The
work of
living
as water,
allowing it
to trickle
liquid
hope
from my
belly,
even
during
dry seasons.
This,
is a brave
life.
— On living brave.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
.
.
.
.
He who believes in Me [who adheres to, trusts in, and relies on Me], as the Scripture has said, ‘From his innermost being will flow continually rivers of living water.
John 7:38
Amplified.
You must look for its
scent
on the breeze.
Be careful not to get
distracted
by things that
masquerade
as
sustenance.
And when you find it.
Drink.
Hands cupped
for
more.
Soak it up
through your skin.
Let it flow over your exhaustion
like
relief,
and
Life.
— How to drink Water.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
God
within
and
still
I look
for
wounds
where
it
is
finished.
—On being Thomas.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
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.
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.
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.
All my life I have
wrestled
with
fear.
Most days
it
just
sits
there.
In the periphery
of my
vision.
Intimidating.
Other days
it edges
in closer,
ready
to
strangle.
Me.
And
my
fragile
hopes.
Often,
I fall
for
its
lies.
But,
sometimes,
on particularly
sunny
days,
when the sky
is
just
the
right
shade
of blue.
I look
it
straight
in
the
eye,
whilst
I drink
tea
from
my favourite
fine bone china
tea cup.
And
I
laugh.
— Some days I win.
