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  • Naming the child

    13 Jan 2020
    Journey
    Naming the child

    I had a story of how my life began but it turned out to be only one perspective. As an embryo my name was Jill. But on arriving into the world my name became Susan. My sister is named after an old flame of somebody or other.

    My best friend (when I was 4 and 5) had a daddy and he called me Sukey, She was called Catherine but he always named her as Polly. He was a sickly man, spent days upon days in bed, with a stone jar filled with hot water and a house full of medicine. He would sing the nursery rhyme of Polly and Sukey and kettles and tea. And we would dance and laugh around the bed.

    The first and unfortunate nickname I was given – elephant features was replaced by most everyone when I hit 13 and I became The SoupDragon. One person still will call me soups but the one who named me took his life when faced with “child” type charges.

    When at the age of 21 I became Mrs. Gallagher it was all a bit of a shock but all my people from then on named me Suzie up till now.

    You see I don’t fit a name as such, Doris was convinced I was Rosie and Heather thought Jessie was a good name for me and there was a nurse I worked with once had Noreen on her mind.

    God named me via JA house in Milton Keynes. He called me steadfast and so in my head, I am steadfast and true, Susan as my daddy named me all those years ago.

    One day the world, my friends, and family will catch up with my mind. My name is not important. As people get to know me now they hear the word Susan, but then change to Sue or Suze. 

    But for me, now this day, my name is not important. My identity is, for sure. You can call me anything but Jesus calls me “mine”.

  • reject

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    reject
     avoidance
    distraction
    this is killing me
    this is more than "sorry me"
     
    O' Lord help me
    reach out and touch
    O' Lord in you my rest is found
    I trust you, hope is found anew
    touch me Lord I need you now

    As I struggle
    Once more on the floor
    foetal sobbing today
    I need your touch once more
  • Corr-es-pond {asking}

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Corr-es-pond {asking}
     streaming sunlight
    fills view
    filters thoughts
    dark clouds banished
    a breeze commits
    a trail of new thinking
    neurons deflect moon-drops
    synapses connect to light
    fill me, Lord,
    with your light
    banish the dark
    flood me with love
  • music {really?}

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    music {really?}
     symbols clash
    fright full noise
    guns fire - swords collide
    the root note of God transcends all
     
    people meet
    hands held cross
    barbed wire, comments wound
    the orchestration of the hoard
     
    diving in
    leaning on cymbal
    mercy goodness kind
    the resounding silence of love
  • vein vanity

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    vein vanity
     blood courses through vein
    lapping elbow and knee
    thrum,
    thrum,
    flow,
    flow
    to God's heartbeat - it loves
    the course of a life changed
    like a weather vane from one -
    way to another north to south
    east to west
    recreated from broken pieces
    redeemed with ultimate joy
    in the conquest of self
    the vain unregulated motives
    gone replaced by delight.
  • cleaning {spring}

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    cleaning {spring}
     you came into my place
    and began to tidy up
    throwing out the old
    You brought in the new
     
    sometimes it's hard
    to let go of old ways
    the sharpness of two edges
    stabbing   pain   it hurts
     
    you go into corners
    I'd rather left alone
    you shake out the dust sheets
    and look underneath
     
    as the work goes on within
    the transformation of self
    is palpable touchable yea!
    the move from unloveable
    to a daughter of the King
     
  • WWJD on the streets of Dub

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    WWJD on the streets of Dub

    Have you seen the wee girl
    In the street by our college?
    Kicking at the rubbish,
    With her high, high heels.
    In her eyes, there is no spark
    Bringing each man to her side
    Yesterday’s lost innocence
    Bringing pain in today

    So how can you tell me you’re miss-ion-nal
    And it’s all going well in your own church.
    Walk with me and talk with me
    I’ll lead you through the streets of Dublin
    I’ll show you something to help you change your mind.

    Have you seen the small boy
    And his troubled mates here
    They live in hopelessness
    And dark, dark times
    They have no time for me
    Or even know the Fa-a-ther
    Yesterday’s lost innocence
    Bringing pain in today

    In the doorways, hey-y-y
    You’ll find Paul, Bert, Sean, and Mark
    Nick and Jim and even Sio – bh – van
    You’ll see duvets and damp pill-i-lows
    Black plastic bin liners
    Worn down faces
    Past caring today

    Would you give your brand new shirt?
    Bring them home for dinner?
    Walk the two miles
    And turn the other cheek?
    I’ve no time for Pharisees
    I’ve no time for lip speaking
    I want to see in you
    Head, heart and hands

    So change your sail to missional
    Show tough hands that you can use
    To change the world one bloke at a time
    Show them Father through me
    Tender-hearted
    Lovingkindness

  • Truck-stop

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Truck-stop
     It was more than a statistic
    the empty truck on the side of the road
    it was a testament and last will
    An epitaph to human greed.
     
