Grief. Linköping, 2007.

When I was told

that you

were

gone,

I was on soil that

did

not

know me.

I could not say

goodbye,

or

I

am

sorry

and

I

will

miss

you.

I sat

with grief

in

the

snow,

heart

and fingers

raw.

Unpacking

a lifetime

of

where

to

now,

and

unreconciled

denials

and

regrets.

And

I wonder

if all the

water

that

spilled

from

me,

that also

contained

bits

of

you,

has

nourished the

splinters

of grief

that I unwillingly

planted

there

and

would

I

be

recognised

on my return

to

find

what I have

somehow

left

behind.

— Grief. Linköping, 2007.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

On being Thomas.

God

within

and

still

I look

for

wounds

where

it

is

finished.

—On being Thomas.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

I find You in the hedgerows.

There is

an ancient

love song

playing

on the breeze,

suspended

in the waters

of the oceans,

calling

from the hedgerows

on tiny wings.

Seek

Me

and

you

will

find

Me.

The way that

You

quietly

whisper

Your desire

to be found

in

cathedrals

of

green

and

salt water

and

soil.

That

I

might

stand

in wonder

and

awe

at the way

the

sparrow

is cared for.

— I find You in the hedgerows.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Becoming Mary.

And

there are times

when

I am

Martha.

Choosing

the

brief

comfort

that

zealous

labour

brings

when

broom

in

hand

I strive to

regain

desperate

control

over this

valley.

But,

there is

a time

and

a place

for everything

and

Rest

is

not

afraid

of dust

and

disorder.

And

there are

holy

feet

to be

sat at

where

these

withered bones

can be

revived.

So,

I

sit

allowing

my

tender

faith

to

unfurl

as

the

world

hurries

by.

— Becoming Mary.

What the trees teach me in September.

A blackbird sings.

Notes

tumble

clear

over

sweet sprigs of hay.

Leaves

exchange

the known

for

the unknown,

as trees

humbly

let go of life.

Trusting.

And

I am here,

a life

made of seasons.

A solitary

witness to

the earth’s

worship.

And it is

good.

— What the trees teach me in September.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Conversations with my brother (On the eve of chemotherapy).

And so the

time

has

come.

Tomorrow we

straighten

our

spines

and

cast our eyes

up

because

we know

from where

our help

comes.

And

when

the first

fiery

drops

slip into your vein,

silent

and

ruthless,

we speak

life

over every part

of

you

and

death

to that

which

came

in the night

to

steal

and

destroy.

And

I may be

far,

but I will be

near.

And

know this

you are

not alone.

You are

loved.

You are

carried.

And

tomorrow

we stand

and

we fight.

—Conversations with my brother. (On the eve of chemotherapy.)

©Liezel Graham. 2018.

{Tomorrow, my younger brother starts an intense chemotherapy regime for pancreatic cancer. I have written two other posts called ‘Conversations with my brother’ and should you wish to read the others, just search for ‘Conversations with my brother’ and they will come up.}

(You are) The God of the verb.

And this is the thing

about You.

This great paradox.

There is a rest

in

You,

as much as there is an

active

seeking.

A pushing back

against

the world

and the pain

that follows

life.

The greatest gift

You

give

to

me,

is

choice.

Forgiveness

is mine,

but will

I receive

it

when You

place it

there

in front of my

fractured

heart.

Healing is there,

but I must choose to

ask for it.

Hope is there,

but I must look for it,

even in the dark.

Joy is there,

but I must give it a

chance

to

unfurl.

And sometimes this

is

a life’s work.

Seek Me,

You say.

Press in.

You are the God of

rest

and

the God

of

verbs.

There’s

so

much

more.

But always,

it is my

choice.

To receive.

Or

not.

To

leave

the old

life.

And

search

desperately

for the new.

For,

to

Whom

else

can

I

go?

—The God of the verb.