In trying to express myself again i have waxed poetic

(Real poets please skip over what follows): 

My soul is still before the Lord.

My heart strings are plucked 

in the tune of a whisper, 

An uttering deep and mellow. 

Longing to speak only words that satisfy, 

I am silent. 

Ancient words uttered long ago speak of today. 

They have been shown true in times past

would now be different than then? 

A wise sage remains true, 

I choose to Listen.

Oh, my wandering ways. 

Easily led one way and then another
My feet swell and my clothes wear out, 

But not because God has forgotten. 

No, his ways are steady and sure to come about.
It is my eye

That catches the sparkle of things soon to tarnish. 

Discipline me Oh lord, 

But not in your anger, lest I come to nothing. 

Let your love root in me.

I am ready to cherish, 

I long to hold your treasure
I desire to be ever entwined

with your vine, with your Life;

I am a young donkey colt, tie me to your tendril
and let me live.

A day at your door is better than a life spent in any other tent. 

Stretch out your garment over me
I seek to be hidden, 

I am lit in a small place, 

I glimpse into heaven

in the silence as we fall down before you

with the hymn of the angels. 

Holy, holy, holy.

A Bus in Yangon

There are many things circling in my head about the past three weeks. New sights new smells, and new experiences external and Internally.  So I begin here with the bus.
It all started one wintry day in Vancouver.  I had been visiting a friend who lived on the other side of the city from my home. We had spent the afternoon talking and eating and enjoyed each others company so much that I hadn't realized how late it was getting, but the snow that had started to fall gently earlier was now coming down and piling up on the sidewalks and street. We said our goodbye at the bus-stop for nearly 2 hours since every bus that passed by flashed their lit up sign saying "Sorry Full". When i finally got on I found a seat and sat comfortably pondering the conversations with a friend.
Several years later I am standing on a bus Around four in the afternoon in Yangon. No room to sit the and the isle is full and the smell of sweat hangs on everyone as they make their way home from work and a busy day.  I am reminded of the time the buses passed me up because they were full. I was glad to be on the bus and not passed up; I smile at the heat that is present instead of snow.  We stop and a couple people exit and 4 people get on.  We are motioned by the door keeper (a well built man with tattoos covering his arm chewing beetle nut) as he barked out in a loud voice with words I gathered meant 'scoot toward the back of the bus'. We drive on, and the next stop one person gets off and 6 get on. Further down 6 on 2 off, we start to move on but slow for the 5 boys that are running for the bus. Scoot further back we are told, but how can i when there is no where to move? Yet non the less we maneuver  around and the people at the stop are accommodated into the tight space. 4 on one off, 5 on two off, 6 on one off. We continue in this fashion turning no one a way for over an hour. "Thamine Lan So" we had told the door keeper that was our stop, when we got on. Now he hollered out those words and motioned for us to come to the door. After over an hour of accommodating people and very few exiting we could only imagine what he was meaning for us to do as we stood wedged in to the others on the bus. What followed was to me the strangest and a new sensation for me (or t least new to my memory). I now know the feeling  from the perspective of a new born, of being pushed and pulled out of the birthing canal.  No one stepped out of the way, because there was no where to go. It would be like asking an internal organ to step aside so the baby can stretch inside the womb. but each person did there part to contract like a muscle that inched us toward the open door. The whole time the door keeper like a midwife, kept motioning us forward and reaching over heads to help pull at least our arm through the crowd.(All on a moving bus might I add.)  Relatively sooner than I had anticipated we arrived at the front door. Many were smiling around us at our inexperienced achievement of this task. Monica was just a step ahead of me and as the bus came to a stop she proceeded to start to exit the bus. This evidently was not the moment for such actions for a wave went over the crowd  and though in reality it may have only been 6 men and the midwife (door keeper) Lunged after her to keep her on the bus, it certainly felt like half the bus responded to her. After a few awkward moments as we stood with them babbling to each other in Burmese and smiling at us we were then gestured with great ado that now was the time to exit. We thanked them, were waved at as the bus drove on and we laughed at the whole experience.
          A few days later we were headed into the downtown area and were enjoying that the mid morning hours provided us with a bus with plenty of room. A seat for everyone! And more for those we might pick up along the way. How pleasant I thought to myself, this is good to keep in mind as I travel to and fro in the future. I sit in the back seat observing all the interactions especially the door keeper and the money collector as they look a bit bored, but liven themselves with swapping funny stories. then wander the isle counting people. both men do this a couple times and then go up to the driver as we  are waiting at a stop light.  Suddenly they turn around and shout out something in Burmese, which causes the 20 so people on the bus to start mumbling as they grab their belongings and exit the bus.  A bit bewildered My friend and I gather ourselves as well and follow everyone off. Was the bus broken down? They hurried last of us off the bus as the light changed green and the bus sped away. Not broken. "Welcome to Burma!" Said a taller Burmese man in English. He told us there would be another bus coming that would take us where we wanted to go, and pointed to a different numbered bus a bit  down the rode. Why did we have to get off?  He smiled, "the bus was too empty." and we hoped on the the next bus--standing room only.
So my dear Vancouver, and all other public buses, I'm letting you know a fact that Asians know that is a unknown secret on snowy winter days in the west.  Bus cannot be too full, it it can be too empty.

I sit in unknowing

I sit in Unknowing.
I sat down to write some of my thoughts from the past weeks, but in searching for any words the only words that come are "unknown". 