    But the newspapers honed in
    the sixth truck found this year
    slight mention of tragic death occurring
    but the “Sixth” struck a chord, in me.
     
    The other five, what happened
    to those desperate survivors -
    sent back home or
    refugee-d in a most inappropriate way?
     
    It was the photo, slightly out of focus
    in the corner by the open door -
    a mangled Tonka digger
    Like my son would often drive.
     
    People, real people with
    blood and breath and skin
    were hidden and suffocated in
    the truck by the side of the road.
     
    A real child, with real hope:
    for a better life, green hills, milk, and honey
    expired their last breath
    in the white truck,
    now abandoned,
    on the road to Ballina
     
  • Candle

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Candle
    She sat behind closed curtains
    Staring at nothing
    The light gone from her eyes
    The chin candle no longer used.
     
    She waited for death
    A relief of sorts
    No longer active
    No longer cared.
     
    Her life had been long
    With many twists and turns
    The good bad and ugly
    Rolled into one.
     
    No longer concerned with
    Life outside the window
    Only the magnitude of her naval
    Pursued her to the bitter end.
  • silk

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    silk
     He liked the feel of nylon sheets
    And lacy satin briefs
    He resented them on his wife’s body
    It had to be his skin and his motifs.
     
    He tried through life to be
    Inoffensive and remained sale incomplete
    He didn't know how to love his wife
    Once initial passion was replete.
     
    No soul was ever told of his slinky longings
    The shame would have all but killed him
    So he lived with his guilty secret
    And selling houses on the side.
     
    But one snowy rural night
    This pillar of community reposed
    On the kitchen floor by an upturned chair
    wreathed in rose pink lips, his life foreclosed.
  • Tears shed

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Tears shed
     Tears, what are they?
    Made up of water and salts
    They cascade down her face
    No time to dry one before another forms
    Streams of salty water roll down her cheeks
    Their shape, a rivulet, bursting through
    A tiny aperture,
    pressure creating
    What is their purpose?
    Leaf shaped buds of emotion
    Floating endlessly to her neck
    Joined by two candles of snot
    Crying,
    she cried out
    Not in words from her mouth
    But direct heart to heart.
    And in that moment she glimpsed, or perhaps
    Imagined her unsaid words
    appearing on each tear.
    Are tears really heaven sent speech bubbles?
    For when the words don't.
    Releasing the pressure of a heart
    That doesn't know whether to sit or stand
    Lie down or crawl under a rock.
    Are tears a coping mechanism sent from God
    To help the helpless
    To provide for the needy
    And emotionally spent.
    For the times when the only sound
    Is a resounding natter
    Of: any language will do.
    For when rock bottom
    Is hit with a thud
  • Rise: City of mine

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Rise: City of mine
     Friday began the moanfest From the delightful "he" number one
    A concert he didn't want was coming to town.
    The other he, was excited he loves to sing
    And dance weirdly to any music
    He loves the atmosphere of a live concert.

    Saturday moanie moan set off
    All the way to the capital
    Such a long way to The Pale.
    Sunday he moaned about the train
    Full of children going to a concert
    The same one he was travelling to.
    The other he, got up and danced
    To the tunes of the young American
    And ignored the girl children on the train.

    Another concert in another town
    And I remembered the girl childs
    No longer screaming the words of songs.
    Wailing, screaming in the violent times
    The city that rocks determined to stand
    The kindness of strangers pervade.
    My city will not cower or hide
    In my city the people will rise
    On a flood of lovingkindness.

    The tragedy has floored "he" number one
    As he realises it could have been his town
    And the girl-children on his journey.

    My city, the world is determined not
    To be defined as hostages of fear,
    In a disconnected disassembled life.

    My city rose not in anger or fear
    It offered beds, food and drink
    To the stranded and lost.

    My city loves you see, there is
    No judgement in Manchester
    Only love, pure love. His love.
     
  • It started with a …

    13 Jan 2020
    Journey
    It started with a …

    hairband.

    Never thought it would end up with me in a supermarket car park praying for something, a word out of sight, a notion, a piece of wisdom carved in rock I could carry with me. I was fleetingly plumbing the depths.

