On Humility

This song cut me to the quick. Props to Pandora for playing it.

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The Only Thing - Ronnie Freeman

I heard someone say the other day

They'd seen in me true love displayed

Blessed by something I had done for them

No sooner had they said these words

I found myself somehow disturbed

Uneasy as I took their compliment

Cause I know the heart inside this man

I know the truth of who I am...

The only thing that's good in me is Jesus

The only thing that's good in me is Jesus

I know me well enough to know

No matter what this life may show

The only thing that's good in me is Jesus

If you could walk the hallways of my heart

And see things as they really are

I wonder if you might be surprised

Seeing faded walls of pride and fear

Rooms I've filled with faithless tears

And corners where I've stood in compromise

But you'd see the work His grace has done

You'd know just how far I've come

In a thousand years

When the dust of this world clears

And I look back on my life

And see in perfect light

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"He must become greater, I must become less." John 3:30

The Castle House

"And the world is passing away, along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever." 1 John 2:17

I grew up in a castle. A 7,000 square foot, grey stone mansion with a brass tipped turret, wrought iron fences, lush perennial gardens and ominous lion busts guarding the solid oak door. A spiral staircase, handmade Italian tile, ornate cherry woodwork, antique crystal chandeliers--all pomp and old world glory. And my favorite, a great kitchen island, where my mother salvaged, stripped, scrubbed, and arranged an intricate pattern of vintage 1920s tile. It was a labor of love.

It was also a money pit. My mom and stepdad built it largely themselves, project by project, which meant it was never quite done. Painful and perpetual sanctification. Something was always under construction...or in need of it. The basement flooded every spring. The stone siding became a haven for great, towering wasp nests. The french doors opened to a sheer, two-story cliff where the deck was supposed to be. Growing up as "the girl in the castle house" was somewhat less charming while breathing in sawdust and polyurethane.

But despite its petulance the castle house was truly magnificent. Christmastime was the best. Miles of white lights, evergreen garland, crystal candelabras, and not one, but three Christmas trees. No one could throw a holiday party like Mom.

We lived there until I was 17. Mom moved to Tennessee, and I moved to St. Cloud to live with my dad. The house went on the market. And stayed there for a long time. The market for glorious and unfinished castle houses is small. After a great while, it sold to a man who promised to make the house into all it ought to be, and more. That was 5 years ago.

A week ago, my mom drove by the castle house. Outside, the acres of lawn were overgrown and unkempt, practically swallowing the stone retaining walls. To her horror, when she peeked through the windows, everything was destroyed. The cherry corbels were ripped off the molding. The Italian tile pulled up. Walls knocked down. Chandeliers sold. And that grand kitchen island, home to countless buffet dinners, to acres of custard pie and divinity before Thanksgiving, to the laughter of women over coffee and leftovers--gone.

A colosseum in ruins.

The truth hit close to home, even for a pilgrim soul. The world, in its present form, is passing away. Things do not endure. Empires do not endure. Eventually, everything bows to moth and rust and marauder. Even castle houses.

"For we know that if the tend that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens." -II Corinthians 5:1

"Hands"

My favorite commercial of all time.

On Pilgrim Souls

When You Are Old - William Butler Yeats

When you are old and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book

And slowly read and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep

How many loved your moments of glad grace

And loved you with a love, false or true

But one many loved the pilgrim soul in you

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced above the mountains overhead

And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

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A first blog tribute to my patron poet.