Nine of Hearts

© Elise Grinstead 2011

I am immersed in a sphere, a world full of words…spoken; written; left unsaid; narratives; statements; of the body; and more. My days are filled with reading of the typeset, the curvature of lips, language natively foreign, visual. My nights—chronicles play of things both said and unsaid, actions done or yet to be. Always, the ticker clack of brain synapses like typewriter keys are active all around me.

I read these voices ever still. The voices of spoken and written words of co-workers, husband, family, friends, community, strangers in this city. Yes, I read these voices ever still. The voices of a relaxed or tight face, a bounce in step or a slumping down, a turning away or a turning towards. I read these voices ever still. The voices of authors famous and unrealized, access easily granted into the lives and minds of others. I see and I hear in greater measure than I have remembered before.

And in spite of these ears that do not hear much, my world is sizzling live. So much so lately, that I am past the point of being coherently aware. All of these distinct hues of words have been mixed together to where they are past recognition of their initial state, and they now muddily display. It’s all just so much. In an effort to make a distinction again, I go to another source of language, a purer hue than what I left behind. That too, eventually gets pushed into the rest into its eventual muddled state, and somehow I am right back where I started while also being further in than I ever have been before.

I have lost the memory of my own voice. A temporary self-amnesia seems to have set in, in which I remember what I see and hear around me, but I do not remember myself. I do not recognize the sound of my words. And in the effort to find it, I try out many, waiting for one to resonate and click and fall into place, as if it were there all along and I did not know it. In the frustration of the search, I instead force what I think others expect to hear and believe me to be while I push my tests into a muddled state.

If you were to tell me my voice is the nine of hearts in a deck of cards, well, they’re flying about in the air around me, a mixture of face-up and down—seemingly no order—and I’m pulling and regarding…it is still yet to be found.

And even then, will that nine of hearts possess the essence of what my voice should be, is meant to be, will be?

See, the irony is that I know you, I see you…your bluffs are not deceptive to me. You hide behind an intricate pattern but your true self lies on the other side. One of fifty-two…unique, but not infinitely sole. Am I that too? Do I read more clearly than I think I come across, even as this voice struggles to find itself?

In the midst of this search, a dear happened to tell me about the time she remembers getting to know me. She pegged me as one “who would speak so freely and with such depth and passion about her relationship with the Lord. It seemed like everything she said always tied back to God. She seemed so sure of who she was.”

It sounds familiar; it does. And the words of Isaiah resound in my head over and over again…”Do you not know? Have you not heard?”

“Do you not know?”

“Have you not heard?”

Resound, may they pound, may they break away at the glass that is this sphere that within I am contained…to set free these other words, these clubs, diamonds and spades…that around me they may settle and those meant to remain may…leaving the hearts face-up until I find that elusive nine of which I am told is mine, my voice given by Him who has all say…

To then, hear, O Israel, the Lord Our God, the Lord is One…this chosen race.

To love the Lord my God with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength…these commandments to be upon this nine of hearts as I talk, as I walk, as I lie down and get up…

These then I shall bind to my mind and tie as symbols to my hands; these I will write on the frames of my house and on my gate…

To hear, to love, to remember, to know, to have heard. And somewhere in that glorious power of this Lord who shatters all containment and glass prisons…

There He holds my voice.


*Scripture from Isaiah 40 and Deuteronomy 6

Have You Not Heard?

© Elise Grinstead 2012

"Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?
Have you not understood since the earth was founded?

To whom will you compare me? Or who is my equal?

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one, and calls them each by his name.

Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom."

 Embrace this: The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are His everlasting arms.

"You, bring in your idols to tell us what is going to happen. Tell us what the former things were so that we may consider them and know their final outcome. Or declare to us the future to come, tell us what the future holds, so we may know that you are gods. Do something, whether good or bad, so that we will be dismayed and filled with fear."

Remember, we know little. You do not have His power to pronounce what was, is, or is to be.

"See, the former things have taken place, and new things I declare; before they spring into being, I announce them to you."

Incline your ears, and hear…

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert, and streams in the wasteland."

Lift up your eyes, and behold…

I am the Lord, Your Holy One, Israel’s Creator, your King.

Isaiah 40:21, 25-26, 28; Deuteronomy 33:27; Isaiah 42:9, 43:18-19, 15
Italicized words added by Elise Grinstead

Expectant Spring

Last week, a late evening, we strolled home under a warm starry night, the city calm in its bustle. We first saw it several yards away, this stirring, this carrying of white petals up and around, to and fro, until it came closer and swept around us completely. Strong in its scent and presence, we could not escape lest we walked through it, and even still the remnants remained. There were petals in hair and on clothes and a somewhat unsettling thought of what this could perhaps mean—it was meant for us in that moment.

This has been a spring unlike many others…an early spring in certain types of expectations. It has been a laboring spring in the tasks before us. Most of all, it has been a full spring in the fullness it has brought and the beauty revealed…constantly reminding us of the necessity to live in this present moment.