    I lost my hairband. I lost my identity. My life was that hairband. I threw it on and people thought I had groomed and the bits that stuck out were a new coiffure style not yet encountered (on the planet).

    Hairband was less than a month old. I probably wore it every day for two weeks and it became a part of my morning routine. Dress, throw hairband on, grab keys, gulp coffee, go. I have this down to five minutes but I can do it in three if pushed.

    I had cast hairband in a starring role. I have done much visualising of my future, casting a net over buildings and imagining me in those architectural nightmares. It is part of the coaching, life skills, communications guru stuff I have gone through in the last while.

    Hairband was supposed to get me ready. It is part of the routine except that on Wednesday in Dublin I left it behind in the guest house and arrived at college sans hairband. Everyone noticed. Well actually that is a slight exaggeration, no one noticed. It was in my head that what was on my head mattered. But it is my head so to me it mattered.

    I missed hairband, it added structure to my exterior. The hair is a woman’s crowning glory and hairband was my crown. Because it was all about the paintwork. It reminded me of the Year of Self Control. I learned so many things in that year about other people and their perceptions and also after nine months discovered why I was to focus on self control.

    It wasn’t about the money, clothes or coiffured hair. It was about sitting and listening to some news that rocked my world without reacting in “old self” ways. A number of years previous to this I had not learned this valuable life lesson and sought out numbness in all the wrong places. I remember the morning I so wanted to go to church but family ties meant I caught a plane instead. I guess I did have the beginnings of knowing where to turn but not the gumption to halt proceedings.

    My world rocked on its hinges, fell off the axis and smashed. The history I had built my life on disappeared and a new history began to appear. A history that took time to form and questions raised and answers sought. But it is formed now.I didn’t need a hairband for that.

    What is it about talismans, necklaces, brooches and hairbands that make us feel more confident? And was this what I was pinning on that hairband – confidence? Surely not, after life coaching and guru communication sessions. Surely now was the time to stand confident in Christ alone. For an hour or so I smugly agreed I did not need a hairband.

    And then I left the confines of the building into a howling Dublin wind and realised the real reason I needed a hairband was to keep my hair out of my eyes. So I bought a new one and wore that to the meeting. It was not about hairbands.

    So what brought me to the supermarket car park? I lost focus, and navel gazed too long. I was remembering a similar journey three years ago. Could my pride allow me to go through the door? I sent out a prayer request for urgent covering as I sought God’s opinion. The answer I got was yes there will be humility involved but He would protect me from humiliation.

    I continued on the path that would teach me more about humility than I had expected and with no massive cost of face. I was just myself and fielded the questions and answers with the ease God has given me. Confidence comes from God not a hairband.

    ‘But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him’

    Jeremiah 17:7

    Such confidence we have through Christ before God.

    2 Corinthians 3:4

    It is with His confidence I continue walking along a precarious path.

    I was reminded of the delicate veil between old and new when talking to someone stuck in a moment this week. On one day this week I met some struggling and someone hiding behind a facade of propriety. And I looked at myself through a different lens, where was I on the line of “in it” and “over it.” This took me down a few different routes of self discovery and awareness. 

    And I got here ….

    Focus

    Focus

    Focus on

    God alone,

    Christ alone,

    Spirit alone

    and all those “troubles” will stay clear. 

    through writing this piece I realised I sang and stole lyrics or concepts along the way so …

    It started with a kiss never thought it would end like this

    stuck in a moment

    stranded at the drive thru – branded a fool

  • Nailed It

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Nailed It
     acetonic
    methylated
    gelled

    nostril gasp
    rainbowed talons
    Stink out the rotting air

    catatonic
    ~agisiled
    throat close
  • A time to plant

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    A time to plant
     Bloom where you are planted
    The glibly spoken line
    Often quoted rarely lived
    What does your field look like?

    Mine well sometimes it is
    A minefield, never knowing where to step
    Sometimes like a puddle seeping in my shoe
    Often like a river Polluted further up

    If you were to see what I see
    The maggots, the carelessly thrown carcass
    Would you shudder and withdraw
    Or cheerfully say bloom where you are planted

    If your mission field is work
    Where people are no longer valued
    Where one-year contracts and no benefits
    Are the order of the day
    Where interns do a real days work
    For no pay at all
    And if you are different the bullies hone in
    How to share Jesus in such a place
    Or stay with the pack and survive?

