Every person has a dark side.
What defines a person with good character is not a spotless life of constant kindness, smiles and even temperament.
But rather, it’s the yearning to learn from your mistakes, applying it, making amends for them and choosing not to repeat them that defines good character.
These are the friends to keep in your life because they have stared adversity in the face and became a better person because of it.
Category Archives: Charissa Grace
From Living to Die to Dying to Live
Constance…
Due to harsh circumstances both in my own life and in the life of my truest friend, I have been thinking a lot about death…
…what is death?
Is death the loss of animation, the exit of that ineffable spark undefinable? Is it the fleeing of warmth and movement?
Or is it something more, something deeper and more final, more tragic and fatal?
Back up, waaaay back to when I was around 25 years old and torn asunder from myself and tromping all over me with the jackboots of performance and despair…at that time I considered that the days I had on this earth were a prison sentence that I had to serve before I was finally released through death and reunited with God.
I was living to die.
And in a very real and primal sense, I was already dead and just didn’t have the good grace to realize it and lay down somewhere.
But now? Oh Constance, these days I endure “death” in so many ways…but it is in my deepest desire to live at last, so I am dying to live. I have “died” in the workplace. I have died to ever being able to go back and get a do-over.
And I have “died” to people…this is what grieves me most deeply as it is now that I am finally and fully alive and awake!
So I ask you: does the declaration of others make me dead? People who have not talked to me in forever? People who resent me because in their hearts, I Charissa have killed their friend, their relative…
And yet they refuse to really know me, to taste my life and see that the Lord is good, good to me and thru me…
When someone doesn’t care deeply enough to experience my life, why are they so driven to declare me dead?
Honestly, it feels to me like they are the ones who are dead…they are dead to their responsibilities to the living. They are dead in their hearts which should be tender and lively and rejoicing in good…at least it feels like that.
My very best dearest friend is facing death right now, stark and real. Not some romanticised falsely tragic vision of death placed in service of a world view that is dedicated to self, but real, ugly, stinky, terrifying death carrying with it all of the ultimate and final separation that is the true horror called death.
I am sure she would get my heart cry: dying to live rather than living to die.
I am thinking of her, as I was struggling with these ideas, and sending her all my love, and every single molecule of life I can channel from the Life Giver Themself!
Sky and Sea and Wind and Time
Here, at this late and early shore
in clammy mist and silent roar
shriven and stripped, scoured to my core
and needy midst this weather-war.
I wait for you with my torn heart
Clutched in cruel claws and pulled apart
by lonely memories sweet and tart
in loss I’m given this fresh start.
Remembering fire in this rain
Remembering sweet in suffering
Remembering roots thrust deep in pain
and incense smoke removes my stain.
Old wood, dead wood and debris
and underbrush, flammable me
has fed the flames’ raw hungry plea
Consumed, renewed and set me free.
Sky and sea and wind and time
wash me clean of my past’s thought crime
And scrub away my grief and grime
I’m born again in Love sublime
Pastor Looks Up In Tears. “I Had No Idea.”
Pastor Looks Up In Tears. “I Had No Idea.”.
Constance…let these words sink deeply into your heart…an imagined conversation between a pastor and Jesus on the day they meet. Powerful, poignant, and painful.
Reader…go to this link. Read. And then I beg you to stop throwing around your theology like a boomerang, one that always returns to you with blood on it. When you catch that boomerang well the blood is on your hands. Simplify your complex need to judge and categorize and rend your heart and not your garment. Repent of your passive aggressive ways, and stop speaking death in the name of speaking the truth in love.
Just love. In truth. And leave the speaking to Mama.
Do justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Charissa Grace
I Am Systematically Intentioning This…
Constance, I am adopting this quote as part of my credo…not as a replacement for my relationship with God, oh God no! How could that even happen? That is like thinking that I can replace my blood type with a different one and still live.
But there is room for growing, evolving…learning…and this is a good addition.
Caveat: This will be difficult for a lot of people who have known me in the past…they will think I am being a jerk, but I am not. I simply decided that there are things that are not my fault or responsibility and I am not going to eat those plates of Sh*t on a Shingle anymore. I am just setting good and righteous boundaries that are actually far more humble than the lack of boundaries I was previously dogged by (which were a function of poor self-image which is just a mask for pride).
I choose to choose how I spend my precious. I will teach, and learn in the process.
Oh…and those of you who just now me now? You will scratch your head and wonder what’s different! Lol…it will just be the blossoming and blooming of the flower you have known.
Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Charissa
Decided: Anthems for 2015
Cracks in the Concrete
I have come to appreciate
the struggle of tree roots
and pushy weeds that seem to not know
their role is to stay down
there.
Under the concrete carefully poured
and scraped smooth and uniform
confining and eradicating
anything else.
But beyond supposed to,
surpassing speculations
they triangulate up and around
and poke and prod in green needles
of absolute commitment.
Concrete contains
the lack of imagination
but nothing else and cracks
at the slightest pushback
so long as it is unquenchable.
Until it is broken up
pulled apart and broken thru
and broken down
dust to dust
returned to dirt.
Root and branch, flower and weed
join in that chorus unstoppable
while the wren sings and sings
and the stars dance in delight
over the mute, dull concrete
broken,
crooked
and irrelevant
to the tides of life.
M’aimeras-tu toujours ?
M’aimeras-tu toujours quand je serai trop vieille
Avec plein de rides, que mes seins tomberont
Sous mon corps sage et que mes mains trembleront
Dis me chanteras-tu encore des merveilles.
M’aimeras-tu toujours quand fanera ma fleur
Que ma vue baissera à l’ardeur des étoiles
Et que l’hiver sur moi aura mis son grand voile
Dis feras-tu encore une fois battre mon cœur.
M’aimeras-tu toujours quand ma peau fripera
Que mes cheveux seront aussi blancs que la neige
Que sur mes yeux l’automne aura mis son cortège
Dis pourrais-je à jamais me poser sur tes pas.
M’aimeras-tu toujours quand l’ombre sera fébrile
Que le temps signera de noir mes insomnies
Que l’ocre de ma plume obscurcira ma vie
Dis voudras-tu de moi même si je suis fragile.
M’aimeras-tu toujours quand faiblira ma voix
Et que mes oreilles seront dans le silence
Que le jour et la nuit n’auront plus de nuance
Dis mon amour voudras-tu encore de moi ?
Mystic4Ever
Le 18 Mai 2010
When you call a transgender person by their birth-name:
Trans people shouldn’t have to “get over” being called by their birth name.
Mistakes are human, but keep in mind that they hurt, especially when it comes to identities.
Charissa Meditations on Rape, Gender and the Patriarchy
Idaho Chief of Police Mic Drops On Transgender ‘Bathroom’ Bill Section.
Good Morning Constance…
I am pressing this article here on Grace Notes for a couple of reasons: the low hanging fruit here, of course, is the putting on blatant naked display the kind of ignorance and misogyny that transgender people face…but specifically transgender women face to a far larger degree than transgender men do. As I read the kinds of assumptions that are made and asserted, I am astounded at the towering lack of knowledge and the even deeper unwillingness to be educated about the issue.
But let’s dig a bit deeper here…note that the primary canard that is hysterically hurled over and over again is that “men” want to rape women, and so they will go to any length to engage in this violation, including “dressing up as a woman”, entering a bathroom, and then feasting like a wolf on defenseless denizens within. Thus we cannot risk allowing transgender women to use the women’s restrooms, but will force them into men’s restrooms…
…Constance, did you catch that assumption that slides right by and gets a nod of tacit agreement? And did you see the inherent contradiction that is actually supported by documented epidemic-like numbers?
The assumption is that men are creatures with one primal driving force in their lives…having sex. Even if it means taking sex from unwilling females who are just in the general vicinity. The assumption is that we need to build our society around this reality and do our best to just “limit the damage” caused by this basic fact about men.
Rape is institutionalized as an accepted feature of our society!
Rather than deal with that underlying horror and the cultural constructs that have given rise to the unspoken reality that men not only take what they want sexually but are entitled to this taking, we instead get ourselves all twisted up over the bathroom. Rather than teach our little boys how to be real human beings and what being male means, and what it does not mean, we just sort of wring our hands and hide our eyes when the moon is full and hope the werewolf stays away from our door.
We are fully capable of this teaching…if: if anyone really knew anymore what it means to be a man! What does that mean, men? To you…what does it mean to be a man? And, as part of your journey of discovery, have you ever inquired of women what being a man means? Have you ever even thought to seek some of your self-definition in the understanding and grappling with what it means to be a woman?
See how this would preclude rape as an even slightly acceptable option for men?
But no…this is not what we do with that subject of rape: we continue to keep it disconnected from the poison and demonic roots from which it sprang, and those are the roots of patriarchy and male privilege. Women already know this, men, but for your own education…ask any woman you know what kinds of situations does she feel safe from the possibility of being raped. Ask yourselves how you have socialized your own daughters regarding dress, safety in public places, when to be outdoors and when to be home “safe”. Ask any woman if they think they are made safe from the possibility of being raped just because transgender women are kept from the right restrooms…
And that leads us to a deeper reality: the reality, backed up by the blood and tears and horror and even murder of transgender women…who have been forced into men’s restrooms and there been harassed, assaulted, raped, and left for dead (if they are lucky) or murdered outright! This is an actual fact that happens hundreds of times a year. The dynamic I wrote of in the preceding section of my essay here is given free reign! As a society we are demanding that some women be placed into serious jeopardy to their very beings and existence…because we refuse to deal with the horror of rape as a feature of the patriarchal paradigm we are all enslaved by.
It is another example of how rape is sanctioned as part of the price that must be paid by women in order for all men to retain their granted privilege…and the really awful thing about this particular expression of this blood-spattered reality is the sad result on display of how some women become collaborators with the paradigm: they would rather consign their transgender sisters to this fate than stand against the oppression and iron-fist of the patriarchy! This is a phenomenon not unlike how certain Jews collaborated with the Nazis in the hopes that they would then be left alone and unharmed.
It is a Mephistophelian bargain…the soul is lost in the gaining of a few untroubled hours. Sadly, it puts the pervasive infestation of the patriarchy’s insidious distortions of masculinity and femininity on furious display! And the fruits…rotten, poison, despairing.
But now I want to get to the deepest reality for transgender people and specifically transgender women: the deepest reality for me.
When people rant and rave in public hearings such as happened at the one the article speaks of, they communicate to me that I am utterly worthless of knowing, inquiring of, or understanding.
They blatantly display their own ignorance, assumption, and unwillingness to have those things enlightened and transformed!
I can tell you that when I read about what they think I want to do in the restroom, I am staggered with the mainifestations of their own evil imaginations of things that have literally never entered my heart at any time…and then I am defeated by the weights of ignorance and unwillingness that press down, inexorable and unrelenting.
All of the ignorance about transgender is displayed as if it is a float at the Rose Parade, and then it is lauded and institutionalized…and the marginalization of an oppressed segment of people is further cemented.
There is a logical question that comes to mind, as we work our way thru the house of mirrors that is the current paradigm, and that is this: Why not make a place for transgender people to testify at these hearings…to say why they want to use the bathroom of their choice? After all, that is what happens at other hearings of any kind: testimony is sought from all parties interested and affected, so why not here?
