You lay sleepily in your bed, about to slip into the arms of Morpheus, and the man in the apartment above kicks off a shoe. It hits the floor with a thud. Your eyes pop open; you are jolted back into the waking world.

There you lie for awhile, unwilling to give in too quickly to the sandman, because you know that sooner or later that other size eleven is going to send a sonic blast through your ceiling. But your sleep number is perfect. The covers are ever so warm and comfy. You begin, again, to succumb.

Off you drift into visions of wonder, great fantasies of joy and delight. You forget the unanswered questions; you ignore the inevitable. What was it you forgot to ask? What was that missing piece of the puzzle? Wasn't there something . . . ?

THUD

Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that.

That other shoe.

*sigh*

It gets me every time.

Words
What are words
when they are not words?
Can they still be called "words"
if they are left unspoken?

Words left unsaid
empty and dead
lying in a shallow grave
You've lost the love
you tried to save

Condemned an infant love to death
depriving this child the milk
of thought, word and deed
What else could any baby need?

I saw
I heard
I knew
And yet
I acted not
I spoke not

I risked
a chance too great
without intention
Did I mention
how it grieves me?

Speak now
Talk now
Call now
Act now
without reservation
toward the preservation
of life, love, meaning, value, purpose

Isn't she worth it?
Aren't you?

I am a plain-spoken man;
You, an artist extraordinaire.
I draw stick-figures, bones without flesh and sinew;
Yours live and breathe, move and act, blood pulsing through syntactic veins.

I paint a sunrise; you paint the dawn.
I paint a battle; you, a revolution.
I paint a kiss; you, love, romance.
I paint the heart; you paint the soul.

My words are water;
Yours, a Cabernet, rich and full-bodied.
You prepare a banquet, a feast for the ears and mind.
I, a loaf of bread – hard, crusty, difficult to chew.

I stand in awe of your beauty,
I gorge myself on the produce of your thoughts,
I drown myself in your vintage.
Still, I am thirsty; still, I am hungry.

If pedantry is all I can muster,
And hieroglyphics my highest art,
I pray you can yet decipher my primitive tongue,
And interpret the hidden eloquence
of this plain-spoken man.

It's like a police search for a missing person. A photograph is carried in hopes that someone will recognize the person in the picture and point you in the direction of that which you seek.

Imagine now the detective scanning a busy street, holding up the photo, comparing it to the faces that he sees. No one matches. Not in the street, not in the alleys, not in the storefronts. No one.

And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, a voice comes from behind: "Excuse me, sir ..." And in an instant the missing one is found!

What do you do when the exact match for the search presents itself? What else can you do? The Children of Israel waited centuries for the Messiah. John leapt for joy in his mother's womb when she stood in His unborn presence. When you are confronted with your heart's desire enfleshed, living and breathing, what else can you do?

You fall in love.

As always, you can download this demo on the "Music & Me" page.  Enjoy!

AT LEAST A THOUSAND REASONS
(My Heart Don't Wanna Know)
by Steven S. Billings
September 8, 2005

After she died I had the usual stack of papers to work through – applications to file to close various accounts, outstanding bills that needed to be paid, legal documents needed to establish the estate, etc.  The mountain seemed daunting.  But I don't think it was merely the amount of work that gave me pause.  Somehow, I felt that if my mother's accounts remained open and "she" retained her assets, I could avoid admitting that she was gone.  But writing those checks, especially that one to myself, made that charade impossible to maintain.  Mom was gone.  The bank said so.

In an odd sort of way I felt guilty at first, benefitting from my mother's death.  But then, this is why she scrimped and saved, stockpiling every penny she could afford; she wanted to grant her inheritors such a blessing.  So ... what now?  The question arises: How may I spend my inheritance in a way that reflects my mother's life?  How can I apply those funds in ways that would please her?  I suppose I could fritter-away my inheritance ... you know, squander it on riotous living, so to speak ... but her love for me has inspired me to do something special with the gifts she has bestowed.

I don't know ... is the spiritual parallel here obvious?  The Lord Jesus died a gruesome death for us and has bequeathed to us a great blessing.  How strange that we should benefit so from the death of the Son of God!  And yet, this is what He came for; this was His purpose in eternity and what He worked toward here in time. He desired to give us – and has indeed given us! – an inheritance that far surpasses any earthly estate.

And I suppose we could receive the gifts of forgiveness, life and salvation without much thought as to what it took to earn them.  But I also think that Lent provides a good opportunity for us to ask ourselves this question: How shall I spend my spiritual inheritance in a way that reflects the image of Christ?  How may I utilize His gifts in ways that please Him?

Nobody has given me restrictions or dictates that govern my use of the inheritance I have received from my mom.  I choose to honor her by my use of what she has given me.  And though God's Law provides very strict guidelines concerning our use of His gifts, it gives no empowerment for us to do so.  Only the Gospel – the power of His love working in us – enables and inspires us to honor Him with our lives.  And only through this Gospel do we come to understand that our gratitude and thankfulness are part of the inheritance.  How in keeping with His nature not only to give the gifts and the desire to please Him, but through these same gifts to enable us so to live.