The Song

5-minute-friday-1 What do I write about a song?

That thing which moves my entire life, lifts me from pure carnality to spiritual actuality, freeing me from the constraints of worry, stress, anxiety, fear. Those chains that would tie one to the core of the earth, scrunched and pulled and weighted.

The hardest places for songs to birth, and yet, the most necessary for freeing the captives and healing the diseased.

Song.

Tune and melody and harmony, synchronized in unified voice and strain, a trinity that transcends all that would cage it, loosing the locks of everyone around.

This is song.

More than just music and words and carefully penned notes.

Song is when the depths of spirit and soul collide, quake, and burst into the realm of known, flying on wings of emotion poured, propelled by the breeze of deliverance, shouting its freedom to the world.

Even songs of pain, brokenness, devastation, anger, envy, loss… all a liberated cry from the womb of its author.

A cry that resonates with the brokenness, devastation, anger, envy, loss… the pain of everyone imprisoned… lifting them from their prison and giving voice and melody to what is too hard to say… where words alone are inadequate.

Song lifts us higher and higher, until we lift our eyes and find the eyes of the Composer.

The great Maker and Creator, who sends His song throughout the earth to heal, free, rescue, pull-out, deliver.

The Song that began in eternity, past and future, with our names in the chorus and His purpose in the verse, sung boldly, confidently, powerfully.

The Song that won’t be silenced.

It lifts my head, wraps me in a melodic embrace, makes my cacophony beautiful… somehow.

Bids me come and take up my stand… as musician? As soloist? As choir member? Each has a place in the song of Glory, sung not just with training, ability, or skill… but with passion and hope.

The Song of the Redeemed.

Brave

5-minute-friday-1

The brave man is the man who faces or fears the right thing for the right purpose in the right manner at the right moment.

– Aristotle

Fingers hover over the keys… hesitant to begin. To move them freely, to allow them access to the world of letters arranged in particular orders, stringing together thoughts, beliefs. To create and invent worlds and lives, all with reckless strokes and unscripted tapping.

This is a brave task.

To unlock the muse from the cage, to loosen it and watch it rise on wings and stretch out the kinks of confinement… this is to welcome the deepest fears made real. The tragedies that stories are made of. To step into the recesses of mind, open prison cells, torture chambers, and carefully guarded tombs… to turn on the light in the darkness of these cobwebs and faded flaws. And then to let fingers fly.

Bravery.

A writer is a brave soul, desperate for relief from the pressures of the worlds within, pressing against the bone and marrow as an en-wombed child kicks and squirms to make room and eventually, escape. Fear presents a new option. Keep it light; keep it shallow. Don’t go to the scary places of the soul and write from there… too painful, too out of control, too scary.

That writer never changes. Never grows. Is never brave.

But the one with the trembling key, twists it in the lock, opens the door… overwhelmed by the possibilities of dancing skeletons, screaming terrors, and freed tormentors, the stuff that makes story raw, believable, true.

The stories we love… come from behind locked doors. Only the brave open them. Open them to listen to the stories of their enslaved. No matter how painful, how tragic, how terrifying. We let them talk and we take notes.

This. Is. Brave.

That book you love? It’s author wept, agonized, pleaded, and grieved as the characters sang their tales, weaving them into the very flesh of their author. Not just pen on paper. Soul made flesh, the hidden made public, a distant whisper given a face, a body, a home… a life. The characters sigh in relief, weight lifted with burden light. The writer carries it now.

No wonder we are morose. So melancholic. We bravely enter the jungles of the uncreated, chopping at bush, blood flowing from our injuries, to tell the urgent story that no one else can tell.

We are brave.

To be brave means that you’re strong and not afraid of something that’s really scary.

-My five year-old son, Corban

The Jump

???????? I’m living a dream… or maybe it’s a nightmare. The one where you are going along, doing your dreamland business… when suddenly you slip, slide, or fall off of a cliff, a bed, a chair… whatever.

But you’re falling.

And the dream has complete control, as random and irrational as it all seems… and you just go along with it.

It feels like real life.

Mostly.

But I’m awake.

And yet I’m still mid-jump somehow. As if I’ve missed the first part of my “dream” and have awoken in the middle of this terrifying adventure.

Sailing over a chasm that should never have been meant for my leap… just my admiration.

But there’s no time to stop and think about whether this is rational or justified… or even real.

I’m in the air… and I need to get to the other side.

Down can’t be an option… but there it is, filling the space beneath my feet and imminent death.

I hope this is a dream where I can fly…

Except it’s not a dream and I can’t fly and my feet have left the edge…

Have you had those days? Where you wake up mid-leap? Something has dropped into your life that is so unexpected, so sudden, so life-changing… that before you know it, you’ve jumped.

You’re in… and you have no idea how a moment can change so much.

My arms are flailing, my feet are reaching, and the ground seems ever so far away… and I’m not even sure when I jumped. But I know why.

As much as my mind races through all the shouldn’t be’s and couldn’t be’s… they still are.

And I’m still in the air.

And I look down and see this:

396817_10151300240267571_1025989411_n

And how grateful I am… that when I look down from leaps that have my heart terrified and my fears out of control… I see Jesus.

And it’s okay if I don’t jump far enough or high enough or good enough… because He’s my bridge.

My safety net.

My solid ground.

He whispers, “This is not a dream,” and holds and weeps and wipes away the tears, shuts down the fears, and cradles this grown woman in the comfort of arms that can only be found when you’ve leapt into them.

5-minute-friday-1