Ahh…you follow me, don’t you? Because our perspective is considered invalid at best and insidious at worst. We do not have any valid standing in this present paradigm. We are human chattel, and need to be either “fixed”, “healed”, “delivered”, or forced to “repent of the sin of being created transgender”.
And what is worse? Even if there was a forum offered us to testify, very few of us would come forward…because that would be to make ourselves visible, and incur the wrath of family, so-called friends, and virtual strangers. From that moment on we would hear the snickers when we walked by, the shouted insults and slurs, the out and out hatred blazing from the eyes of people who have never even talked to us but somehow know we are “bad” because they know we are transgender.
So, sadly…we hang back. We stay silent…and suffer.
Listen: if you know of a transgender person, take some time to get to know them. Talk to them, and not with an agenda. Treat them the way you yourself would like to be treated. Use their name. I can tell you this: when people use my name it is the most gentle and tender healing in my soul.
Hey…we just want to breathe, like anyone else…and use the bathroom when we need to potty.
Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Charissa Grace
host to Host
In this morning mist and cold,
wet sand twixt my toes and me
and gritty ‘neath my knobby knees
I remember beginnings
of this moment long ago
and culminating in this now.
I woke then, to find my heart
had been torn open, then ripped from
my heaving chest in one harsh yank
and there were towels and pads all round
me there beneath those storm cloud words
still ringing
“Clean yourself up and go outside and play!”
Those long years ago I learned
to cry silent and hide my tears…
on the insides of my cheeks
where they would run back down to pool
inside that empty place my heart
used to be. It used to be.
I wandered and I found places
that I could pour me out…I don’t know
what hurt more: the emptiness
just pouring out or all those tears…
running down and drowning me.
So I lay me amidst the flowers
in lush grass meadows green and there
learned to abide, endure, persist…
and yearn. Oh how I learned to yearn.
But that was then, and here, now…these
long years later and miles travelled
down time’s trail…I stirred myself up
from underneath my soft blankets
and threw on my big boots and coat.
But I left my cane behind…
limps are irrelevant when we
are down on our knees, Yes? They are.
I walked the old beach access road
but my achy and empty core
walked contrary, backwards in time
to take on shape, substance and form,
becoming in the memories
the who I should have been back then
instead of this hollow and shipwrecked
me here, kneeling in this moment…
and I dreamed of what never was,
and sang of all that should have been.
Then I arrived at ocean’s edge
and just in time…because the wedge
of memory, the urge to jump
had become great. And so I stood
and let my tears run down the outside
of my cheeks while waiting for
the sun to walk its path to stand
on the far edge of the horizon
and then to jump into the sky
and make its run once more across the void,
once more across the void.
The sun, the sand, the sea
…and me…
stood there where they met.
My eyes roved o’er the curved and graceful
backs of waves swimming in droves
while songs abound until they found
that old wreck stubborn run aground
on rocks, foolhardy in its heedless
balderdashy thrust against
the foghorn blast and lighthouse beacon.
Still there, rusty, sodden, and yet
not much worse for wear…not much.
Its familiar hollow hull
echoed my own empty hollow
chest…my locked up knees began
to tire, then give way at last…and
that is how I got here,
in the sand,
on my knees…
and waiting.
and in that place my heart should burn
inside at last I felt the rising
of a voice or was it something else?
the rising of a tide?
A fountain? No, a mountain? Mmm…
A spring
welling up in supplication
all my yearns found wing and from
my lips they flew into the heavens,
beyond that marching willful sun
to land at last safe
there in Mama’s lap.
And now…now.
Kneeled here…I listen.
I listen for the Word come down
to take up residence within
my empty chest, to become…yes
a presence Present, to have become
substantial substance and I think
maybe I can become a host
to the Host.
Regardless…kneeled here,
I cast it all away to Her
and let myself diminish, grow less
and become more.
And I am grateful for Her answer
in the graceful break of waves
and the ever rushing sound
of Her forever Kiss
River-Washed Stones
People are as different as river-washed stones,
the ones that roll in the rapids
down the scoured bed, banging together
with gurgly shouts while dodging the trout
and getting their edges knocked off.
Some just keep moving, they gather no moss
and stay perky slick and quite single
and slide through the water like weighty round silver fish
or lurking submarines silent.
But others twirl tightly in riverdance spins
and catch eddies to the brown bank
to sink there in shallows where the water’s warm
and plantlife caresses their surfaces hard
there to cling tight in dear loving life.
I think I’m the latter, sinking in shallows warm
with tender plants, because I want you near,
to be clingy with me, to call me and talk funny
just to hear my giggle laugh.
I want you holding my hand when we go out to coffee,
to kiss my cheek when we meet & when we depart.
I like the shallows of
relational fussing and fun.
But then again,
I feel that tendril, a thrill and tickle
of deep water trickle passing by me
smelling of slatey grey and cool purple promises,
I hear a faint “clak-clik” echoing from the deeps
where the smooth stones clash and grow ever smoother.
That’s when I think I’m a rolling stone,
gath’ring no moss, and plumbing depths like
some lost kingfisher who learned how to breathe underwater…
and I like that you trust me enough
to leave me alone, to know I am utterly
and always only yours,
end of story
full stop.
I like the depths of relational mystery
I like the depths of you, you so different,
ever the same and always so well loved.
I love those River-Washed Stones.
The Crossing
Shuffling back and forth between…
night and day
week and week
(weak and weak,
strain and struggle)
sighs and sorrows
…the pain of this passage
of time and tears
is present always,
palpable still,
pulsing in my yearning heart
gone nova with the memory.
I lay awake midst pain and memory,
I neither sleep nor slumber
but instead ache and remember…
I re-member, piece by peace,
arrivals and departures.
We wear memories and longings
like stained t-shirts and chinos
and shod in our torn sneakers
we shuffle down the path,
so pebble-strewn and painful,
so rough hewn, uneven
and inevitable.
As soon as we arrive,
our hearts know we have to leave.
As soon as we leave we burn,
knowing that we must return!
Each journey punctuated
by our songs sung in the night…
songs of lament and longing
songs of suffering and sorrow
songs of remembrance and redemption
songs of deliverance and the coming day
…alas…memory is a river terrible
that must be crossed.
The crossing…the crossing!
That’s the common factor present,
primary and consistent,
pervasive and persistent
and it moves,
from background
to foreground and
back again
while it waits its turn to step up and partake
of the Communion Feast, its Sacred Supper,
the Holy Sacrament of our Sojourning Hearts.
I’m decided, I am settled.
I’m on the right side of pain!
I’ll not let anyone or anything keep me captive,
stranded on the wrong side of memory
and out of phase with time!
I intend to feel the pain of others,
bind their broken hearts,
be marked by suffering…
…no, wait: be marked
with suffering by my Mama!
In this looming collision between
uncomfortable mystery and unyielding mercy
and that suffering, ahh…
I can neither sleep nor slumber
because She who inhabits Eternity
neither sleeps nor slumbers but Is
Awake with those who suffer
and There with those who faint, who fall
and falter in the crossing…
She is there (I’ll be there too)
in Her house held up by beams
from that battered rough-hewn Cross,
shining fair with great doors open
thrown wide open to receive
all Her suffering children broken
in the crossing…in the crossing
and Her invitation spoken
Come and rest here at Her table,
there’s a place for every person
in the ending of between
and arrival of the Present
Oh, the greatest Gift of all, the Present!
When the crossing’s done …
I neither sleep
nor slumber, waiting…
pregnant in this moment
and present in
the crossing.
My Mama, and Spiritual Awakening
Good Morning Constance! 🙂
Lately I have been waking and finding myself more rested…spiritually, emotionally, and physically. There are a lot of ways that dysphoria burdened me…a lot of ways. For years I didn’t know what dysphoria was and thus attributed so much of the trauma I lived as just being a function of being me.
It was the primary thing that drove me…straight past religion and into the arms of the God behind the curtain of religion that humans have erected. If it were not for Them, Their love, acceptance, and encouragement, I would have long ago despaired and taken my own life.
Then I began to face my gender issues, get educated on what they were (and weren’t), and the relationship between me and Them blossomed and flourished even more…depths and heights I had no idea of…and the sense of destiny and mission and purpose began to take shape and form! No longer was I here merely to serve out a life sentence in the penitentiary of this flesh, just slogging thru until release. No. I had been formed and fashioned in just such a precise and intricate way so as to be in this place at this time to help set other captives free, to break down walls of oppression and to be part of that rolling river of justice, that mighty stream of righteousness to all peoples.
So that was cool.
But these mornings…finding this new place of peace, liberty…I think it is a deeper connection to God that is derived from congruence and alignment of brain and body due to the HRT that I have been doing…there are fewer filters and a wider open field to run in. And for the last few years, the Person of God I have been encountering most is the Blessed Holy Spirit, the One I affectionately call Mama.
*Oh, and to you, prisoner of patriarchy, who rebuked me for “feminizing God and reducing His Divinity”? To you I say don’t go away mad, just go away…you who “masculinize God, and reduce Their Divinity” The Bible teaches that God created man in Their Image, male and female, and it is very broad in how this is worded, indicating that not only are there some humans assigned to biologically female bodies, and some humans assigned to biologically male bodies, but also that each human being made is both male and female in their creation…because each one is in the Image of God. This would by inference prove that God Themselves transcend gender, as the origin and agency of the creation of human beings! So again…just go away. I don’t receive your judgment and your fear. Perhaps if you just stop, exhale yourself out of yourself so you are at last empty, you may find a humble path to repentance for doing the very things you judge me guilty of. Then inhale the God…who made you…and me…and owns us both.*
Mama…I have written poems about Her, and I urge you to search the blog for the word Mama, and check them out. I rather like them. Mama is so incredible and, well, I am not gonna try to describe Her.
The reason for this post is because a lot of you have been in contact with me and have indicated you would actually show interest in and desire to be in relationship with a God like Mama…but that She is different than the god they were taught of as children when they attended church. That god they want nothing to do with! And who could blame them?
Well, I want to invite you to try out something: I would like to invite you to talk to Her. She was telling me in my heart that She will talk to anyone who approaches Her with an open heart and humble spirit (that means a spirit that knows that it doesn’t know but would love to be taught). And She said to suggest this to you:
If you would like to know Mama…then talk to Her and simply say “Mama, the One that Charissa talks about…I would like to start a dialogue with You. I will show up everyday at the time and place that is established, and I will literally talk with You just as I would my bestie when we go out to coffee.”
If you do this…She will not disappoint, though She will indeed surprise and confound, often times will bring things to you that may make you uncomfortable or downright angry! I know this for a fact from experience. But hang in there, stay present, and above all, be honest. If you get mad, tell Her. Speak from your innermost core…hey, She is God and already knows what is there anyway, so you might as well. I have said literally the worst things I have ever said to anyone to my Mama in those moments…but I didn’t stop there, for She talks back, yeah? She will bring thoughts, new understandings, revelations…
…and awakenings. Spiritual awakenings.
