Shining Spirit

If I asked you: Where do you live?
what answer would you automatically give?
City? State? Dot on a map?
A series of numbers? A street, perhaps.
But I didn’t ask where you sleep at night.
I want to know what gives you delight.
I’m not asking a “where” but a “what.”
Don’t tell me apartment or igloo or hut,
tell me what makes your heart beat with joy.
Remember that moment, as a girl or a boy
when you sat among flowers on this sweet, warm earth,
felt the wind toss your hair; or when you gave birth
and held your own body right there in your hands?
To live isn’t defined by a piece of land.
To live is to walk in perpetual grace
unrelated to the limits of location or place.
I live in the wonder of a morning’s dawn,
in a night sky of stars, in that little fawn
that looked at me in a knowing way,
as if, somehow, she wanted to say:
Come, big brother, let’s run and play
in this beautiful garden where we shall stay
alive to the glory, the sheer delight
of seeing life with a new kind of sight.
O, to live. To live like we were meant to be.
At peace with the world; in harmony
so that every moment, regardless of place,
I might gaze upon His glorious face
and think to myself: I am home.
If I asked you: Where do you live?
I wonder what answer you might give?

Yes, I know I’ve published this photograph before. If you remember it, then you’ve traveled back to 2013, the first year of Shining Spirit. Since that year, 693 posts have crossed the bridge from my spirit to yours. Thank you for opening the door and inviting me in. Visiting with you is always a sacred pleasure. No, I’m not quitting. There are a few more to come. When I feel that nudging of my spirit, I’ll knock on your door again. Just wanted to say thank you for your hospitality. And thank you Abiding Presence for bridging us all to encounters of sacred curiosity. Today, this day, is another bridge to cross. Walk gently through its uniqueness and be on the lookout for blessings along the way.

He wasn’t killed that I might possess
the gate code of heaven, my new address.
The cross on the hill was a message of power,
a brutal warning that at any hour
political muscle is in control,
that unless you do as you are told,
live by the rules of political might,
you’ll see close up the horrible sight:
cross after cross on Golgotha Hill,
put there to warn and completely instill
fear as the force that defines our days,
a warning that power, in so many ways,
will prevail and have the last say.

He wasn’t killed to wipe out my sins.
He died because he let people in
on a truth that changed life here and now,
merchants and beggars, men at the plow,
women, sinners, the broken and lost.
Compassionate love comes at a cost.
His death was a political necessity
because folks like us, people like me,
were waking up, becoming too bold
with the message this man reportedly told,
the absurd idea that we could be
restored to life, released, set free
in spirit and mind, in heart and soul
even if power exerted control,
and their swords ran red with blood.

He didn’t buy me a place in the sky.
He offered me hope so that I could try
to live my life with dignity,
to look upon life and clearly see
that compassionate love sets me free,
transforms my mind, recreates in me
a determined will to stand up and be
stronger than whips, unafraid of power,
convinced that in this very hour
his words have changed my life.

He wasn’t killed to save my soul.
That happened the minute I was told
that life is more than power and hate,
that I possess a different fate,
that in my struggles, worries and fears,
his presence and power are always near.
My life, eternal, began that day
when I stood in that crowd and heard him say
that I am a person of value and worth,
that I matter to God, that right here on earth.
I have new eyes with which I can see
a vision of life that was meant to be.
Imagine that! God loves me!
I am alive! I am set free!
I am a child of eternity.