Holy Wind

The pastor is doing a series on the Holy Spirit. Thought I’d re-post the blog I wrote about this topic.

...because healing spreads

Words are useless.  I can tell my son how much I love a paper he’s written. He can take what I’ve said and think I’m saying he usually doesn’t try.  I can tell my husband how much I’ve missed him.  He can hear from those words that I’m angry he’s been insensitive about the amount of hours he spends away from home.

The topic of speaking in tongues has been a divisive one.  This past week I spent some time in the book of Acts and was taken back at the immense waste of time we’ve helped ourselves to at being right – all the while missing the point.  The squabble has been foreign language (seen by the counter as a way to feel superior) versus an unknown language of angels (seen by the counter as demon possessed blathering).  Did I adequately rock the boat?

Everyday I can be speaking…

View original post 865 more words

Advertisements

Bedsheets of Beelzebub

dsc_0222

The bedsheets of Beelzebub

That scratch and itch

And wrongly rub

Little balls of itchy wrinkles

Like a dog poop salad

With little sprinkles

Like the sleep of a guilty conscience

Like an itchy canine

Scraping his haunches

But cross the river to Target’s door

With one months pay and a little more

Fresh like Heaven’s rescue netting

We float away on brand new bedding

By Ted Boyl-Davis

September 16, 2016

Sleep Apnea

dsc_1288

“The hose of solitude,”

he says

The tube that carries air to lungs

For tired body fast asleep

a-dreaming dreams forgets to breathe

“The hose of solitude”

he says

And so he leaves it lying there

And lays beside me

gasping hard

The man is breathing shallow snores

And now no breath

Long stretch of still

If I can wait

he’s got to breath

I can not take this sleepless night!

The moments pass

Before I dig

With elbow into silent side

The gasp

and now he starts again

He starts right up as my heart jumps

The hose of air

Might it be true

Could mean more left of me and you

Lisa Boyl-Davis

September 7, 2016

Real Prayer

dsc_0437

This prayer to God was written by a beautiful survivor of the most hideous of abuse.  It’s a real prayer to God.  I’m posting this with her permission as I think we all need to challenge preconceived ideas about what a proper prayer looks like, and assumptions about people unable to imagine a loving God.  The God I worship wept.  He welcomes honesty. Even of the rawest form.  Thank you Trinity for allowing me to share your letter.

 

I so long for a Father figure,

someone to gently love me without abuse,

without conditions, without fear of judgment.

You, God are suppose to be my ultimate Father,

on one side, I still so desperately long for your affections, your love,

and at times I see glimpses of that in the children you’ve place in my life,

through other people,

through the promises in your Word.

But lately there is this other side,

this darkness within me that rages at you

and doesn’t understand how you have a plan for my life,

or that you care about the broken hearted.

A part of me that see you no differently than I view my abuser,

as a monster,

because only a monster would allow children to be abused,

would allow my own parents to crave drugs so bad that selling me,

their youngest child,

was like selling a used shirt at a yard sale,

something you don’t think twice about.

And then you create me to need love and attention,

the very things that got me hurt in the first place!

Why would I come running to you?!!

You didn’t protect me,

you sure as hell didn’t stop the bastards that used me like trash for years.

If you want me to truly trust you God,

you’ve got to break the wall down,

because it’s high and thick and not coming down without some serious work on your part.

I’m tired of praying to what seems like thin air,

only to battle the demons within me so much more.

You say you’re a healer and you heal the broken hearted.

Where’s the healing???

When does it come?

When do I get release from the monsters of mental illness?

The hell and torture of PTSD?

The little Trinity needs her Abba Father,

but the adult me wants to never let you close to her.

I need some answers, God

if we are going to work together to heal little Trinity.

Written by Trinity

The Grandma I Can’t Recall

0097

Grandma Naomi in the front of the boat

It’s hard to write about a Grandma I can hardly remember.  My sisters remember her well, we were 10, 8 and 7 when she passed.  But for some reason I have very little memory of her. I do remember her sister, Great Aunt Hannah, I think because the only time she visited from Vermont, she looked at me with her mostly blind eyes and talked to me kind and soft.  Grandma was maybe 5 or 6 years when her Mother died.  Their family lived in tenement houses in Brooklyn where many Russian Jewish immigrants had settled after making their way cross ocean, through Ellis Island and to America, far from a homeland that had become hostile.

Just after the death of their Mother, her older brother Moses took his life at 17 years of age, and their father Solomon disappeared, leaving she and her two sisters alone.  There are different reports about what happened at this point, but best I can tell, she and her sisters were placed in different orphanages. There were wealthy relatives in New York, and from time to time, they helped the girls as well.

This poem is one of Grandma Naomi’s rare heart creations, talking about some precious things she remembers about her mother. We located her mother’s grave in a cemetery for impoverished Hebrew people.  Also found her brothers death certificate. There is no trace of their father who disappeared or her oldest sister who died in a mental institution.  Grandma Naomi and her sister Hannah, two of the six to survive so much suffering.

 

dsc_0331

 

0157

A picture of Grandma, the one to the left, and Great Aunt Hannah on the right.

Not sure who the middle girl is.

Lying Mocker: The Deceit of Shaming.

DSC_0298She’s Psycho

He’s a whistleblower

What a Bitch

The safety officer has arrived, I see.

What a Nerd.

A real Drama Queen

Rejection names.  Names given to a person finally able to speak the truth of a thing, unable to pretend anymore.  The name given to the one who says: Enough!

Here is what the word means according to www.dictonry.com and  Merriam-Webster.

Mocking:

1. to attack or treat with ridicule, contempt, or derision.

2. to ridicule by mimicry of action or speech; mimic derisively.

3. to mimic, imitate, or counterfeit.

4. to challenge; defy: His actions mock convention.

5. to deceive, delude, or disappoint.

verb (used without object)

6. to use ridicule or derision; scoff; jeer (often followed by at).

noun

7. a contemptuous or derisive imitative action or speech; mockery or derision.

It’s obvious that mocking is an attack using ridicule towards someone.  Most, however, do not realize that built into the definition of the word mock is “to deceive”.  That is exactly what happens when we mock.  The reason a person mocks is to fake out the one they mock.  The lie takes the attention off what should be heard or acknowledged or noticed. Minimizing what one has done or said that is worth respectfully acknowledging. It is a behavior for the avoidance of truthful discussion.  To harm another when I don’t like what you’re doing, or what you’re saying.  Rather than allow you to be who are are, and notice what you’ve noticed, or listen as you speak of what bothers you, in my discomfort I tell a lie by not honestly stating “I’m uncomfortable.  I’m afraid.  I’m ashamed when you talk about this, or do that.”  So rather than tell the truth, we make the choice to lie-mock. 

Mocking does what it’s intended to do.  It shuts the mocked one down from doing.  From being.  From noticing what needs noticing.  From saying what should be said.  If only the mocked one would remember that to be mocked is to be lied to.  The shame words might have less power.  We might take courage and do what needs done, despite disgust and disdain, because we know that the mock-lies are weak strands that hold back only those who will be chained by cover-ups.