Spiritual awakenings are such a crucial component of being in this life, and they are common to nearly every religious experience and cultural expression. They share a lot of common factors in spite of the various trails that people walk to arrive in them. Here are some components of them:
☾Increased tendency to let things happen rather than making them happen
☾Feelings of being connected to others and nature
☾Overwhelming episodes of appreciation
☾A tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than from fears of past experience
☾A loss of the ability to worry
☾A loss of interest in conflict
☾A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others
☾A loss of interest in judging others
☾A loss of interest in judging self
☾Gaining the ability to love without expecting anything in return
☾To be so strong that nothing disturbs your peace of mind.
I saw that list this morning, and I wanted to share it with you, but with the Charissa-twist that comes with my connection to Mama:
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have an increased tendency to let things happen rather than making them happen.
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have feelings of being connected to others and creation
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I experience overwhelming episodes of appreciation
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than from fears of past experience
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a loss of the ability to worry
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a loss of interest in conflict
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a loss of interest in judging others
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I have a loss of interest in judging self
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I am gaining the ability to love without expecting anything in return
☾When I am in relationship with Mama, I am so strong that nothing disturbs your peace of mind
(I was trying to make a rainbow, by the way lol!!)
My point is this: Spiritual Awakening is not an experience…it is a state of being that can be entered into through relationship with a Person…through Mama.
Oh no…you don’t have to enter into connection with Her…there are many beings out there to connect to and not all of them good…but I am in relationship with Her, and I can testify of Her goodness, Her faithfulness, Her steadfast unending love and acceptance, Her humor and fierce sense of Justice, Her unending Tender Mercies…
Mama.
I Love You, Mama
Your girl, Charissa Grace
How to Respect a Transgender Person: 9 Steps (with Pictures)
How to Respect a Transgender Person: 9 Steps (with Pictures).
Good Morning Constance! 🙂 I hope all is well in your life today. If you are facing obstacles, may our wonderful God provide you with the Grace needed to transform obstacle into opportunity, resulting in the joy of having overcome.
I am linking to this article today, because I think there are many people who read here who are allies, but still learning how to demonstrate that alliance in fruitful and effective ways. It is simple and direct without being buffoonish and reductionist.
Please take these things seriously…they matter to us. I will never forget how small I felt when I was told by someone who claimed to love me that they refused to compromise their faith and they were compelled by their conviction towards God to tell everyone they interacted with about me and that they considered me disobedient to God and in sin and deception because I had decided to transition.
To this day, I can feel that sharp sting, followed by that numbing zing like powerless electricity thru my bones…not good for anything but hurting…
I think the thing that really strikes me is how many things are done in God’s Name that are really a mere reflection of an individual’s own attempts to prove to themselves or to others that they are really and truly a Christian. In my case, it was as if this person was worried that someone would think ill of them if they did not make sure and let everyone know first of all that I was transitioning and second of all that they “knew” that I was “sinning”, but most importantly that they themself had sought to warn me and were thus the heroic rescuer who had valiantly attempted to save me…and their efforts were “unsuccessful” but only because of my deceived, rebellious and unsubmitted state.
That interaction left its marks. It showed me, sadly, that love is too often only word deep, and is forced into the template of self and put under the pressure of self-serving agendas, and what is extruded from that certainly is not love. And it is interesting that I have not heard from that person since…I think primarily because they were “shaking the dust off of their shoes” after warning me of what was going to happen to me: I was going to be outed at their own discretion, and then each person that I was outed to was going to be fed a version of me that came from another person…not from me.
But God is faithful…God is good. They have added people into my lives of such amazing quality and genuine heart! I have acquaintances now who I see a lot, present in my life and feeding in encouragement, truth, goodness, and love.
So it is not really so much about me, whatever “ruination” is come my way reputation-wise…but rather, it is about the words said about someone to someone else and then repeated again and repeated again take on a “telephone game” quality. Eventually they will come to someone who has gender issues themself or knows someone who does…and the full implication will communicate to them that they are not okay and loved, valued in and of themselves for who they are…and bam.
Another Leelah Alcorn.
Another statistic.
Another life tragically lost…
…and in the name of “love”.
So: head on over, read…get educated…and resolve in your heart that God is God and you are not, and that loving someone with kindness in word and deed is never going to sully Them or yourself. This would be the “walk humbly part.”
Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly.
Charissa
Pas De Deux
the kind of love
that breaks your heart
in a way that somehow
makes it feel more whole,
that’s my Mama,
loving, breaking,
healing, asking.
She is always longing
for what I value dearest
and wants to be gifted
with my heart throb center
and bloody core.
Because then no more shells
no more shields
no more protective masks
just gentle yields.
Can I give up the thing
I most want to hold onto?
Can I turn from these things
(house, clothes, ease)?
It’s not a bargain, really…
this heart She drives for!
From either of our points of view
it seems we each stand to…what?
Really, what? Do we gain?
Do we lose? Or do we
dance here, and choose
one another forever?
And if I do…give
houseclothesease
(and everything else)
but hold myself still
what is that gift
but the gift of lies
and the withholding
of the only truth I am?
Yes, Mama, Yes
security, love, reputation
no…me…I give You me (again)
and all I am most fiercely
Mama Comments on Charissa’s Comments on Leelah
Dear Constance…
Nights are not good.
Almost every night of my life since I was around 4 I wake up in the night, and I am petrified. Skert stiff, and I mean that literally. I don’t know why. And inner voices that say horrible things that crush…flat, inflectionless, as if I am so worthless that those voices will not even waste their powers on one as meritless as I. No need to tell you what they say.
In 1966 I was exposed to a horror movie that really hooked into my dysphoria and an extremely traumatic event that had taken place a few months earlier, and since then, I have bad dreams, too.
That’s a lot of years.
That’s a lot of fears.
That’s a lot of tears.
As I grew, I discovered that talking with God helped…some. And after I had grown some more, I learned to recognize Their voice back to me…each one distinct and each one full of Love.
Well, if you have been reading here lately you know that I have been in a rough patch. A bit challenging in fact. And those voices? The ones that say crushing and horrible things? They have utilized the raw materials in my life of trial, betrayal, abandonment, loss, and sorrow, and added that weight and depth and breadth to their curses…and I could not escape their toxin. I had to just listen…and endure.
Until last night…after waking, freezing, cramping, clenching, crying…and ripping apart again…
I heard my Mama’s voice quiet and sure, certain underneath the Mordor doom-drums and orc snarls…and we talked. A long time.
At the end, She exhorted me to write some of what She told me…here on Grace Notes…as a faith step and an exercise…an attempt to call myself into fullness and being, because I have languished for so many years encased in roles, expectations and binary bondages. I have even torn myself in two in my desperate attempt to perform and thus be worthy of love and acceptance…and so all those voices whispering all those years are like a gravitational pull to be overcome.
So here is a bit of what Mama told me…translated from spirit/soul/heart talk to written words:
I am Charissa Grace, and I am not the person everyone thought me to be (including myself). 
I am made sensitive and tender…so I feel the pains and sorrows and hurts and worries of everything and everyone around me…in the same way that a tuning fork hit with vibrations will itself vibrate in frequency, or a crystal goblet will sound when it is circled with a finger.
It is not a function of something wrong in me when I feel all of that…it is a function of how my Mama created me, and so I am to stop calling myself names and blaming myself for things that are not my fault…they are simply the things that I feel because of how I am made by Her.
I am made to drink cups and drain dregs…many of them bitter and some sweet.
I am made to transform things…to catalyze their becoming into who and what they are destined to be, but I myself am not made a part of that…rather I remain apart…alone, and in my Mama’s Hands.
I am precious to Her, and She watches over me in such Joyous Jealousy, having purposed to allow me to experience pain in order for Her good riches to be birthed into this world.
I am Mama’s womb of Life…having no womb of my own and born so barren and lonely. She intentionally formed me intricate, delicate and robust, so easily woken but desperately determined to hang on…hang on…hang on.
I am Her Instrument and She delights in my unique and utterly singular voice, and so She tunes me…constantly…to be sure I am in tune to Her song, Her heart…She tightens me, She loosens me.
Above all…I am not evil. I am not “wrong” or “null” or “nothing” or a “monster” or a “freak”. What I endure is a function of Her goodness and intention and not a function of my flawed-ness and failures, and there are many of those by the way…flaws and failures. But to Her they are akin to the chiseled away wood or stone…they are like the clay She pushes away as She makes me into Her Own.
I am the daughter of Holy Spirit, Great Lady Grace…my Big Mama…and I am good. She has said it and my Precious Merciful Jesus has made it true in His own Love dripped completely over me and washing totally thru me cleansing me and making me Their Righteousness.
I will live, and still pine and long…grieve and mourn…but I will also see the Dawn morning by morning and I will keen under Her loving caresses to my hair and cheeks as She wipes away travail and gives…
…gives me Beauty for ashes…and the Oil of Joy for mourning…and She clothes me in Songs of Praise glorious and radiant and She disappears the spirits of heaviness…as She plants me in Her Own Orchards of Righteousness and calls me Her Very Own…and I will indeed day by day glorify Her Name and call Her good and only good as She brings me to the Father of Lights from Whom every good and perfect gift comes.
I am a prophetic declaration to a world that is spiritually cross-borned, just as I am physically thus. Yes, each and everyone of us is “transgender”…walking around with this knowing inside us that we were not destined for death and dissolution and destruction, knowing that we are victims of time, knowing that who we are in our hearts is somehow choked down and held down and thrown down by something that ought not be…
…and so as I live and love, as I trust and talk, as I weep and write, I am becoming a living word of love to whoever will listen, and let their own hearts awaken the dawn.
These things I say in faith…believe me, they are not said in boast, or even really anything that I think about myself. But I do know that I have heard from my Mama…and these sorts of things, the things I have written here? They aren’t even remotely like anything the voices have ever cursed at me, and like nothing I tell myself…wait, correction: told myself…so I know that they must be Her.
Mama said She was so thrilled when I picked out the name double-grace…She promises She will make good on it.
I am Charissa Grace, and I am in my Mama’s Hands. May my song ever be sweet and my tune ever triumphal, even in tears.
Charissa Comments On Leelah
So…at last I think I can comment about the tragic death of Leelah Alcorn. There has been a maelstrom of emotions inside me over this.
I won’t list them here, because some of them may shock, outrage, or worry some of you. Suffice to say that I absolutely and completely understand in my marrow the very heart-fire of what she wrote in her note.
But what is more interesting to me is this: her parents had a choice to make…a choice about gender, gender orientation, and even a choice about Who God Is in light of Gender. They had to either choose to reach out to their child in spite of their own feelings about gender and what it is and how it is derived, or to slap her down in the name of the binary. They had to either love their child in spite of anything, everything that she had done or failed to do, and love her just because she was here and gifted to them…or to repudiate her in the name of who they conceive God to be in their own small and stony hearts…
Well, actually let’s boil it down further: they either had to choose to love Leelah, or love themselves.
That is the bottom line. Let me unpack this a bit for you.
First, let’s start with gender, and the crucial thing here is to really feel the distate and horror they had for a transgender person, the visceral reaction they had to what they felt was wrong wrong WRONG! Oh Constance, how is it not more clear, the strong and unchangeable thing that gender orientation is!!? Because their rejection of who Leelah was and the feelings that they had? They are the same feelings and depth and strength and absolute that transgender people feel inside about who we are gendered as!
They would rather see her die than to see her live as a gender they thought she was not…and I will confess that I would rather die than live any longer as who and what I am not. That is not a life anyway, and never was, not at its core.
