The Dance of the Dying

It is likely I would have written it differently.  Very differently.  An easier word laid down on a less sacrificial line.  I surely would have written a way, a word, that did not include the agony, the dying.  The repeated death.  It would have certainly been an easier word.

Clearly, I was the wrong author for my story.

Fortunately, I had laid pen in His hand long ago and the Author of the Ages lays down the true word of my life’s tale.  He pens the word that is needed, desperately needed in my existence.

I exist only as His words written into my days.  The pith, the very marrow of our being demands His needed word.

And yet, we all must decide for self - will we willingly read His word into our days or will we wrest pen from Author’s hand to lay a gentler word, an ease into our days?  We must decide.

Poetic agony - beautiful poetry etched into a deep and sustained agony.  Lines of loss that lay the foundation of Beauty.  Beauty written in to the pages of our days, the true storybook of our life is often penned in pain.

It is a Mystery - poetic agony.  Words of a beautiful death.  The beautiful dying.

It is a Mystery I surely would have been too weak to write.  

I am hardly able to accept, to receive the poetic agony - I would have been entirely incapable of crafting that word.

And there in lies the bedrock of my trust - the essence of why I continue to follow this Author, to pursue this particular piece of Artistry.  For the depths of the strength, the awful pith of His power to pen a Word of such a wonderful Sacrifice.

The Poetic Agony of the death and resurrection - the Beauty of the Sacrifice, the astounding love buried deeply right before our eyes is enough to confound the ages.  We can not understand for we surely NEVER could have done such an awfully beautiful thing.  

It is the Mystery I can not decipher and yet, I know it as I know the very beat of my timid heart.

Mystery that holds me transfixed, even in the loss, even in the hurt.

It is just enough and yet profoundly far more then enough to eternally call me Home.

And yes, this was a summer to write Home about.  And I did, many times over.  I wrote Home, desperately.  I pleaded with Home, daily, hourly - I needed all that I could only find at Home. 

It was a summer of many endings and the birth of new beginnings.  New beginnings that this weak writer never would have had the courage to write.

It was a summer of much loss, and at the repeated moment I knew that I had nothing left to lose - another loss would be penned from Home.

I prayed prayers I NEVER dreamed I would pray and I asked myself a thousand times over, “How did I get here?”

And the answer would always return the same - “Your Author loves you and He knew of some needed loss in your life.”

Needed loss I could not perceive, could not in the slightest see but He saw and in His infinite love He would write the agonizingly beautiful death of myself.

I died a thousand times a thousand these summer months.  And oh, what a sweet death it was.

And I will die a million more.  And oh, what a sweet death it will be.

And yes, beauty is certainly in the eye of the Beholder and my Beholder sees beauty in the scarring.

The marring of myself looks only as the ugly agony to others but to my Beholder He see only the lovely in my ugly.

Yes, the Mystery of the Ages.

And a summer to write Home about with much gratitude - the lovely loss is my deeply needed Word.

I pray for grace to dance through the dying.