Songs of Mata

  It's the weekend before the 3rd, and I find myself on new ground. I am still trying to understand the new sign posts here, bask in the sun without getting burnt, finally breathe without the stench of a prison cell in my chest. The air is fresh, the sun doesn't set and I miss Him I wonder, Did the Israelites ever miss seeing fresh manna in the desert? Did they learn that sometimes a hard rock doesn't give you a river? Do their children ask why the clouds in the sky are so high up,  and not right up front?  I know why the Lord brought them through the desert, 40 years, same sandles, same cloud because I know what the promised land doesn't show you. - A front row seat, to the Compassionate God , to the God who wept alongside Mary and Martha, to the God who is a whisper in the wind, no fire. Spoon feeding your bruised body, washing blood out your fresh wounds I am sitting on new ground, my prayer list is alot shorter and I miss Him

Sometimes I wish I looked more like Nana Her beauty requires no powder, no cream Her hair firm, a Fijian halo to her frame Strength and poise - her hallmark Dr Apolonia, Qasenivuli, Ma, Nana I know not a better woman   In the everyday quiet mundane her words like the calm burning tree, whether we’re in the kitchen,   around a grog bowl or in the garden. whether she's laughing with me,   praying, or yelling,   her wisdom builds me each time Life has spun and spun seasons through her.   storms, suns and droughts   all the while, she remains anchored shedding light to truth and planting truths in tomorrows so much so that I know before learning, so much so   that I love without feeling   and I’ve seen before looking.. one day I hope to look more like Nana