They imagined that it would be torture for them, to see Leelah dressed properly female but to their eyes looking like a clown (one of my former best friends told me that I look like a clown, by the way, thanks for that, former 33 year friend)! They pictured a life of seeing her over years and that making them uncomfortable.
Constance…this is how we feel…transgender people…when we live in a world where our very breathing is transgressive! And to walk around being in such a way to reduce the absolute hatred we face from others when we are ourselves is to choose to be something that is indescribable agony inside ourselves to be! We get treated “fine” (and that means with indifference and left alone)…but it is an abattoir inside our hearts as our own life blood is spattered on the walls of our souls as we claw at our chests trying to tear the pain out of our hearts!
But wait!! We can take hormones! We can dress properly…and even better, we can actually have medical attention that literally transforms that pain into joy, and fills that horrible void with presence! The statistical evidence is overwhelming on this point, by the way. But it comes with a price: we exchange our inner torment for torment and rejection from our social groups and culture. The torment just changes location…sadly, most people in our society are just like Leelah’s parents and they begin to exercise the dominance of the binary. They want to avoid their own discomfort and are willing for us to die, whether it be by our own hand or theirs.
That is the choice we have: suffer in how we are made…or suffer at our own hand…or suffer from the hands of other people.
Because God forbid that my choice of clothing and presentation make anyone uncomfortable or antsy, right? Better that I just go away, or even better, change back…I am blood guilty, after all, of “wasting a perfectly good man” as another 3 decade long friend said to me in utter seriousness after 3 and a half hours of me trying to explain to him what it is like.
But that brings us to the next point in regards to the Leelah Alcorn tragedy: Who is this God that Leelah’s parents supposedly worship and live for? What is this God like?
Well, if we look honestly at this situation, Leelah’s parents believed that they themselves would be guilty of sin if they reached out to Leelah and did whatever it took to be sure she was mentally stable, healthy and able to actually live everyday without being bullied, othered or policed. They literally believe that God would call them unfaithful sinners and accuse them of enabling their child to be in sin, and then remove all blessing or protection or support from their lives.
They see God being who they themselves are! To their way of looking at it, Leelah’s suicide was the lesser of two evils, and really they actually are implying that God would say to them “Well Done, Good and Faithful Servants! You held the line against immorality and sin, even at the cost of your own child! You sacrificed your own flesh and blood for your own standing as righteous and defending My Honor!”
That’s essentially what happens inside their heart…they were willing to endure the death of their child in a horrific way, and live with that their entire lives, her blood crying out in every sunrise and sunset…because they think that brings God pleasure.
Where did they get this picture of God? I really want to know this! Because they certainly did not get this from the Bible, a book that I have read countless times and studied for years at various stages of life and maturity.
Here is who the Bible says God is…the Father who had children who chose selfishness, self-worship, hatred, strife, murder, envy, greed, malice, war, slaughter, wantonness, foolishness and darkness instead of simple fellowship with Him. So THIS Father did something completely other than what Leelah’s parents did. This Father instead searched out His children, went where they were, and gave a manifestation of His Heart on their behalf. He didn’t require them to die for their deeds and lives…instead He had His own Heart die for us instead, as a transaction of love which covers everything.
When you love your children regardless of their actions, reactions, deeds, words, silences…well you are imitating God that that finds great favor…when you put your children to death with your own words, deeds, actions and reactions…well flat out you are imitating the devil and worshiping yourself…because the only spiritual beings who take pleasure in evil are satanic and people who put themselves above everything else.
So this post is a very emotional and very crappy piece of writing. I am too close to it to not be all over the map…but just try to grasp these things:
The horror that cis-gender people feel when they are around us is nothing compared to the primary horror we are inside ourselves waking up and finding our heart/soul/mind/spirit at complete odds with the body we walk around in and are consigned to for everyday of our lives, and the secondary horror we will cause ourselves if we dare to give away who and what we are or even worse if we avail ourselves of the medical miracles there are which will almost entirely cure us.
It is the same absolute for us that we are not congruent inside and outside as it is for cis-gendered people that we are just mentally ill and can be fixed so we are just like them.
These two points illustrate the lie that has so long deceived us all…that gender is derived from plumbing…because if that all it is why do they freak out so bad if they even think about dressing or acting different? Wouldn’t it be as inconsequential as being in costume for a play? That it is NOT that inconsequential proves absolutely that gender is something inside and it is what it is!!
I mean, I truly think they would rather us kill ourselves than let us live and move and have our beings just like them! But if we are too stubborn to kill ourselves, there are plenty of brutes every year who are happy to execute us for the sin of breaking the binary.
It is so strong that they will even remake who God is to justify it…well, sadly, God gets remade all the time to justify the evil that people do.
I hurt and suffer as a human being, in common with everyone else…but I hurt and suffer as a transgender person in addition to that…and I hurt and suffer additional burdens because of what others do and say, fail to do and say…and I hurt and suffer at the lies that people live out as testimony of who they think God is.
Because that is not who They are.
Now the confession that I have been avoiding: in all truth, I am envious of Leelah, because in the midst of all the sorrow and horror and grief, her own torment has ended…and that prospect, of that low grade fever buzz of wrong being gone finally and there being blessed silence, sweetness, and rest…well that is something that I wish I could have.
And I feel a huge amount of guilt over that envy…because it is very clear to me that were I to seek relief it would be at the lifelong expense of many people I am connected to, and I would buy my own release with their pain…and that is unacceptable to me…so I sit…and mourn Leelah even while I am longing for what she now has…and feeling this awful mix of guilt and cowardice and bleakness…and thank God for Them, and They do bring comfort and joy and security even in the midst…no, especially in the midst.
I have many blessings…I have inner peace in terms of the Ultimate End of things…but I struggle, oh I struggle so hard, and I truly fear at times that I am not up to the task of being. I try to be honest with myself, and that means feelings…but then again I am not like other people and able to just rise above them. And that adds to the guilt and shame of not being good enough.
I wish I knew if Leelah would want me to live…I think she would, actually, because I think she wanted to live…it just got too hard, too heavy.
Hey Constance…regardless of your feelings about gender…if you have any feelings what so ever about being a good person? Try making the burden lighter for people…with compassion, kindness, tender heartedness and smiles, instead of heavier with judgment and rejection. You would be amazed to know what one kind word can do.
Confused rambly Charissa is now done gushing and vomiting.
Sorry for the succumbing to the passion and letting it produce a big messy dump of a post…I just could not live with all this inside me any longer.
2015
There is strong evidence given the fact that Greek and Hebrew Languages assign numerical values to letters that 5 is the number of Grace…5.
I love the number 5, and I always have.
2015.
Look at all the fives there.
2015.
Because of that, I think I am gonna stick around. It seems that there are promises implied and inferred…promises hidden there…20 is 4×5 and 15 is 3×5.
Yeah…it is stupid and a stupid reason to be…but tell me: is yours any better? What do you do when you have given your best and been called the worst for it?
I will go with Grace…5…Grace Quadrupled and Grace Cubed.
Charissa Grace…choosing to be here and feeling stupid about it.
Dread and Presences
Dread.
I feel it still.
Laying
at the base
of my throat
and throbbing dully,
quietly slumbering
with one leering eye
cocked open always
and leaning towards
my heart.
My heart…
chipped and worked,
touched and chilled
by the frozen fingers
of dread and
shards of it lay scattered
at my feet clear,
jagged glimmering
broken.
I step to the rail and look back
peering intently into the fog
thick and lingering, but
2014 is shrouded, hidden
and if I hadn’t lived it
I wouldn’t have believed it
was anything more
than a dream.
It was a year that hollowed out
thinned out, emptied out
but never declared its intention.
I don’t think it ever knew
or if it even could.
It was a year
without windows
but many doors
and ladies
and tigers.
There is more to life than meets the eye,
more than can be measured
by the senses or a census
but this morning there is just
the fog behind and the early dark
ahead awaiting dawn.
and Dread
and my heart shaped
in its cold hands
and God’s Warm Heart.
Across the prow of my ship
the rain slants and glints
in the deck lights (dark lights)
like silvery needles
sent to stitch
the past and future
together in this moment.
I think of Presences.
Emptiness…
Nothing…
Silences…
Absences…
Love…
Memories…
Hope…
Them…
there and here with me
in time and triumph,
tears and tragedy
but only One
does my heart
awaken in this dawn
and set afire tears
upon my face
a God of grace,
a God of love,
a God of…justice?
Justice.
I don’t even know where
to start with that!
I face forward
into dawn’s early light
empty,
confused,
seeking,
the way of grace
not effort!
This Brilliant Indifference
I am a childe of dark, a childe of light.
I was born beneath the shining moon
but just outside it’s golden touch
there, on dim green meadows blanketing
the warm red earth in comfort midst the singing dark and stars.
I was born upon the stones that radiate residual heat
as they remember blazing suns so brilliant beneath that blue sky
that blankets those same meadows green and glorious in the day
but now those stones lay bare in the cold night, as I am bare as well, uncovered.
I was born in darkness, and outside
looking in upon the singing stars
hung in night sky velvet-soft and sable
surrounded by splendors from some lost fable.
Outside.
I was born outside the secret knowledge that every other person seems to have
of just how goddam dull and ordinary everything around them “really is”. I mean
just look at them, shining so brilliant each day and acting like it’s only night! I see
their flaming hearts a-fire and blazing but they just trudge by feeling bored, uptight.
I watch events unfold and want to sing in joy and caper!
But when I open up my heart and shout and point in wonder…
well, those fish eyes turn and stare and those mouths gape and mock, hung open
and I am named too much, inglorious and out of order…out of order…out of order.
Childe dwelling in the swelling dark of gloomy bored indifference
Childe dwelling midst the dazzle vast and glory of a day
(just One Day that unfolds brand new
over and over and over and over and over
Full, expressed complete miraculous
in every single same lily white
in every single same bird flight
in every single whispering wind
that echoes ever over the same ever different waters bright)
I am a companion with no company to keep because I’m
elated and afraid,
curious and fearful,
confused and wide awake
and seeing all around me
the marvels that they fail to see
(or rather, what they see and call the same?
the same ole same ole same ole same ole same
and let the repetition rob them of the vision
and leave them drunk and sober but
out of proper phase for when intoxication
is called for in this moment and when sobriety is come
to sing us back at last to proper sanity).
And on the cusp of Dark and Light I’m homeless in the day, the night,
homeless and repudiating that blank stupor of disinterest
that surrounds me…tries to drown me, pull me in it’s vicious grip
and trap me in its undertow of
violence unfolding
suffering repeated
oppression and injustice
become mere background noise
to serenade those bored yawns
and sighs of such indifference
that boredom has become
a way of life.
Out of phase (childe of dark)
and out of synch (childe of glad day)
delighting in monotony…
another walk beneath beauty…
another page before I sleep…
do it again! do it again, God!
another minute sharing hearts
because our moment is delight
alas…this childe born but belonging
not to day and not to night.
Between the Lines
Tree-lines mark the end of alpine meadow-frolics green
and the start of stone relief against the ever-constant skies
stretched out in steely greys and stellar silver blue sky-lines,
and space between connected by the ties of trial and time.
