singing

teach me to sing
with a voice
long silent
teach me to dance
with feet
bound
teach me to play
with aged
innocence
teach me to laugh
again.

teach me to hope
the dreams
long forgotten
teach me to trust
not recoil
in pain
teach me to sing
with a voice
long silent
teach me to laugh
again.


perhaps one of the most beautiful sights i have ever seen is the field i pass on my way to town. such a goldenrod blanket of wildflowers as i had never spied before, nor will again i imagine. i thought about taking a picture of it, but knew it would pale in comparison, and i would want for the memory of golden fields seen once with waking eyes. these moments when the full color glory of the Lord is revealed to me are the ones which remind me the darkness has passed, day is come. all is well.

the field was plowed under and i could not help but mourn the beauty lost for another season. spring seems so far away and my eyes long for the goldenrod beauty they once glutted themselves on.

there is another field with great bales of hay, rounds of straw strewn among the golden blanket. but this field is situated in a pasture which backs up to homes and i cannot help but hear my heart lamenting the encroaching development. the fields lost to half-acre homes with manicured lawns and winding streets. sidewalks are nice, but they do not bloom in spring.

at my piano i sit and play. seldom do i sing. but the keys cry out a melody that lightens my heart and expresses the as yet, inexpressible longing for God. just as i am is the hymn of choice and it's words minister to me. as i labor to play it through without error i am reminded of my many flaws. of how late in life i've come to the piano and must with fumbling fingers and awkward time persevere.

every now and again i sing. but not the confident bellowing of my youth. but rather a subdued prayersong of worship. and i am reminded of the corn.

fields behind our home are planted with corn, some stick their kerneled heads high above the others. drinking in full sun. soon, those heads mature and are bowed down low with the great weight of their fruitfulness. perhaps that is where i am now. bowing, steeping under the weight of maturity. i cannot say. but hope has returned and i am alive again. back from the dead.