Four weeks ago brought the first blooms of those pressing forth from the ground…yellow daffodils and deep purple crocuses. It brought the first wave of very warm weather and this thawing not just of body, but of heart. There is just something about winter for me…it is much easier to fall into fear and doubt, yet spring reminds me that there is life and all things are made new, even as they must push forth from the ground to do so. Four weeks ago brought my best friend to our shores, a reunion after nine months of not seeing one another in person. Those three days were full in all measure: fullness of honesty, of love, of laughter, of community, of memories, of dreams, of hope, of tears, of being fully known. We walked this alive city over bridges, into little pockets, underground, with stairs, and on roofs. On the third day we sat on the rooftop and ate lunch in the warm sun, overlooking the city and water, and in that moment, I was soberly aware of how the fullness of life is through the fullness of God. When fears are confessed, its hold is broken and truth can take root and bloom, bursting forth from the stubborn ground like the crocus in bloom. Blessed it is to do it in the presence of another.

 

 
Three weeks ago brought the first major beginning blooming of trees, the visible hint that this world was going to change, though the anticipation had begun a couple of weeks prior. It brought the first venture out of the city for me since we moved here (with the exception of Colorado at Christmas time), on a women’s retreat with our church. We went to upstate New York on charter buses, late on a Friday evening. When we were almost there, the buses made a wrong turn and therefore, got stuck on narrow lakeside roads with hardly any margin to turn around. Early action because of anticipation is much like that, I imagine—instead of waiting and being sure, our actions leave us mired and further behind than we were to start with. We finally arrived and descended the bus’s steps, and I was overtaken with the fullness of the crisp mountain air smell and its stillness. We loaded our belongings into our cabins and went off to worship at one hour til midnight, bodies weary and minds tired. And there—the fullness of God was found—when we are lost to ourselves and left with only a response. In knowing Him, there is overwhelming gratitude and praise. The next day we awoke to thick fog and utter stillness, perfect time to still ourselves, removed from the always-moving city, with a rememberance to rest. There was conversation plunging deeper into the depths from the height of a deck tower above the lake. The fog burned off early afternoon to reveal a vividly bright blue sky and the further enjoyment of the mountain spring. The evening ended with a million stars above us and a fire we encircled around…to remember that both near and far, His light is with us. 

Two weeks ago brought the beginning of flourishing of the flowering trees…magnolia trees in particular. Rich, strong, and large blooms stood upright from their branches, all united in stature and glory. I walked the garden grounds with my mother, delighting in this seemingly foreign land’s paradise. A gardener herself, she was the perfect companion for such a jaunt. There was stillness and rest in the warm sunshine that day, with eyes to see and cameras to capture and remember. We walked our neighborhood over that weekend and explored this part she had not before seen, this portion of Brooklyn we have called home since December. There were two hard days in there for me, riddled with fear and complexity of emotion. I stubbornly attempted to keep it down in an attempt to fully enjoy our time together, but as the opening of flowers on trees reminded me, there is beauty in the openness of vulnerability, especially with one of whom’s roots I bear. She is my mother, and though our physical days with each other are far between, she has walked this life longer than I and has known me since I was in her womb. I need not be afraid or feel the need to be strong…and this I need take heed of with my Lord also.


Last week upon my mom’s departure, the trees all seemed to begin bursting forth, one after the other, bringing a new fullness of life and many things to see and take in. My responsibilities seemed to explode also, and the hours of work quickly racked up. I was sidelined at home one day with a fever, and it was then I gained vision for what things can be in the future with work…knowing that this season of busyness and bursting forth is likely in preparation for another. In all that I had to do, it was a constant fight to remember to take joy in what and who was around me at the moment, and in the work that I do, to take joy in it also…You can behold life as all joy or you can believe life is all work. Or you can become the joy in all your work. (–Ann Voskamp). 

 
This week, this holy week, has brought an awakening of sorts, a release of some burden and a fight not to take on others. It has brought a reminder that life is constantly evolving and changing, and God governs it all. He knows when to set things in bloom and when to make them fall away, only to bring new life. As we now walk this neighborhood, beginning to brim with its full canopies of green, I remember the starkness of winter and the apparent shelter walls all differentiated from one another, yet connected. We as humans are like this—we build and hide and forget that we are not alone. Yet, these canopies of green bring us out and knit us together once again.

At the end of this holy week, I am left struck with the irony of the process of spring…these uncommonly seen crimson red blooms first in their places only to descend a short time later—scarlet red blood full of life running through our Savior’s veins, only to be surrendered in defeat. Then, the multitude of small, pure white petals bursting forth in clusters and groupings, and even as they fall they still possess life, like the cloud we walked through the other night—the resurrection of Jesus, our sins forgiven, purity brought forth through redemption, given for all, always inviting in deeper still. And now, we are in the life of green, new life given, to be taken in and experienced as we walk these city streets slower—yes, this life, given by the Lord, our days held in His hands…to remember once again we are made new in Him.

And by His blood, His redemption, we walk these canopies of life together, knit in the power of his life, death, and resurrection, shown so beautifully in a New York Spring.