We have established a routine, part of which is studying language every morning from nine to noon. 

Yet there is an ever present feeling of unknown even in this. 

I can study all morning "Da beh lout leh?" (how much is it?) and practice my fruits and numbers;

 In the Afternoon when I go to the market to buy for dinner, it is a world of unknowing again; since the language used in the market is not the language I studied all morning.  

We meet together every Saturday as a team, opening up topics for conversation that will eventually help us solidify who we are as a team and what we are called to be, do, and live. But for now, at the end of these days, we sit with more questions than when we began..."how will all that fit together?" we hold that question openly as we end our meeting. 

We have established praying four times spaced out in each day, yet this is by far the place to gain a sense  of knowing.  There is great joy, there is silence, there is peace, and openness, but "knowing"...How is stillness and prayer, helping anything? How does my moving here to unfamiliarity draw me deeper into the way of whole life.
In all this I find unknowing is ok, and in the times of prayer and silence, I recognize an assurance of the hope, that Life will spring forth in the desert. 

so I gladly sit... 

I sit in the unknowing.

A little babe...

A little Babe,  

A tiny spot, 

Insufficient on my own.

An helpless one, 

An observant eye,

Taking in what goes around.

A lot of waiting

A lot unknown,

Mystery is unfolding.

Take the leap 

dare to breathe 

the world is so inspiring

creativity 

in birds and trees

Gems of knowledge in Other people. 

May I learn

May I grow
In the way of the Son Incarnate

Just a babe, 

In a spot on the globe
Giving up sufficiency on his own. 

Infused...

"The Glory of God infused in flesh..." 

That was a phrase I pondered last night. 

Infused. 

The life and death and life again of the saviour overflows with the goodness of this phrase, and I wondered at my awareness of the cosmic story that plays the leading role in this universe.

As we are being made in the likeness of our creator, do I have eyes to see this infusion of life and glory surrounding me.  I know I like to think I do, but I also know I am ignorant of so much, both by choice and by mystery yet to be revealed. I find it fairly obvious to see this infusion in Christ, but not so obvious in my own life or in the life of others, who like me, say that we are now alive in the one who actually has this infusion thing going for him. 

I witness the frustration and judgement within me towards people I supposedly care about when I see them refusing to talk to each other, the laziness within me to move on a rainy day, debating whether a lie would be helpful for a situation, the desires to avoid, procrastinate, doubt, turn a blind uncaring eye, and all of this in one week. 

Oh the grace upon grace of this Mysterious One who infuses Glory into so weak a vessel. 

I seek,

 I long,

 I dare to hope for this transformation

 even now... 

Its a Choice...

I sat and talked through most of dinner last night about community, with a few people that were keen on starting a community over the next few years.  I was glad to hear the thought that they have been putting into this idea and not assuming they know how to be community, or that its as easy as living together and sharing.  To people who say they want to live in community, I find that I usually say something to the line of "you know its not easy don't you? You're going to be confronted with people who have different opinions than you, people who irritate you, people who are lazy or human, people who get it wrong, your going to be confronted with yourself."  Surprisingly this doesn't scare most people off (though maybe it should). Again and again, community offers the chance to offer grace, to realize that others as well as ourselves will get "it" wrong most of the time.  Communion with other people (another way of saying community) is a choice-- a choice to act on love rather than fear or anger or pride. And it is also a choice to trust--trusting that the other really is acting out of the best way that they can express love and best interest for others.
When this idea is acted upon well, laughter fills the halls and no one wants to leave the space because of the sweetness. When something gets in the way like fear, mistrust, or pride...the stones turn cold as words of hate are spoken and doors slam that you wonder if they will ever open again.
Last night some doors slammed as choices were made to hold on to mistrust that deeply grieved my heart.  I cannot, no matter how much I would like, make people choose love.  For those who did chose love last night I was privileged to watch the Congo line dance out the front door singing Backstreet Boys hits; then as I moved to the window to watch them walk away from the house, I saw the beauty of community as a group of people (who would not have even looked each others ways a few years ago), hung out for 5 more minutes on the sidewalk chatting away.  Nothing forced, no one could say well it my job, it was from their heart, their choice to choose Love.

A bit of writing without a title...

Here is a recent bit of words written down in creative form that I wrote.  I don't know what to title it but it stems from a few images from scripture, mixed in with experiences of waiting and watching and other encounters of life in each day:

The blossom awaits deep within
Looming in the uncertainty of future
Petal after gentle petal waiting.
The succulent smell of sweet grass
confident in their roots, daring toes to wiggle
in its soft tenderness.

I have waited all winter,
Spring is near past
And the scorching heat of summer threatens
The well made plans falter--
Part of brokenness that rears its ugly head;
This is not as it should be.

Who will water my tender Love?
Who will care for each blade and courageous root?
Will all stand by and shake as a leaf in the autumn wind from fear?
Will the strength, that once was, be mocked with pride?
Will ignorance ever profit the one who turns the eye away?

Oh valiant one, I see you,
Hiding where there is no fruit,
Are you filled with stone that drags to the depth of the sea?
Oh, that you were a stone upon a stone built into an alter
Meant for the sacrifice of the sweetest sweetness to my nostrils
Or  be as clay crushed, softened, molded for good pleasure
shaped into love as I Love.