God – sethlewis.ie

Does Heaven Move More Slowly?

The area we live in is booming. The fields are growing houses, and there are rivers of tail lights flooding the little roads that used to flow freely. As I sat in the car, waiting again, I thought about how the people who lived here in generations past used to get around. It was walking, mostly, at the pace of people or animals, and even with the traffic my car is faster than that. On the other hand, I know that walking is healthier, and also when I walk I often bump into people I know and we might have a friendly chat—which isn’t possible when we only glimpse each other through passing windscreens. All of this got me thinking about a question I’d never considered before: what kind of transportation will we use in Heaven?

Glorious Defeat (a poem)

In our midweek Bible studies with our church we’ve been discussing the book of Hosea, and this poem is based on one of the themes we found there—a theme I’ve experienced in my own life as well.

Glorious Defeat

I raise my eyes
to my opponent
standing in the way
towering above my head
and shining like the day
I size him up
I shake my fist
I’m impotent
yet I resist
“Why?”
I shout out my complaint
though my own voice
sounds small and quaint
“Why are you here blocking me?
Move aside, now! Let me be!”
He doesn’t budge
his sword is drawn
he’s ready now for action
his eyes are burning hot
with an unsettling compassion
and with a voice
like rushing water
larger than the world
he answers with a knowing smile
“Child” he says
“My child”—is that really who I am?
“I only stand to save you from the peril
that you’re in. This path leads to destruction—
if you turn, you’ll live again. So I’ll block you
and I’ll fight you and I’ll stop you till you see
that the path to perfect freedom
is the path that leads to me.”
And so I am undone
in my glorious defeat
I run into his arms
and I find the victory

What else does God Name?

A break in the clouds made the sun shine briefly, and it filtered through the leaves of the trees that surrounded me. I’m still not well versed on the native tree species of Ireland, so I didn’t know what to call all the varieties around me. As I looked more closely at them, I thought species names wouldn’t really do them justice, anyway. Each tree was so unique, twisted and knobbed in its own peculiar ways, reaching outward and upward and marked with its own particular spots and stripes and lumpy roots. Each told its own silent story of growth over decades, with its scars to prove the challenge of survival and its buds to show the promise of life. I wanted to call each one by its own name, something fitting to itself, honouring its own unique existence. I stopped at one tree in particular and tried to find a name that would suit it. It looked stately and strong, like a weathered General in his dress uniform, but General is more of a title than a name, and probably too general. Anyway, it’s a bit silly and sentimental to be going around naming trees, isn’t it?

Life is a Vapour. Enjoy it.

I stood at the window with my coffee in hand, enjoying the unique stillness of a Saturday morning. The clouds in the eastern sky were blushing, in anticipation of the sun’s imminent arrival. Between me and them, a mist was rising, like the earth’s exhaled breath—growing, shifting, and dispersing, glowing in the golden morning glory. A breath. A vapour. This is what King Solomon called life itself, in the book of Ecclesiastes. Like your own breath in the crisp winter air—you can see it and feel the warmth of it, but the one thing you can never do is hold it.

The Leaf Collector (a very short story)

He had not been prepared. It was meant to be a routine check-up, not a death sentence, so he didn’t blame himself for the things he said in anger. Anyway, now his mind was clear. The tidal wave of shock and grief had washed away every excess concern and left him with one solitary desire which he now realised had always been there—he just hadn’t noticed it among the clutter he’d been collecting. The foundation was bared. His heart was exposed, and focused like never before.

He wanted to live.

It Isn’t Night for the Moon

Winter in Ireland. The time of year when the sun keeps shortening his hours, and the darkness encroaches steadily. It wasn’t late, but as I passed through our town that evening the sun’s face had already been missing for hours. And yet, I could still see his light. I saw it reflected off the full moon, beaming in the sky in all of its silver glowing glory.

Learning by Experience

The moment I met our first child, everything changed. It happened as quickly as a heart can beat, with a force that took my breath away—my eyes and my heart were suddenly opened to understand love in an entirely new way. I had heard about the love of parents for their children. I had experienced it from the other end, as the child of truly wonderful parents. But none of this prepared me for how it feels when your hearts bursts with absolute, unconditional, unfathomable love for a human you don’t even know, who can’t respond, and whose needs never seem to end—and none of that matters at all.

Thanks in Advance (a poem)

I thank you
right now
for the light you will bring
though I sit in the dark
where I can’t see a thing

I thank you
right now
for the peace you’ll command
though I wait in a storm
that I can’t understand

I thank you
right now
for the gold you’ll refine
through the fire and heat
in my heart, in my mind

I thank you
right now
for the good that you’ll do
for your promise and presence
that carry me through
for this long night of mourning
will end with a dance
so I bring you my thanks
in advance

Clouds (a poem)

As clouds diffuse
the sun’s great light
and drain the world of colour
my restless thoughts
have covered up
your glory and your power
at times a ray—or two—breaks through
at times I think I’m glimpsing you
and suddenly the world explodes
in living colour I behold
all things as they were meant to be
(it’s in your radiance I see)
and then my anxious thoughts return
and then my anxious heart unlearns
the beauty of your majesty
the goodness of your plan for me
and in the clouds (the glory-thieves)
I cry, “Lord, help my unbelief!”

I Miss The Stars

One of the advantages of growing up in the country in Alabama was the clear view I had of the night sky. As a child, I got used to seeing billions, maybe trillions of stars—I don’t really know, there were far too many to count. Stars were a given for me, along with the noisy nighttime chorus of cicadas, crickets and frogs. Now I live in Ireland, where most nights the clouds pull themselves over me like a duvet. Under these covers my town is equipped with rows of man-made lights that imitate and compete with the stars, so even when the duvet is lifted, I might—on a good night—be able to count a dozen stars. But I know better. I know what’s really out there in those seemingly dark, empty spaces—I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I remember the sparkling host, the glittering crowd, the innumerable army of light with its clustered regiments and flag-bearing constellations. Can I be honest? I miss them.