Far below this mystery waltz I walk deliberate down the lines,
railroad tracks slow, stretched out stark twixt here and there, and ties that bind,
the ties that bind are cracked with age and splintered in worn weather-cloaks
of rushing trains and tumbling time… 
rumbling down the tracks,
trickling down the rails,
down the lines…
and over ties that bind.
I am between the lines and walk in lurchy stride
from tie to tie in my own quirky dance and graceful glide.
I look sideways, askance with eyes that look inside
to know what’s hidden there between the trees and skies 
and in between the lines,
where I step stride by stride…
and move from tie to tie.
I walk the rail, steps mincing,
my arms swing, flail, balancing,
on that hard steel there, long stretching,
so distant-quick before me,
and falling far behind me,
and steady just beside another rail
that’s always there but can’t be touched
across those ties, beneath that veil.
That space between the lines tugs hard at me,
I fall forever in that six inch gaping gulf
to step again on ties, ties carved from trees
cavorting early with those steel grey skies above,
and I am finally caught again
and touch upon the frosty earth
like fog touches trees
like skies caress crags
like roots touch stone
and there I walk, alone between the lines,
my feet upon the ties, the ties that bind
and my heart ponders lines, and ties and spaces
in between the lines, the ones inside of me and what is hidden
there to see by those who stop and look and listen
…and take the time to read between the lines.
Biggest Annoying Question Ever:
“We’re both “The Girl” in the relationship. That’s kinda the point.”
A 9-year-old girl gave this heartfelt letter to her teacher after he came out as gay · PinkNews
A 9-year-old girl gave this heartfelt letter to her teacher after he came out as gay · PinkNews.
Okay, that was fast, God!!
11 Ways 2014 Was the Biggest Year in Transgender History | Rolling Stone
11 Ways 2014 Was the Biggest Year in Transgender History | Rolling Stone.
Good Morning Constance…
I ran across this article this morning, and of course was interested to read of this historical recounting of an amazing year of awareness growing…
…and yet, somehow, I found it strangely disconnected from my own life. In the midst of these events, I swam in my own seas of trial, toil, sorrow and joy.
My own year:
In early January, I went to my therapist dressed as myself…outside in public. It terrified me and I thought I would die of fear. When I walked into her office, she cried in joy. Her tears are jewels in my memory.
In late January I had my ears pierced, and though it hurt like crazy, I was ecstatic. A week later, I was derisively interrogated by subordinates at work “what the F**k had I done with my ears?”. That particular brand of self-loathing, shame, fear and anger gave me its first sip…it is not intoxicating. It is hell.
In February, I began HRT…and the horror fires banked so long in forges that rival Mordor in despair began to diminish, and then extinguish, and streams of mercy clear and relief substantial coursed through my veins…and who I am began to blossom and bloom…I was well named at birth, if it is considered what that sort of thing is destined to do…
In April, I had more experiences at work that were distressing. I also joined my poetry group, and that cadre of people who have only ever known me as myself are such salt of the earth wonders, who simply know me as Charissa, the odd poetess. One beautiful woman in particular has taken me under her wing…and on that first fearful night, she looked at me with open face and clear eyes.
In Spring and summer, I sold my truck and used the proceeds to fund my transition…of this I can only refer you to those months.
In summer a relationship that is very significant to me began to be built, the first one, in fact, as me Charissa. It is a very simple one in its arc and scope…it is very complex in that it is unfolding from the end to the beginning, and someday we shall arrive where we are meant to begin. It is encumbered with obstacles, none insurmountable but all onerous…distance, time, and prejudice rooted in ignorance and fed by distrust are outside forces that have so far driven us on with sails full before those winds, and we have sailed to many wondrous shores…may there ever be another, DDH…ever be another until the Last.
And in the autumn, I took my own journey down The Green Mile that most of my sisters walk…I was murdered professionally, guilty of the crime of becoming myself and throwing off the chains of privilege and white male power and position.
This is the ultimate crime in our patriarchy.
A human being, born biologically as an XY chromosome-assigned being, and granted all the accompanying privileges, rights and riches, power and position, initiated into the ways of “men” and present in their spaces…this human considers all that as utter futility compared to the all surpassing richness of being myself and authentic…and I am unabashedly thrilled to be myself…I openly declare being a woman to be the better destiny and life.
For those crimes I had to die. I have been put in my place, and my tale of woe would be recognized by any woman anywhere who sought to be herself in places she was not permitted to be.
Since that moment life is full of unbecoming…unwrapping, unraveling…the chrysalis is split and the butterfly within is terrified as its house and covering is torn asunder…only the future will inform her she can fly while she writhes in the clutches of the threatening lonely present.
Abandoned by friends, neglected by loved ones, showered by Mama, constantly encouraged by one…the heart of my heart and constant support and nearly my life itself…
…that is the year in review for me. A year of portent. Perhaps the overall macro view contrasted with the small view of this flea will give you some perspective in the issues we face that cis-gender people take for granted.
May 2015 contain triumph to match the certain tears…may there be joy enough to overcome my fears…and may I find somehow the grace to continue on, in the midst of lonely silence and neglect and need, laying aside my own selfish point of view and greed to feed and care for myself…may I be a vessel poured out over and over again, trusting Mama to fill me full and looking never to others.
Blessings to you Constance…and deepest heart gratitude that you are reading here this day. Your support has been so precious and invaluable.
Charissa Grace…a butterfly emerging and persistent.
Advent Poem: The Season of Silence
Today hubbub and hustle
tramways trollies and trellises
crammed with travelers, trophy-takers and talkers
the cacophony joyous ascends, surrounds, spreads
and in this din great tidings of cheer resound
and rebound, and return round again.
But at the core, where I sit,
(you are sat there too, you know. Just listen)
it is silent. The Quiet is here.
Thick. Palpable, wooly white and
smelling of seasoned woods and wet forest kneeled
and of the hush in the heart of the Snow-Covered Fields.
It descends, swells, covers and crawls
(on feet like Sandberg’s cat)
and fills the core of cheer with substance
The substance of Silence.
The presence of Anticipation.
For here it is we sit and wait,
for the coming of our Heart
Their meaning to our Core impart.
And as the night stretches out and goes on
and the din dies down exhausted and content
the silent sound of labor has begun.
The shriek of sweat trickles down
(fingernails down life’s blackboard revealing white beneath)
her face, contorted in composed intent concentration
Bearing down, the groaning of contractions
and the towering soundless shouts of no one there with her
except her earnest clumsy man so loving, so full of silent fear.
*me sat here, throat lumpified and choked,
mummified and heart stokes,
smoke stacked up, backed up
and no where to go but inward,
no words to say no deeds to do
no place to go no getting away
no arriving new just sat here,
enduring, waiting*
The silent moment flexes hard and pushes
Her face a rictus of the wrenching passion
of the passage of a God, her baby
and then deliverance and everything on pause
every heart breath held and chest unmoving
until the night is pierced by One Small Cry that echoes still
across our darking skies,
in the fullness of Anticipation
In the Season of Silence, this Holy Present Silence.
Advent Story: The Healing of the Light King (Epilogue)
For Part TEN, click HERE
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
The old man was quiet, and then said simply, “Yes. I did.”
“Oh, show us, Grandpa. Please show us,” the children begged in unison.
“Now, now,” protested the old man. “It’s time for bed, you fuzzy heads! Come into my arms and I’ll carry you to your room.
“Oh, Grand-pa!” they wailed, but they obeyed.
He hoisted them like they were babes and turned to leave the fire’s light. He hesitated, and then he strode over to a dark, lifeless lamp, and stood still a moment. The Children, one under each arm, looked at each other excitedly and held their breath.
And then…the old man breathed on the lamp…WHOOSH…and laughed as light
…pure light…
leapt up in the lamp in answer to the call of his breath.
The old man laughed and danced around the room, swinging the children high and breathing upon lamp after lamp
until the whole room had blossomed, ablaze in light, and then he whisked the children out of the room and whirled down the hall to their beds.
***** ***** *****
Some time later, he emerged.
“Hello Father”, came a deep, strong voice.
The speaker was a tall, noble man with grey streaks of wisdom in his beard and a golden crown upon his head.The old man looked up and grinned. “Hello son, err, Your Highness,” he bowed with only a hint of teasing.
“Kids settled in, Father?” asked the King. “I was just coming to tuck them in.”
“Oh yes. I expect you’ll find them ready and waiting. Ready and waiting”.
The king looked at his father…all dressed beautiful red—like blood—and hair white as snow and shining bright.
“You’re putting’ on a little weight, there Father. Your belly looks like jelly!’
“Aye, that it does, son, that it does. Too much ale and good cooking’ I guess.”
“But you look healthy, dad. By the Star—you look like you will live forever!”
The old man threw back his snowy head, pulled his crimson cloak around him, and roared in delight.
“That I may, son, that I may”.
Then he walked down the dark hall to his chambers and as he passed, every dark dormant lamp
blazed on in glorious heavenly echo of the light of his passing.
The King stood and watched him until he disappeared round the corner, and the echoes of his laughter faded in the distance.
“Behold, the Light King”, he said softly. “Behold.
He turned and went in to his children.
The End
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part TEN, click HERE
Advent Poem: The Season of Promise (in haiku)
The sound of raindrops
and the smell of fir branches…
I was lapped by time.
I am mindful of
many things I hold in faith,
committed to God.
In this reverent mist
silver memories descend
gentle on my face.
I think of my heart,
its four chambers birthed from me
leaving Their Promise
soft there inside me,
layers of a tight red rose
blossoming each day
It’s these Christmas gifts,
given in deep love, bright hope
Of that final gift…
…of arriving home,
every Promise made fulfilled,
All Things Then Restored.
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 10)
“Oh my Blood King, my death is Your death, and Your Life is my life,” I said. I was still weeping, but now with tears of joy and gratitude. He answered
“I am King of Lights who has become Blood King. Your death has become Mine, and My Life and My Light are become yours. You are My Light King! Here is My charge to you: go in My Light. Spread it wherever you go. Care for the children. Give them gifts. Wherever you speak, there Light shall be. Wherever you give, Life shall grow. Remain faithful until you see Me return on high! For I will go, and I will return!
The Star King and the Mountain King had been transformed by these events and they came and they bowed low, laying their gifts at His feet. They had found the Song of the Star!
Gillae, Brownie, Dannaeo, Mikkens and Towser also stepped forward. The Baby giggled and petted each one. They received His touch like knights receiving the dubbing of their King’s sword.
Gillae turned to me and said, “I see now, Light King, the hidden ways of the Master. I honor Him and acknowledge you, His messenger and Giftbearer.”
***** ***** *****
The fire popped and crackled as sparks occasionally leapt skyward. The old man’s voice faltered and grew and silent. He seemed lost in memory. Sweet Caroline and Frederick waited, and waited for him to continue, but finally Frederick could wait no longer.
“Finish the story Grandpa! PUH—LEEZE!”
“Yes, oh yes”, chimed in Sweet Caroline. “What happened next?”
“Huh?” asked the old man. “Oh. Sorry my bumpkins, I was just remembering. Well I told the Star King and the Mountain King all that had happened to me and introduced them to my shepherd friends. Then an angel told us to go home a different way.
“Seems the Breaker had gotten hold of an evil king’s heart. But that’s the stuff of other tales.
