellow's] poems are uplifting and always talk about God; they’re so much better.” And I’m currently in the process of researching pyscho-analytical literary theory in order to write a long paper on how Faulkner portrays children, the loss of innocence, and how that affects them later as adults (can they ever move on from that “moment”?). Which means that I’m probably not going to let anyone read it when it’s done.

Is this what I came here to do; to read about and analyze the depths of depravity and brokenness in literature with a microscope and tweezers? Not really. But the lack of beauty in this pursuit–is that something to mourn over and be jaded by? I’m not sure. Maybe my friends are right, and the happy, lovely, didactic, and overtly Christian literature is the only literature worth reading…but I’m not convinced of that yet. Herbert is a genius and does touch on brokenness and redemption and is both real and uplifting. The kid back home is sincere and really loves the Lord. But neither escape abstractions and wordiness and touch on the quotidian and redemption in the midst of the immense power of brokenness there. Neither are true to life–just true to ideals.

But should ideals be shunned? I think not, yet I’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’s really known the world who would accept them as easily as these writers would like. How can the elevated writings of Herbert and the didactic, Christ-centered writings of my friend bring any truth or light to a modern individual, jaded by hardship, desensitized by the media today, and living in a fragmented world haunted by semantics? I don’t think they can reach that sort of person; not in a Schaefferian way, at least.  There’s too much disconnect and that sort of person won’t be able to handle the beauty without choking on it.

So where does my paper fit with my Christian calling and my ruminations on the purpose of writing as  Christian in this jaded age? Can it have any purpose for good, or will dwelling in such bleakness at the end of the semester just rob me of my joy and jade me, too? And where is there a place for beauty, for fairytales and whimsy and innocence? Can I write fiction that holds worth for the reader and illuminates redemption, without pandering to either popular sentiments or intellectual snobbery?

This is the dilemma of an old-fashioned girl with ink on her third finger and a twinkle in her eye, looking curiously at the wasteland from the postmodern’s side of the mirror (they can’t see the garden or the waterfall from where they sit, and I want to help them peek at it and hunger for the One who made it).

Light

In the depths of surrender is a quivering beam of  light that rises, trembling, liltingly amidst the crashing towers of a city built of whimsy and cracked, crumbling self (broken and crooked since time forgotten) and this light shivers under the ripples of cobwebs falling away, and it is drawn up to the source, the True Light, and in a brilliant flash, it illuminates the wasteland. The broken glass of fragile things cast down and shattered catches the light, and in this new light, the charred earth underneath seems less burnt-black than it is alive-black. Somewhere, slicing through the thick stillness of new light strong and pure, is a aubade of rapture, timid and sweet, that lifts the silence and transforms it into reverence. The words are well-fitted, but matter little even so. For resurrection after surrender isn’t about the shape that breathes again in humility, but rather the Spirit that gives the breath and the light in the eyes and the quickening of the hands again.

And in the nascent breath of spring light, with feet bare and head uncovered and prayers again taking shape (not out of habit, but out of faith), a young girl was taught again how to sing.

Two More

[I'm not terribly happy with the meter on the first one. Oh, well. I'm learning, mostly.]

Eyes Up
Lines falter, vision is skewed.
The perspective now seen,
Contour of abstraction
To life incongruous.
Look at the subject;
Not the pencil, the hand.
Seeing requires eyes
Uplifted, focused on
Something real. Verity
Hungers for connection
Of knowing and seeing.
The lines testify to
Faithful following;
The truth of the subject
And the submission of
My hands to the leading
Of the lines alive and
Quivering before sight.

Of Reading
A life in time demands limitation,
A choice of one good over another.
So many words to read, words you must know.
Pick now; tomorrow is no surety.
Which words should I now read and dwell with now?
Stacked around me, my books are tower’d walls
Insulation from thoughts my own (flattened
By one-angle sight). Useful; is that all we
Measure this endeavor by? We are lost
If the mad press of time and standards
Strangle the pure delight of stories, worlds
Tumbling open for eager minds and hearts
Hungry for revelation, glory loose
In Adam’s inheritance; steward this.

Cassé

Crumbling, cracking, shattered, fallen, fickle
Bent, broken, turning each away to whim and will.
Eden’s specter glimmers still, devastates us.
The past beauty crushes the marred image;
Brokenness is known by perfection’s shadow.
It’s tipsy, tumbling, teetering; the tears blind
Blood rusts, bitterness creeps, and darkness
Is all that we can touch. But the burning reaching
Light haunts us and if holy fire deigns to unburden
We might see. Tears purge, so penitence purifies;
Brightness won’t quiver—it’s older than the hurt.
Movement implies that winter is gone, and
Resurrection means that death is overthrown.
Don’t you know, this kingdom is upsidedown.

When I Should be Reading Faulkner

These Words on old wrinkled pages say that
In everything rejoice and be thankful—
I, you, she must. The pattern of footfalls
In the hallway marks the passage of hours
As they scurry: class, lunch and back again.
My coffee is cold and these words are just
That. Fifteen pages left and I forgot
Who “he” is again and my socks are gone.
Did you see them? No, they’re lost like all the
Rest, all the things you thought necessary
And perpetual, wholesome, good. Oh, yes,
Things are like that—they’re fickle and soon gone.
But rejoice is not a word or even
A feeling. Giving thanks insists on a
Surrender of complaint, a hunt for
Socks instead of whimpering about it.
So I’ll keep reading these words, give myself
To the story and finish it in time.
The socks don’t matter; I can laugh because
There’s sunshine and quotidian graces.
The Word isn’t hollow and prayer is the
Refining of surrender, hallowed in
Time past by faithfulness proven to broken
People like me. His Word, The Word, doesn’t fade.