Tag Archives: lost

Lent 31

 

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERA

Outside the city gates we stand, walking on paths made of eggshells, crushed and broken like us: the remnants of things thrown. Talking in whispers no more but keening madly, for no-one is listening anyway, and we can say what we like. There is no further punishment that they can visit on us, sitting in their ivory towers and casting breadcrusts onto the wind, knowing we cannot afford to despise their tithing. We are already lower than the dust and we have the gift of lack, which teaches us all we need to know.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Advertisements

70: Lost

70 lamb marcusL mf

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders..” Luke 15: 3-5 NIV

We are all, in some way or another lost. We have all lost our way. Morally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, at some time or another, we have felt ourselves to be somewhere unfamiliar, strange, or just plain askew.

And in this life, feeling lost is a daily, sometimes minute by minute occurrence. We stop in the middle of something and think, what was I doing? What am I doing? Why am I doing this? We question ourselves, our worth, our productivity, even our own reasoning. We do it with our faith too, any time we have a doubt or a fear. We suddenly feel, like the disciples on the stormy lake, utterly lost. Rudderless, directionless, up a certain creek without a paddle, like the sky is falling and with no way to reclaim our compass.

If we are aging, or struggling with any kind of hormone irregularity, cognitive problem or much more seriously, with Alzheimer’s or any kind of dementia, feeling lost is where we spend a lot of our time, and it can be deeply distressing. That disorientation where we are disconnected from our surroundings or even our own memory, can make us feel like we are sat in an oarless rowboat on a lake surrounded by a cold fog. The same might well be said of feeling adrift when our lives seem to lack purpose, when we are wondering what God wants us to do next.

A lot of the time we will sit there straining our eyes for a sign, for any kind of helpful indication that might tell us where we are or give us a heading. But perhaps the thing to do at such a time is to stop looking outwardly, to close our eyes and listen to that still small voice that will always guide us if we can calm our palpitating hearts and our fears long enough to discern it.

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ “ Isaiah 30:21 NIV

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Photo from morguefile

165: Mine

hotblack mine mf

Dark lines spreading from the centre, blacker than treacle and deeper than grief. Here glints gold that glisters truly, and without pretence, calling to the greedy glimmer in our eyes and the heart of the delver-digger-dwarf in all of us. How we long to gather the treasure in our weathered aprons, to hold it to ourselves and hoard its heaviness! You speak of brightness and purity, and the reality of wealth, such that we might have you in our palm to possess, without any danger of nuggets slipping through errant fingers. Softness clawed from the hard earth, unclogging veins and arteries that travel deep and mesmerisingly meander their glowing way.

Once seen, we shall not be able to help ourselves and follow that subcutaneous line until lost and utterly besotted, weighed down with more than our strength can bear, never to return to the fresh air, sat here in dark places, faces painted with reflected light.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

131: Wayside

131 roadside

Ragworted roadside, where the vagabonds and the roadkill can lay unnoticed for days, what should we do without your margins? For these borderlands are precious buffer zones, where the lost, straggling and dead-tired keep edge-dweller faith and imagine different routes. Here the mindless zooming is observed by eyes with time to ponder, and great thoughts raise their unsure heads to wave unseen like weeds in the mist.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015