    One thing I know in the minefield of my life
    When God has your back - it can happen
    Celebrate yes celebrate our icky sticky mission fields
    Jump for joy in the challenges of life
    Sow those seeds of Gods mercy
    Wherever you tread
    Let the world know you are His
  • red blue {turn and repeat}

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    red blue {turn and repeat}
     the soundtrack of my youth was
    the vacant puffy lyrics performed
    by satin clad blokes and cheese
    clothed lasses
    occasional protest song broke through
    the ones that made you think
    'bout education and war
    and how unfair it all was
     
    grandad shined my shoes on Sunday
    by Monday they were scuffed
    Tuesday I had Brownies
    and points were took off
    I was not smart        enough
     
    grandad's box was blue
    no, it was red silly girl
    fairly certain it was blue, I sat on it for goodness sake
    Don't argue with me it was red, it was red.
    like the cloud of anger in your head
     
    flowers are red the protest song went on
    always always red never any other colour
    and I learned as a child that when she
    said red, it had to be red.
     
    but I grew up
    and I grew apart
    I grew to know Jesus
    and got a seat at his table
    rainbow flowers fill my world
    why would I ever return to red?
  • together {joined forever}

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    together {joined forever}

    this is dedicated to our agape, philo, storge love for each other

     I remember when we met
    a book thrust into my broken hands
    some time later a phone call
    the beginning of a conversation,
    a remnant, a patch.
     
    I think of the spurts of growth, of growing
    and all the other times in between
    reflecting on how we have both grown
    and pruned each other with the Wind
     
    the love, the growing
    admiration, the blossoming respect
    cemented amen,
     
    a paradox of emotions
    we were destined to walk
    together for a while longer
     
    and yesterday, the prayer, the vision
    cast once more upon the water
    and today to see you both so hurt
    I am so glad I failed last year.
     
    Let us together, go forward
    as collaborative dissenters like Peter or Paul
    Susanna or John, with aesthetic please
    sharing the gospel,
    in every aspect of our life.
  • iDols

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    iDols
     take from me Lord
    the things that aren't of you
    keep me close to you alone
    take out the idols of my life
     
    take away from my sight
    my thoughts, my lips
    the things that block the way
    that are of the world and not you
     
    help me resist those things
    only you and I know of
    be with me as the stories
    steal away my soul
     
    the stories of the world
    immersed in the culture
    that captivate my heart
    making me slave once more to sin
     
    help me remember
    who you are and who I am in you
    the weak one, the broken
    help me seek you once again
  • Christmas fruit

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Christmas fruit
     Memories of Christmas float in my mind
    Imbibing adults        tensions rise
    Children quiver, hiding, resigned
    No one heard       incanted cries
    Presents thrown out no unwrap
    Skin wrapped, blue and black
    Sot coma    under pinesap
    Wonderful life apt soundtrack
  • Painting as I walk

    13 Jan 2020
    Poetic
    Painting as I walk
     Can you pass me the airbrush there love
    The one I use to slip past them.
    I focus on the road ahead, the brush sweeps left
    And right

    If I were to look
    If I were to dare
    I would see the girl, eight or nine
    Mutilated in the name of modesty
    I would remember my own country
    Of ECT and lobotomies for such
    A reason as this

    I would see the teen boy
    Sores around his nose and lips
    A bag slung by his side
    Huffing as he sits, waiting
    For someone to care

    I would see the guy in shredded clothes
    With no concept of cultural decency
    Dishevelled in mind and body
    Barely coherent, barely alive
    Whisky washed each night

    I would see the girl's sister
    Left to manage on her own
    Dressing for the night
    Slipping a tab or two just to
    Take away the pain

    I would see the boy a year or two older
    Hanging out by the toilets hoping for a lift
    His septum slowly evaporating with each
    Line of white. His fall from grace
    Completed each night

    I would see the girl trying
    Trying to get to school
    Trying to learn to read and write
    And rise above the brush

    But I would see the bruises too,
    The punchbag for school and home
    I would see the family crossing the line

    Between my country and yours
    Between your country and theirs
    I would see the charlatans, the muggers
    The broken-down boats, obsolete life jackets
    Mud, squalor, pain, crying, beating, using
    Pimping, trafficking, FGM on the side of the road,
    I would see human misery in every connect
    And it is too much.

    So I don't look left or right
    I airbrush reality and continue on my way
    My safe way, to the church where I shall put
    A little extra on the plate for
    The poor everywhere
    My conscience salved
    My faith restored
    You see there's no need to look
    Someone else will care and I will not look but
    Send them on their way with my little
    Extra on the plate.
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I write to illuminate the journey of faith.

Writing that helps you notice God in the everyday, reflections from the road of faith and words that shine on the path

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