“I finally arrived back at LIGHTSHINE HEARTHHOME exactly two years to the day I had departed. Everyone was shocked to see me. They thought I had died. And –in a way—I had. They had let all the lights go out.
“Except for your dad! Maker’s hands, he had kept his burning for me, and he stepped out of the crowd that day, marched straight up to me, and proclaimed, ‘BEHOLD THE LIGHT KING!’ And nobody laughed, for it was finally, impossibly true.”
“And all the dead lamps, Grandpa”, asked Sweet Caroline. “Did you light them?”
“Yes Grandpa,” echoed Frederick. “Did you bring light back home?”
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part NINE, click HERE
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 9)
The Star King wore a look of disbelief. The Mountain King seemed disappointed, like someone at the end of a long, unfruitful quest.
I cleared my throat, and said weakly, “Hail and well met fellow kings. Why be you in this god-forsaken place?”
The Star King glanced, then did a double take. “Hail and well met fellow King,” he replied in astonishment. “We thought you dead this night. Even now you look more dead than living. But alas for us all. We came looking for the Mighty One of whom the Star sings, but found only yon babe and vanity!”
Gillae spoke up, eyes blazing: “Good King, yon babe IS the Mighty One! Do not err! Take heed my counsel: to rise up you must bend down. The eye of pride cannot see the light of humility.”
I glanced at the Star King to gauge his response, but he merely stared at Gillae like he were some dirty peasant beneath his notice and station. I looked back at the baby, and noticed a man and a woman seated near the manger looking overwhelmed by all the attention and commotion.
All at once, the babe opened his eyes, and gazed straight into mine. I felt lost in their depths.
Then I heard a Voice… “Come to Me, Light-King,” it said.
I looked all around but I couldn’t see who was speaking. Suddenly Gillae was thrusting his staff against my back, pushing me towards the babe.
“Go on, quickly!” he hissed. “The Master calls you.” I laughed out loud.
“The Master? Him? That helpless babe? Surely you jest. He is no more master than you are, Sir Shepherd!”
Brownie ran up to stand at Gillae’s side. “Go on,” he urged. “Remember what Gillae told you! ‘…As He comes, so too must you come…’ He sent for you: now you must answer Him!” I looked back and forth between the baby and my friends.
“Remember your dreams!” called Gillae.
“Yes,” said the Voice. “Remember your dreams.”
Suddenly I realized that the Baby before my eyes was the same one I had dreamt of for all those years! He was the King of Lights who was savaged by darkness. I gasped in awe and terror. If the dream baby was real, were the dreams real as well?
“Yes, they are,” He said. It was the Baby who had spoken, though His lips had not moved. The Voice I was hearing was His!
“Draw near to me, my Light King and learn the meaning of these things.” He called me “Light King”, but in His mouth it was not a curse but instead was a caress.
I knelt at the side of the manger. Memories swept over me and in pain I wept. Tears ran down my face and crowned the Baby’s brow. His tiny hand reached out and grabbed me with a grip stronger than life, stronger than death. I tried to pull away. But He held me stronger than chains and looked into me.
“My precious Light King. I called you. You answered. I prepared you. I send you. But first I will heal you.”
The stable fell away and we were in my dreams, only this time He held onto me. Darkness came rushing at us with hungry teeth and sharp screams. I was terrified. Claws of dark tore at Him and His light bled out and the darkness took us down, down deeper into Hell.
I screamed and tried with all my might to get free but He held me there with him. The awful stake came and pinned Him there with nails of death, but still He held onto me, and still we went down. His light was pouring out, but we went down deeper than I’d ever been in any of my dreams.
He took me down all the way. It was there, at the bottom that I saw what I’d never been able to see before…the ending of all His light at the bottom of the end of down.
I screamed in despair, certain that all was lost.
But then came His blood in a rush!
His light had made a way into Dark’s evil heart and the flood of His blood raced on the heels of the Light! Dark thought it devoured His light, but Dark was deceived! Like an arrow straight and true, Light had shot forth triumphant, darkness was pinned…and blood consumed it.
And by His blood the Breaking was broken,
by His blood dark death was undone.
By His blood all light resumed flowing,
by His blood all healing begun.
From the lowest, most impossible place of all, we began to rise, He and I and still His marvelous hand gripped me. We were rising on a tide of living light, lifted by the flow of His blood and He sang His victory song in triumph!
“Behold, the King of Lights is come,
Bruised and poured out from on high,
The Blood King’s battle now is done
And Death’s devoured by victory!
King of Lights, Eternal Fount
The Blood King conquers every foe
Rising with triumphant shout
Peace, Goodwill to those laid low!
As He sang the light grew brighter and blood redly ran deep and wide and we were high and lifted up, and still He held me. He held me! And I understood.
For Part Eight, click HERE
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Advent Poem: The Season of Loneliness
Unbidden,
moving like mist in mountains
slow and fast and slow and long,
and lingering, white laced in grey,
and crawling, clinging to ramparts
and ridges that stand
strong and stark and still
catch an occasional ray of sun
from outside…but dimming
as the sun retreats before
the darkness of the night
that rushes over everything
with recollections
haunting,
isolating,
obliterating
sight.
Unknown,
vaporous,
real but irresistible and arising from…
*moan*…
and meaning…
*sob*…
climbing,
clinging,
clutching
clouding out,
shutting out
shouting out
solid rock stable and holding hands
reeling, cavorting, swirling
Undoing,
settling down on everything
and growing quiet,
and gaining in gravity
and growing heavy,
and draining memory
of every drop of blood
until everything
is overwhelmed and overtaken
and surrounded in the silver
of the dull fogs of what once was
and alas will never ever be again.
Alone,
in fields, waiting,
staring at the skies
so clear and so occluded,
every loss hung there bright brilliant
on deep black skies never ending,
every sorrow there is twinkling,
every hurt is glowing blinking there
so merry, so unyielding,
I gaze upon my starry constellations
of great loss and ruination
marking time and pointing steady
so unchanging in this night…
Cold,
missing home,
missing that place (and time)
where all things hushed and gathered
noisy in a deafening din,
all collected, full, o’erflowing
from my tender heart within
the very center of the moment
in the Advent Season Present
bathed in wonderful quick joy.
Real,
that place then but lost now in my mind
(like ridges and ramparts now submerged).
The sheep rustle restless
and underneath their bleating
I hear the sound of bleeding
in the heart of living memory
of hearth and home now pierced
and rent and disappearing…
and I wait here,
lonely in this mist and overcome,
hunkered down but kissed and left so numb
as I recall the bliss of Christmas past
and have no hope of Merry Christmases
to dawn and to me come.
Winds,
well they exist,
and they do blow!
Cleansing from the North
and from the south they flow
in warmth and restoration,
dispelling every fog of gloom
and routing every hurtful memory
that ever happened.
I fix my gaze on that One Star,
that portent bright, surpassing
all the mocking, twinkling titters
of the past its reminders constant.
Here,
in the season of loneliness
my lonely Advent heart
echoes that loneliness that lingers
there inside the heart of God
and so we yearn, together, aching
in the lonely moments waiting
perfect timing of those winds
to blow away the mists
and let that mountain shine again
in solid clarity and splendour promises
that someday the Divine Loneliness
and human grieving longing
will be overcome by
Faith and Hope and Love.
Grace,
and peace,
in the season of loneliness,
Love, Charissa
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 8)
“When Gillae heard that death cry, he actually threw his head back and laughed!
‘Be OFF with your foul self!’ he commanded.
And the thing actually stopped. But then it spoke, and the sound was terrible, like the squeaking of a cemetery gate. It dug savagely into my mind.
‘You have no authority to make such command’ it hissed. ‘For your insolence I shall stop your heart and feed it to my wolves!’ the thing continued. ‘You have no part of this. But, in my great mercy I may let you live and even give you wealth and fame and comfort! But you must walk away and leave the night to us.’
“Gillae jumped forward with a war whoop and swung his staff with all his might right at the center of this thing, and screamed ‘In the name of the Baby King and Heaven’s Song I come against you to the death and I rebuke you!’
“And with that his staff found its mark. The demon gave a scream of pain, fear, and rage mingled with defeat, and then with a bang the monster was gone!
“Gillae looked at me as I sat speechless and frozen in fear. The great man winked and nodded, and gently said ‘Eh, Brownie, pick up your jaw and rise up! We have a flock to lead and a king to find!’
“And then he was off to slay the remaining wolves.
“I hurried off across the field in search of the sheep, and that is when I stumbled over you! All this time you had been out of it, lying in the field while angels and demons made war round about you. I looked over for Gillae just as he slew the last 2 beasts, and hollered for him, and, well, you pretty much know the rest. Can you see why we were uncertain regarding yourself? After what we had been through you could have been nearly anything! It is funny when you think about it…we found our king all right, but one who was old and dying, rather than a newborn babe who is called Wonderful Counselor!”
Brownie walked in silence and I pondered what he’d said.
Finally I said “Thank you for the tale Brownie. I understand why you are such a fierce defender of Gillae. He is brave AND modest, a rare and pleasing combination. Your testimony is true and loyal.”
“Aye, and it is also too much talking and not enough working!” that booming familiar voice thundered. There stood Gillae, big as a horse! He had slipped back to us unnoticed as we talked, and overheard everything Brownie said. Brownie hung his head and hurried off to help the other men with the flock.
“Forgive the boy, Sir King” Gillae requested. “He is forward and given to bragging. It is to my detriment that I have not succeeded in instilling within him some restraint.”
“On the contrary, Sir Shepherd,” I answered. “He is a bright boy, and I sense his story is true, yes? A more complete picture worthy of reporting to a king?”
Gillae reddened and inhaled sharply. “I am reluctant to speak about such things” Gillae answered quietly. And then Gillae would speak no more on the subject.
After a while, Dannaeo fell back to walk with Gillae and Mikkens and Towser and I.
“We draw near, Sir King,” he said.
Gillae looked intently at me and said “Know that all is not as it seems. High is come down and low is lifted up. Light is cloaked and darkness becomes light. Even as He comes, so too must you come.” I was at a loss when he spoke, but my heart stirred at the promise of light. Gillae gazed at me unblinking, eyes glowing.
I looked back in exhausted confusion. “What do you mean, Gillae?”
“I will say no more, lest I put you in danger of pride. Only realize that to rise you must descend, to be found you must be lost. Take heart and be bold. Believe your heart, and remember your dreams!”
“Remember them!” I repeated in pain. “I spend all my waking hours trying to forget them!”
“Nevertheless, again I bid you—REMEMBER THEM! For the Master wastes nothing.”
We finally came to the outskirts of a small town and the Star stopped, and fell lower and lower until it was drawn impossibly near to earth and hovered there, motionless in stellar proclamation of heavenly portents.
The town was bursting at the seams with impossible crowds of people all trying at once to find food and lodging. We came to the inn, and I was sure that Gillae and the boys would get a room for me to rest and prepare to meet the Mighty One. But they walked straight on by with nary a glance! Down a narrow lane into an even narrower alley, flock and all, only to enter into the gloomy darkness of a smelly, dirty old stable!
“Gillae, why do we come to THIS place,” I asked him in confusion.
“Listen in your heart, and you will know, Sir King,” he answered, “but if you are deaf, then lift up your head and you will see the star over your head like a bonfire of comfort and joy.”
