Dwight L Moody Quote

"We are told to let our light shine, and if it does, we won't need to tell anybody it does. Lighthouses don't fire cannons to call attention to their shining- they just shine."
-Dwight L. Moody

This is how we should live, as Christians and simply as people. If our good character doesn't speak for itself, then to point it out simply displays a lack of character to begin with. We should shine, not advertise.

Life Is Poetry, Each Of Us Our Own Poet

There is not a person who isn't important. In life we often concern ourselves only with our little bubble. Family might matter, friends might matter, but beyond that we have little care for anyone who is outside of our immediate sphere.

Life I think though, is not so much like a novel, but like a collection of works, and every individual is a contributing author. The life of each person is like a dramatized poem, expressing heights and depths of grandeur and despair, of happiness and sorrow, and love and loneliness. 

From the time we are born we spend ourselves writing this masterpiece, which details conflicts and tensions, and choices. Every story, be it a novel or a poem is driven by choices, and their ensuing consequences.

Every person though, your boss, your coworker in the next cubicle, even that annoying classmate is a poem. Some poems are dark, others bright. Some express entrapment, and others hope and freedom. but all are valuable. There is not a book written which does hold value in the effort or creativity put into it. Likewise, each life is an expression of creativity and effort; even the least accomplished has struggled and been deeply influential in another person's life.

Important though to consider is what we wish our legacy to be. In this digital age, we will never truly be forgotten; your facebook, twitter, and forum posts may remain available long after everyone presently around ceases to exist. two hundred years from now this blog post may still be archived somewhere. There is no escaping history, neither do we have to fear being forgotten by it.

But this poses a striking question: What image am I leaving myself? What is your poem? Have you outlined the novel you want remembered, or are you still a rough draft? 

And perhaps most importantly, what influence are you having as the people around you write poems of their own existence? I suggest you start writing.

The Wandering Adventure

The Wandering Adventure

What am I looking for?
And can it be found?
It's just behind every door,
an echoing sweet sound.

There's beauty in communion,
oneness of the soul.
Closeness its mission,
true knowledge made whole.

A comfort and refuge,
of certain and safe.
Which is lived and died for,
to love for love's sake.

Where the night wind is singing,
where adventure unfolds.
A fullness is built,
with a purpose to hold.

But now I am wandering,
for life does not flow.
I am searching and grasping,
with life holding no glow.

The Search

The Search

Seasons pass as clouds blow over,
each telling the same story:
the story of life

As Summer brings drought,
the Winter burns with ice.
The Spring rains pour.
like the icy Fall wind.

The Fall wind is a sign,
it’s icy breath whispering of Winter.
Winter, when Ice grips everything,
and no man can escape.

These winds are my soul,
whispers of an emptiness unfilled.
Winter’s ice of sorrow begins,
and my mind burns numb.

As spring rains wash away my numbness,
I am left alone feeling only sadness.
The summer drought washes across my heart,
I am drowning dry in my own pains.

This sadness, it is a strange emotion,
being sure to hold no foot in rational reality.
Instead it lies in a place of twilight and shadows,
where the curtains of past and future meet blurry and confused.

You know this land as the  present,
where life is good and food is plenty.
Where an American soul has naught to complain of
But still life is empty

In this unquenched emptiness, life becomes a search,
A sort of quest for happiness.
Life is a race, but  none receives the prize,
for the prize of satisfaction and fullness is always just out of grasp.

As I dream I come to understand my emptiness.
It is a sense of incompleteness that haunts me;
as though my arm shave been ripped off,
but it feels as though they are still present.

Somewhere in my mind lies perfection,
an eternal image of completeness and life made whole.
But in this land of shadows things are hidden,
I am but granted glimpses of life fulfilled.
So I wander, unsure of what I am looking for.
I hope I know her if I find her.