Friday, August 17, 2012

the traveler - a poem

:: Today's post is a never-before published poem written in January 2011. It's a rhyming poem... for the most part at least. I hope you have enjoyed these special posts while I've been away on vacation. I'll be posting about vacation early next week. Enjoy!
Source: unknown

Does a traveler know where his path will lead?
Or what adventures await him?
How does he know where he is going?
Why did he sign the traveler's creed?

Down the lonely road he walks,
Sometimes without a friend.
Any wounds he may suffer,
The true king will help mend.

 The Bible is a powerful thing,
To the traveler a double-edged sword.
With faith, those who believe, can move mountains,
And receive strength from the Lord.

Some days the traveler may fight dragons,
And later eat a feast.
Be surrounded by leaders of wealth,
But find true joy in the least.

He may be captured by evil,
To be held in the darkness.
But a glimmer of the Lord's hope shines,
So the traveler takes up his sword of knowledge.

And slices through the enemy's lies,
Leaving the evil ones behind him screaming.
Not looking back, he focuses on the King,
Back to his path, the traveler flies.

Now we know where he is going,
Letting other's join his journey.
To the Kingdom of the One True King,
That is where he is going.

To hear the King say his name,
To say he is at his journey's end, his traveling days are gone.
The King says, "Well done, good and faithful servant.
You're battle has been won!"

So the traveler walks on, to the kingdom, that is where,
With the Lord as his guide and the Bible as a sword.
With his faith as a map, to the kingdom it leads,
He will get there.

He will be received with laughter and happiness,
The sound of angels singing, seeing old friends and making new.
In the shadow of the One True King,
He thrives in Heaven's Lore.

At his journey's end, he will travel no more.

Monday, August 13, 2012

painting from the heart

:: Today this piece of writing was published on Facebook on November 12, 2010. I hope you enjoy it.
Source: unknown
     A blank canvas stares back at me as I try to figure out what I want to paint first. I could paint the background, or maybe the biggest section. Or I could just start, but there's so many questions I ask myself. What color should I use? Which size brush is right? 
     I can't decide, so I pick up a random brush and pick a plain color. But I only paint in shapes. Flat, un-detailed, boring shapes. At least now there are splotches of color here and there. 
     I swirl my brush in paint, stalling for time. I just can’t seem to get in the zone, not a single thought of inspiration is coming to mind. I’m stuck. I decide to work on one of the smaller sections. I clean off my brush and dip it in a little bit of paint. I brush it lightly onto the canvas and so far it looks good. It looks almost as good as the picture I'm painting from.   
     As I finish the object I can't help but think that it isn't finished yet. The colors are not blending, it doesn't have personality and it still looks boring. It just doesn't sing. I take a deep breath and tell myself I'll come back to it. 
     On to the next section. This part is more detailed and complicated, but I'll give it a go. I start out small and do the shadowed areas. They actually look really good, so I keep going. I become so focused on my painting that nothing else exists. I watch as the brush goes back and forth, up and down, leaving a colorful trail in it's wake. The paint seems to weave into other colors on the canvas, spinning a story, popping out at me as if the painting has come to life. It's... magical.
     My brush comes to a stop and I look at what I have done. It's amazing and surprising. I didn't know that I had done so much. Feeling very proud of myself I look over at the picture and my pride deflates. My painting looks nothing like the picture. A wave of disappointment crashes over me and I try to think of a way to fix what I've done. I need more highlights in some areas, more color in others. I'm right back to the beginning.
     I dip my brush in paint again and am about to put it on the canvas when I take a closer look. While I'm right that what I've painted doesn't look a thing like the picture, I've painted my own picture. My painting has it's own highlights and shadows, and the colors are just right for what I've painted. My painting is beautiful and has a voice all it's own. 
     I don't have to change a thing, but I'm still confused a bit. How did I know what to paint, even when I didn't know exactly what it was that I was painting? After thinking about it for a bit, there is only one conclusion that makes any sense. I was painting from the heart.