The Echoe Loudens

This is a raw poem from a very dark time in my life. I have decided to leave it unedited. These are raw feelings and I have decided to leave them raw.

There is in me a pain, a pain that cannot be healed. For the pain is not of brokenness, but of un-wholeness.

Our hearts are a drum with three chambers surrounding our love. Our love is the hammer. Each time we love our hearts are beaten, and the chambers echo. But the echo is pain, it reminds us of what is not there. Echoes only happen in empty places, our hearts where not meant to be empty. There are only two ways to stop the echo. One way to stop the echo is to stop the hammer, I have tried this, but I could not stop loving, I would have to die to stop loving.

The other way to stop the echo is to fill the chambers. The three chambers are various sizes and shapes, and each can be filled by only one thing; there is a whole that can only be filled by God, this is where the Holy Spirit lives. There is also a chamber that can be filled only by you, it is the smallest of all, this is the place for self esteem.

Last is the chamber made for Eros, and can only be filled by "true love". This is where the echo in me lives. It reminds me that I am not full, that my Eros is empty. And it hurts, it is painful beyond words, to have such an emptiness in me. I have tried to medicate the pain, but no matter how hard I looked I could find no companion, no friend, or mentor, to join me in the echo, and help me in my pain. Until now. My prayers have finally been answered, I cried out to The Lord and He has answered my plea. He has given me a companion, a friend to be closer than a brother, that I can be True with, not simply Honest, but True. I now have a person whom I can be completely open with laying every thought bare, and every intention. This is a richos friendship. I now finally, after all my payers for a friend, God has given me a sister.

More pain, the echo gets louder.

I now have someone with whom I can Philia. But that also cannot be, for now instead of my own pain and fear standing between me and the answer to my prayers, my mother does so, fearing that my grate Philia which I have waited for so long will become Eros. It is impossible for me to deny my heart, but it is equally impossible to deny my mother.

The echo grows and will not be silent.

So here, now, in the midst of the growing agony, my aching heart is torn from outside, by two hands, both pull in the name of my heart, one is the hand of my mother, pulling me away from that which she sees as a threat. The other is a hand made up of several wills, my will, to rejoice in the finding of a long sought friend, the will of my 'sister', to rejoice on my behalf, and another will from somewhere deeper, I think within myself, though I cannot be sure.

Still the echo loudens.

As my heart is pulled the chamber stretches, and grows.

Now the echo feels like breaking, the splitting of the bark before the branch snaps. I do not know where the branch will snap, nor where the broken parts will land.

All I know now is pain, and I don't want to think about it.

But if I lie and tell myself there is no pain, there is no breaking, when I, the branch, finally snaps, I will be caught un-prepared to ketch the pieces. Indeed if I do lie to myself, I will be unable to heal, whatever the outcome of my agony.

So still through it all there is still the echo, an echo reminding me of love in fulfilled, an echo telling of what may be ahead. Who would have thought that an echo could hurt so much? And who knows what to do when my heart is being pulled, being broken, by two I love dearly?

The echo loudens and deepens as if to penetrate the core of my heart, I feel that when the echo gets there I, will break.

Be wary of echoes, and always listen to what they tell you.

And still the echo loudens.

A very broken

Tim

Impromptu Thoughts On Abortion

I may throw a wrench into things with this but this is what I believe to be true.

I think the question is a dodge; an attempt to rephrase the subject in such a manner thatis debatable. “Is that flesh alive?” or even “Does it have a soul?”, aren't really the question. The question should be “Can we prove that it's not alive?” It's not a matter of if it's dead; if it is, then we can't kill it let alone murder it. But can we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the fetus is not a human being with a soul whom we would be murdering to remove and tear apart? Is it reasonable, is it conscionable, to kill that which we can not be sure is dead? If they are right it doesn't matter. If they are wrong however, as most of us believe them to be, for admittedly religious reasons, then they are the worst of murderers and vile human beings who have committed the most heinous crime that can be committed against another human in the taking of a life which is not yet blemished by sins (sin nature is another issue) which has done you no wrong, and with no means of defending themselves. How can we look upon the holocaust and say that was evil and yet be blinded by cheap rhetoric and clever restatement of the issue when it comes to the murder of tens of thousands of innocent human lives. Will we be silent while the hammer of justice denies it's duty? No! We must climb the arm of the legislature, walk along the bridge of law, and jump upon the hammer of American justice until the hand that holds it up becomes too weary to with hold justice from those who deserve it.

To Write Love On Her Arms [A story of two broken people and God's abundant grace]

This speech is about a story, and a response to a story.

The story is about a princess held captive in a tall tower.

And a few good knights who saved her from her captor.

The princess is named Renee. The knights are Christians. The evil captors, are the powers and principalities of this dark world.

The story is called TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS. It was written by a knight named Jamie Tworkowski.

This is a true story and the power is real.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to writeSomething Profane large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center found the wound several hours later. The centerhad no detox, names her too great a risk, and did not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

So we took a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, gave her the best seats in the house. bought her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Told her something true when all she's known are lies. Told her God loves her. And her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, we told her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

It’s Renee’s last night with us, She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it.

The instant I read that I knew that this story will stay with me forever. That moment, that gift is why I am here today.

There in the story I was convicted by the fact that healing is possible, and all I have to do is reach out to the broken and love them the way Christ loved me.

Renee’s story is powerful, but it is not alone.

I also dealt with depression and pain.

My father left when I was three years old, and with him left any belief I may have had in Gods benevolence. I never doubted His existence, but I could not understand how God could allow such pain. In my mind, twisted by self pity, I blamed all things dark, or painful, on God. And I hated Him. It hurts me to say it now, but it is the truth. For a long time I hated God, believing that He only existed to bring me pain. I never struggled with substance abuse, but I did engage in a kind of self injury, and thoughts of suicide. When I was young I turned my pain into rage, lashing out at anything that made me feel vulnerable. Needless to say I had few friends growing up, I wouldn't have wanted to be my friend. I remember every-time I saw anyone with their father envy and rage would well up from the depths of my soul, and I would cry, and scream, and hit whatever I could reach, or go where I could reach something hard. I remember one day when I was about five, punching, punching, punching, the exposed brick walls of our house until my hands where bloody and I couldn’t stand the pain any more. In my warped mind I was the victim of a god that chose a few to torment, and left the rest to rub in the faces of the few, Not with my mind, nor with my heart could I believe that God was good. I have a great mother, and had a good church. I didn’t hate people just God. I longed for love, even in my hatred, and there where those who gave it freely. In the end I would not have salvation today if it weren’t for a few great role models.

My road to Christ was not at first voluntary.

As I grew older the pain dulled a little, and I was able to feel love, not only lust after it. As I grew my mom was wise enough to make sure that I was surrounded by good Christian men. Over time I began to realize that every-one I looked up to, every one I admired, trusted the god I hated. They showed me over time, that the god that I hated was not the real God at all. Their love of me, and sacrifice for me, brought me out of that darkness. I was not saved by those Christians, but I still wold not be saved if they hadn’t come down into the fire where I lived, and raised me up before Elohime, the maker of all things new. He not them saved me, but He was at work through them. God is not invisible when His body does His work. Today I am saved, but I was not saved by the Word alone but also the body.

This is my challenge to you.