And I looked up and there it was in its beauty to take away your breath. I looked around us and saw animals, some people (shepherds mostly), and even Kings! Yes—the Star King and the Mountain King had found this decrepit place, too.
But no one was looking at us. They were all looking at a manger, or rather, the small baby who lay in the manger. He was newly born and at peace.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part SEVEN, click HERE
Advent Poem: The Season of Fulfillment
1
All the world is hushed and still,
waiting under heavy burdens
white and grim and unrelenting,
groaning, crushed and disillusioned,
longing for redemption, peace,
goodwill and aching for release
from darkness, loneliness and death,
2
and outrage…OUTRAGE
seething in this Silent Night
that echoes with Death’s violation
and defilement of our dreams
and destiny…such desecration…
Death so vicious and relentless
in its Never ending hungry lusty rusty horror.
3
He came small and vulnerable
to bear the scars of our outrage,
came near enough to prove He’d stay,
regardless…Closer
than we realize or can imagine
in this night so long and lonely
Small He came to us, undignified and oh so tiny.
4
That nearness, Love Personified
The Incarnation towers tall
Mysterious, absurd and all the while
Undignified, God’s Trump card (HIM)
played foolishly and weak
upon the table of the strong
confounding all the worldly wise, so clever and austere.
5
Dignified? Undignified!
when Love became personified,
“Immanuel Undignified and one of us”
(and yet still outside twisty time)
approaching us as one of us,
held guilty and responsible
accused of shattering religion! Such a glory crime!
6
And dwelling here in innocence and staying in our sorrow cold
but not to merely dispel shadows or resolve conundrums, no!
Bearing our humanity, and present with us in the midst of darkness,
Oh The Truest Light, The Deepest Joy, The Most Glad Heart
Fulfilling All Expectancy when every hope will come to pass!
Submitting to a grisly death to hold the whole world in His Heart that
He had held dear in His Hand to mediate our case to God… 
7
The Child did Bleed, the Child did Die, and we?
With gratitude we enter, invitation tightly clutched to aching breast…
we kneel hushed and astonished safe and sound as we are changed
by this Child’s Gift (or is the Child Himself the gift that’s given?)
Invited to approach and revel, knowing what we’ve always known
is finally here and shining present, Sacred Heart Alive Forever
in the season of fulfillment pure and everlasting.
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 7)
“Over and over they sang this, and the song took wings and flew forth from around us out into the world.
“It is flying still, of this I am sure, to the darkest and loneliest places in the world. It is a song that will never be stopped. It will live with heaven’s life and all that hear its triumphant ring will thrill in their hearts with hope and comfort and joy. As this all happened even Gillae was knocked down, but while we all buried our heads in our arms and sought to hide in the dirt, I snuck a peak at Gillae. He lay on his back, face unveiled and eyes alight. As the gigantic angel of the Lord sang, he flew round and round over Gillae’s head and Bold Gillae just laughed in great bellows almost as loud as the angels.
“And then, things started to go backwards-like, and trickled in reverse, and began to flow upwards, back to heaven, until
only the angel of the Lord was left.
‘Rise, oh chosen of the Most High’
he said.
“Gillae stood immediately, and the angel’s booming laugh echoed in my head, and he said
‘I am talking about all of you! The King of Glory has a special fondness for shepherds. He has chosen you as His heralds. Go quickly to Bethlehem, proclaiming to all you meet that He is born the Divine Christ Child, Light of the world. Tell the world the Maker is not mad, and He says Peace, Peace, for there IS Peace! But beware, for the forces of the deceiver gather even now to steal away the light of the world. You must be on your guard! They will stop at nothing.’
“ ‘Bring them on!’ shouted Gillae. ‘The evil doers will regret the day they opposed the Maker, and shall be sent back to the chaos that spawned them,’ and Gillae brandished his staff towards the angel of the Lord in skillful and dangerous flourishes!
“The angel rose up on high with a loud shout, and then with a clap like thunder disappeared in a lightning bolt! All was still, except for the gentle wind and the sound of our hearts hammering in our heads and the echo of Heaven’s Choirs ringing in our ears.
“We lay there like dead men, but Gillae roused us up and said ‘Come lads! Heard ye not the angel of the Lord? We have a KING to find.’
“We slowly lifted our heads, still quaking from Heaven breaking into the night, but as the seconds passed, we got excited, for Gillae was jabbering and encouraging us constantly, prodding us with his voice like we were sheep on the business end of his staff.”
Brownie was silent after this, and I waited for him to resume. He glanced around uneasily, and then looked at me as if I might still just be a phantom.
“Speak on, Brownie” said I.
“Well, Sir King, off we went as the angel had said, but suddenly we heard something that chills the bones of shepherds everywhere…the lonesome sinister howl of a hungry wolf!”
“‘Hie! To the flock men!’ shouted Gillae. ‘Remember the angel’s warning! We have a king to find! Let nothing quench your heart! Defend the flock!’
“And then they were on us in a flash, 6 big, black wolves with red eyes and yellow teeth. They were taller than my head, and the likes I have never seen and hope never to see again. We tried to stand, but the howling, slashing mouths were terrifying! I was frozen in fear, and one of them actually had me by my cloak, and was dragging me off to eat me, but Gillae came flying out of nowhere in a leaping shouting whirling wind of vengeance.
“He whacked those skulkers with his staff, and their bones cracked like kindling!
“They crumpled with yelps of pain and death, but still Gillae pressed on for though 3 were slain, the rest had him surrounded. He circled as they darted in and slashed, and parried each attack. The rest of us were milling about chasing the sheep so we were no help to him as he fought for his life and ours.
“But then the air grew cold, like the grave, and a dank foul smell arose from some evil place. Life was draining out of me and I wanted to run away. I glanced at Gillae and saw that something blacker than night was floating toward him. It was like a tear in the night that let in death and despair and it was painful to look at.
“Gillae slashed at the wolves and cracked the head of one like a ripe melon as he backed off from the dark thing. He drew himself up to his full stature and shouted ‘HALT FOUL HELL SPAWN!’ Leave us for we are on a mission for the Maker!’
“Everything was still, and then from the midst of the black, 2 red eyes opened and an awful black hole gaped like a mouth. From the midst of the dark came a scream so evil it must have been from hell.
At this, my knees DID buckle, but still I looked on at Gillae. I thought that if I could just keep my eyes on him I would be safe.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part SIX, click HERE
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 6)
Gillae shot a hot look at me that bordered on anger, but then he got a hold of himself.
“Yes…laying on the ground. Well it turns out this was the angel of the Lord, and he gave us word that the Redeemer of All Things had just been born. We were supposed to find Him in Bethlehem and declare His birth to all that we meet. Then the angel disappeared, and all was still. So we roused ourselves, and set off towards Bethlehem. Just minutes later we stumbled across you, and now you know the rest of the story.”
I looked Gillae squarely in the eye but he quickly cast his eyes down, and I was certain that he was not telling me everything. I just nodded, and said “Well, Sir Gillae, what now? Off to this Bethlehem, to see the King?”
“Aye, that is the path for us all.” Gillae answered.
He stood quickly and began to call to the others. Mikkens and Towser came over to me carrying a rickety looking litter and my baggage. They gently picked me up and placed me on the litter and then lifted me up onto their shoulders.
“I am sorry, good men to be a burden unto you. Thank you for your sacrifice and good hearts.”
“Sir King, I tell you that you are light, not heavier than a yearling lamb” said Mikkens.
“Aye”, echoed Towser. “It is our privilege to carry you. It is not every shepherd that gets to carry a King to meet a King.”
And off we went, Gillae leading the way, the flock following close at heel, the group of shepherds scattered round them, and then Mikkens, Towser and I bringing up the rear. We travelled an hour or so in this manner, following the star, men speaking to one another in hushed expectant tones.
As we travelled, I marveled at the endurance of my 2 bearers, and I could not help but reflect on the difference between these 2 and my previous 2 companions. One thing was becoming evident the more time I spent with these shepherds: Royalty is not a title or station in life, but rather a way of being that is oriented towards joyful sacrifice. Perhaps my bearers were kings more than the ones who had left me to die.
After a while, I started to doze off, rocked by the soft motion of our travel.
I was startled by a voice and woke to find myself staring into Brownie’s intense gaze.
“Gillae wasn’t telling you the whole story, and I think you should know it, being a king and all. I don’t know much about kings, you being the only one I ever met” (and with this he eyed me dubiously), “but I can tell you that Gillae is braver than any man I ever met, and he is stronger and more giving than any person alive. Many times we have all been too tired to take our watches and we fall asleep, only to wake and see him on guard, over us and the sheep both. And in truth, tonight’s events have only added to his exploits!”
“Brownie” said I, “You have all seemed on edge and wary, and of course all of your hints and outbursts tell me there is more going on here than meets the eye. What exactly befell you on this evening of wonders?”
Brownie looked forward at Gillae to make sure he wasn’t listening…and no fear of that for Gillae was leading, and walking at ready as if expecting an attack of robbers, or worse. Then in a low voice, Brownie began to speak.
“Well, it all happened like Gillae said, but when the gigantic man appeared to us, we fell to the ground like dead men, but not Gillae! He stepped forward and raised his staff, and challenged the newcomer to identify himself as friend or foe, and if foe to prepare to meet his doom. The giant shining guy began to speak to us as we all clung to the ground like babes to their nursemaids.
I will never forget his words:
‘FEAR NOT, oh sons of Adam’
he declared.
‘I bear to you good tidings from the throne of the Most High God Himself, tidings of great joy, to all men in all places here and for all time until the Breaking is made Unbroken on that Day. Unto you is born this day, in David’s city, a Savior! Christ the Lord!’
“His voice hung in the air like a living thing, and was frightening but beautiful. He said he was the angel of the Lord come from the throne of the Maker.
‘You are to go to the Savior with all haste. Look for Him wrapped in swaddling clothes’
said the angel.
‘But what are we supposed to do, break into people’s houses?’ Gillae said. The angel gave a thunderous blast with his voice, that must have been angelic laughter, and it both chilled and invigorated my soul.
‘Look in the stables, Shepherd, for this King will be with the sheep, lying in a manger.’
“‘A manger’” Gillae replied. ‘What kind of king is it that is born a Savior yet is lying in a feeding trough?’
“When he said this, the guy just threw back his head and again thundered a laugh. But bold Gillae demanded proof that he was the angel of the Lord, and not some seducing deceiver from the Breaker’s dungeons. He actually stepped forward and thrust his staff into the face of the angel!
“Well, the angel just glared at that staff, and then rose straight up about 50 feet, and clapped his hands three times…and the night split open
and rolled back like a scroll and in its place was light like you cannot imagine!
“It was like a hole had opened in the night, and the shadows were torn away, and Heaven’s own glory was invading the dark earth, and if you think we were scared before, we were simply undone now!”
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part FIVE, click HERE
always ever treasured
in the silent moments,
when nothing speaks
(you did know that, didn’t you?
Nothing speaks.
Have you not heard its voice?)
and to stopper its relentless words
my mind goes elsewhere,
and I wander back thru pages of the days
and chapters of the years
and past volumes of the decades
until I stop at last
in children’s books well thumbed
and read nearly to death.
it is there I see you still,
and in your running laughter
released and giggly grasping
our guts in gales of mirth.
i see your eyes unguarded,
your innocence intact,
your trust still whole, unshattered
unsullied by grief’s touch.
