Elisabeth's Pen

 Tainted blood and water
flow, cleansed from your thrown, and I, my mess
enthralled in it's undertow.
This life, this one, on the edge of something
magnificent, empty and beautifully broken,
wonderfully heavy with the grace it now bears,
do come, do kneel, do love, and long.
To raise this rock above my head, to scream help
with lung's gust, my arms do reach to your sky; help
on my tongue, help in my heart, help flowing from my
lips to your ears.
Help and remembrance, remembering how far we've 
come with Ebenezer's stone,
flow intermingled with 
the blood from your thrown.
I come, and I kneel,
and I ask, take this little life and use it for your glory.
Ebenezer planted firmly in the earth, shovel in, shovel deep,
here I stay, till you take me home. 
"Here's my
heart Lord, take and seal it, seal it for thy
courts above."

One at a time, little hopes and dreams are being placed in that bottle, that little bottle, that little bottle.
      A heart's beat, a heart's throb. its love and sorrow, are all thriving inside.
 Too painful to hold, too precious to let go, that little bottle lay at your feet.
     "Find a hiding place, somewhere to keep it safe," my spirit said.
So, I ran to the one place I know I always belong, the one place I know I am safe, right at your feet, pouring  
     out my tears as they hit that little bottle, like rain drops on a glass floor.
Perhaps one day, when the moment of release comes, you will break the glass, shatter it in a million pieces,
     and let the hopes and dreams find there place.
Too painful to hold, too much to touch, at your feet they will stay, and I beg you, make a way, bring release
    to this aching heart.
I'm sick with anticipation, full of hope, overwhelming with want, asking you to put it all in that little bottle laying
    at your feet.
Little bottle holds my heart, little bottle holds my sweat and tears, blood and fear, it's all there, and I beg you,
    make a way.

Dear Blog World,

Feels a little lost in the wood...

Fighting the battle of memories these days, you know, when it's time to let go of the thoughts that were once comforting because they remind you of a time, a place, or a person you can no longer hold on to.

Somehow, in the midst of letting go, my hands have been filled with something else: hope. Have you ever been able to taste the future, like a really awesome piece of wedding cake? Every once in a while, when fear is gone and I dare to dream, I can taste little pieces of goodness not yet born, the essence of hope, the essence of faith, like frosting on the wind.

Sometimes hope shows up in our dreams, little messages that keep us going when the climb to the mountain's top  becomes strenuous. That's when I see it. Have you ever seen happiness, not just the effects of it, but the actual thing itself?

 I am in my second year at the University of North Texas in Denton. My first semester I drove a 45 minute commute both ways, it was all highway. I had never felt so alone. But every morning, rising up over the hills, above the tree line, was a promise of happiness. Right as I would come up over the hill as I pulled into Denton, there it would be, shining right in my eyes telling me I wasn't alone.

The memories, so bittersweet, call my name every night right around this time. That's when I have to close my eyes and think about the sun rising on the wings of promise driving that stretch of Highway 35.

My glass is always half full, waiting to pour into you.

What happens when you don't like the sound of your own voice? What a complex thing to attempt to hone a sound to the point it resonates sweetly in the singer's ear. I wish I could open my mouth and have Johnny Cash's voice come out . I have a tendency to hold long notes because sitting in an auditorium once, people erupted in thunderous applause after hearing a performer do just that. I also like the way it feels in my throat. When I started playing guitar it was all about my voice because that was my strongest asset; I wanted to drowned out the bad playing. Now, I want to marry the two. It's like a blend of dark and light at dusk creating a comforting glow in the sky. I have a song in me, and for the past few months I have drowned it out, let my guitar collect dust in the corner. Last night I was inspired: I watched Walk the Line.

 The first time I remember hearing Johnny Cash's voice I was 17. I was in the car on some highway in Oklahoma with my big brother, Cale, whose musical tastes know no bounds. When that bullfrog, baritone voice came through the speakers I was awe struck. Most of the time when I admire an older man, I have linked it back to my admiration for my Dad. He didn't sing all the time, but we would sing hymns riding horses together when I was a little girl, and his voice was deep and scruffy. Somehow, it was like hearing my Dad singing to me the first time I heard Johnny Cash's voice. The more I found out about Cash, the more I liked him.I appreciate men who are no non-sense.

"Why are you always wearing black? Are you on your way to a funeral?" they would ask him.
"Well maybe I am," Cash replied.

Then he would answer with his music.

"Well you wonder why I always dress in black, why you never see bright colors on my back? I wear it for the thousands who have died, believing that the Lord was on their side."

Aaaaahhhh! I love that. I would never be a politician - or a pastor - you're expected to be squeaky clean with no room for error, when the truth is we are all born with error built into us. I would MUCH rather be a broken musician, transparent about life, able to identify with thousands who have have experienced heartache, giving them the most powerful medicine the world has to offer: music. Thank you God for giving us Johnny Cash.