I see your wispy curls, I see your toothless grin,
I hear your nonsense singing always
and you there, secrets within and harbored deep and lonely
I see you there within.
you cannot know how I feel, here
now…because the books won’t open
into your life unlived and yet to be discovered.
Well…you could believe and listen
when I reach out wholehearted
and full of love to give
and wanting to redeem all
that depression ruined
and self-loathing polluted.
lovelies I was always there
though trapped so deep inside!
I was shipwrecked just as you
when you felt choked by your hometown
well I was dying in my body
smothered in its horror.
The present yous swim into view
and lay yourselves upon
the little yous there innocent,
those brand new perfect yous
and I see at the same time
the spectrum of your beings
in scintillating sharpness
so smudged by separation
and blurred by longing tears.
I see your cold and austere looks
I hear your voice demanding
your questions stark, commanding
“what does your flaw have to do with me? What is your point?
So you suffered, big deal! Worse, you broke me mangled, mutilated
folded spindled, permeated all the air I ever breathed
with your dysphoric world!
“I was not given a choice! If I was, it would not be you!
so just step back, just go away and fade into the pages back
before our volume started, we are now ever parted”.
But as I said…they cannot read into their future
those pages remain stuck together, gummy in a messy wad
of yet to be determined, yet to there be written
in the blood of choices made and in the ink of voices raised
to speak of deeper things…or not.
regardless, I can still take out those books
and thumb the well worn pages
and read the much loved stories
of long lost wholesome glories.
and I will always love my babies there so cherished
and kissed and ever treasured, ever, ever treasured
always ever treasured.
And I Could Be Either One
the dreamer longing,
the lonely unrequited.
the dreamy girl alone
and aching on the staircase,
betwixt two places, seated
within the place of passage
but still while all around me
others arrive to home…
or yearning doggie loving,
transparent in the moment
unnoticed in the wistful hurt
and past trauma returning
just hungry for a gentle pat,
or give a doggie comfort
and drink in human pain.
Yes…I could be either one.
Debt and Gratitude
in this morning still, in the murmur of the quiet
my tender heart is open and from it graceful tendrils
of gratitude entwine with the quiet stillness.
Would that then be a quietude?
Quietude: a moment grateful (a grateful moment)
dawn is hushed and waiting still
crouched beneath the misty shrouded hills
that shelter things not yet awake,
birds, heads tucked awing
deer swaddled in wild grasses tall
ducks, there so still on the silent lake
as it always was, and as it is, wondrous still
in my time and place of debt and gratitude.
I was born beneath these burdens heavy
(taxes ripped and torn from my life blood)
and I owe debts that were inherited
a thousand times bequeathed beneath these tear-stained skies
I pay my debts in tears and grieving cries
but something else, surprising, unexpected
has crept into this life of streaming days and hovering nights
a bird awakes and sings
a hart rises to eat
a squawking duck upon a laughing lake
a cedar incense scent upon the night breeze gentle
that stirs the sleepy dawn and wakes the dead.
quietude: the grateful giving of my thanks
that I am made a treasure hard to find,
tough to discover and hidden in a box of yellow pine
inside a cup of silver filigreed
with Mercy’s Motto and with Grace’s Creed.
and I at last grow thankful for myself
a life of so much more than dusty shelf
and windows shuttered, four walls grim and dull
and debt that never rests, is never full
a tender thought arising there within me
a sacrifice unnoticed but rejoiced in
a song sung graceful, skillful hidden,
a gentle touch so faithful and committed
to stir the Day awaking and Undying
in the never ending Light of that Becoming.
Advent Poem: The Season of Eternity
Time running in streaming ribbons behind laughing children
twisting in a holiday blur of color, movement flowing
Time swimming sinister, sleek in the silent night
hungry to devour the Child there before it quiet
and in that cattle trough.
Snuffling with snout insistent, inhaling fragrances
of common birth and bearing…and something else
coming…the smell of death overlaid in incense
but underneath…the smell of…what?
The smell of other.
And then those guileless eyes flash open,
dark and endless but not with perpetuity
no! Endless in the Moment never ceasing!
Endless in a present never moving but never still either,
And time found itself hooked and billeted and beached.
Time is just a boat, no…a moat…a mote in eternity’s eye
Time is but a note in Wonder’s Symphony!
And with the Baby’s birth inside of Time
Eternal bells of joy ring out the chime
Olly Olly Oxen FREE!
The season of eternity is nigh,
when God gives Their response to our hurt cry
and renders youth and age trite matters moot
and blows away the ashes and the soot
revealing hearts like stars still shine beneath.
Kneel where you are, for that is where it is,
that lowly manger unseen by the great
and in that manger, there inside of you
your face upturned and wet with Heaven’s dew
the Christ Child comes to make all things brand new.
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 5)
For Part FOUR, click HERE
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Gillae rubbed his chin, regal as any king I ever saw and sat silent and brooding as he considered all the things I had said. He was weighing my story, weighing me by some measure that I knew not but I cared very much to be found adequate and worthy of his good judgment.
A short and chubby shepherd stepped up to Gillae and began to speak to him in whispered tones that I couldn’t make out. Gillae nodded and answered something back, and then the little butterball stepped back to the small group of shepherds and began to urge them out to the flocks, and there they went to work gathering the sheep together as if to make a journey.
“Well, King. You are fortunate that we happened upon you. Our good man Dannaeo says that we should bring you with us on our journey, and I concur. It seems that your quest overlaps considerably with an errand that we have recently been…charged with. The boys are gathering the sheep, and when they are finished, we will fashion a means to take you with us.”
“Sir Shepherd,” I said, “you have mentioned dramatic and unsettling events. Pray tell, what happened to you and how did you stumble upon me?”
Gillae fixed his eyes upon me and stared sharply. He shifted his great bulk and rubbed his jaw reluctantly.
“Please, Sir, speak up,” I commanded in as regal a manner as I could summon. He cast his eyes down, and said “Very well Sir King. I will tell you enough to get us all to the fold in the same herd, but most pressing is our errand.
“Nigh on three hours past sunset the boys and me were on the move from yon ridgeline headed toward this very field to set the flock in for the night. It is well protected and the sheep love the sweet grass of this swale. Brownie had the flock well bunched and moving a good clip. Up at the head of the copse yonder we began to allow the flock to spread out, and we looked for firewood in amongst the trees. Dannaeo rustled up some grub and soon we were cozy in the shelter and settling in for a cold but not unpleasant evening.
“Several of the boys were nodding off and there was peace in the still night. But things began to change. I noticed that the sheep were restless and stirred myself to look for some slinker that wanted an easy meal. The air grew heavy, and shivery like, and then began to glow with golden glimmers that grew brighter each passing moment. Suddenly there was a brilliant burst, like when a big knot bursts in the midst of a roaring fire, and standing before us was a gigantic shining man! I must confess that I was undone, and I fell to my face before him like a dead man.”
“YOU DID NOT, GILLAE!” shouted an outraged high-pitched voice. I looked over and saw that young Brownie had been lingering on the edge of our conversation listening in. He rushed into our midst and began to shout, “Gillae is always changing things around to cover up his bravery! He is the biggest and bravest shepherd of all, and he stood up to that guy and made him tell us wh—”
“Hush yourself Brownie!” Gillae said sternly. “Since when did I ever teach you that it was polite to eavesdrop on the conversation of others, let alone listen in to a royal report to a King?”
Brownie dropped his eyes and hung his head. “Umm, never sir” he mumbled.
“What was that, young whelp? I can’t hear you,” Gillae chastised, all the while managing to conceal the indulgent look in his eye. It was evident to me that Gillae loved Brownie very much, and was secretly pleased with the spunk and spirit of the young shepherd.
“Brownie, it is important that ye learn to listen twice as much as you talk. This will please the Maker to see you use EACH of your ears so when you return to Him you will be full of wisdom and not emptied of sense.”
“Aww, yes Sir” Brownie mumbled, but then his fire rose up and he just couldn’t help himself, bursting out with “but Gillae, if this is a king he should KNOW of what you are!”
“That will be QUITE enough, Jubal Dripsten…do you HEAR me!” This time the note of command and chastening was unmistakable and evident. “Back to the flock with ye, and make things ready. Have Mikkens and Towser fashion a litter upon which we can bear our companion. Sir King, I apologize for this whelp. He is young and impetuous.” Gillae followed Brownie’s departure with his gaze.
“No apologies needed, Sir Shepherd” I retorted. “I too have been his age. But pray tell me more, and do feel free to give me the full story.” I sensed that there was more to the tale than Gillae was telling…indeed there was more to this man than he was revealing.
“Oh, well. Let’s see…where was I?” he muttered.
“I believe you were laying on the ground like a dead man?” I remarked dryly.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part Four, click HERE
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 4)
For Part THREE, click HERE
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sensations swirled behind the darkness that I wandered in, and in the tenuous patterns slowly formed. I listened eyes closed, and was comforted by noises that gave me hope all was not lost. Bells…voices …and then I noticed aromas of fields and wet wool…SHEEP! That was it! I was walking in a dark cloud surrounded by sheep!
A rough, wet, slobbery thing touched my cheek and my forehead. I was being LICKED! I pushed out with my hands and found the rich wooly coats of sheep gathered round me. I was not walking upright in the darkness at all, but was actually laying on my back in a dewy, cold field, and these sheep were gathered around me, licking me like I was Hiram the Shepherd’s salt lick!
“Gillae, come quick! An angel lays in our midst, fallen and ill!” I heard a high-pitched young voice scream. I turned my head and the world tilted violently as I did and I felt sick and began to groan and heave in dry wracking spasms.
“HIE! Back off there, Brownie! Not too close! After what we just went through I be not wanting ye to take any chances! Let us have a lookee!” The voice that spoke was like a waterfall’s roar, deep and loud, and not a little alarmed. With all my might I tried to turn to look, but before I could I felt a hard rap to my ribs and a persistent jabbing. The fool was poking me with a stick!
“WHAT BE YE!?” shouted the voice! “Speak up, now, and be quick about it! We are in no mood for further shocks and surprises, for the events of the night have greatly unsettled us!” Somehow I managed to get my head turned and my eyes open, and there I beheld a giant of a man.
He rose from the ground like the Yule Tree in the Castle Courtyard. At the top of his head was the bushiest, tangledest mop of hair that ever crowned a head! His beard was long and it moved in the wind with a life of its own. His hands were like shovels, and they held a staff the size of a small sapling! His eyes flashed brightly in the moonlight, and his teeth glistened like pearls as he spoke to me. He was one of the most commanding men I have ever met.
“Hie! I’m talking to you, there! Be ye man or be ye angel or be ye demon!?”
“I’m just a king” I managed to choke out.
“A king? You are a….KING?” The giant threw back his head and laughed like his sides were split. “You are no king, that is for certain! Brownie, bring us a light.”
A small, slight boy stepped from behind the man, bearing aloft a lamp. He was quick and well built, and had a pleasant, intelligent air about him. He gave the lamp to the giant shepherd, who scrutinized me closer.
“Hmm. Now that I can see things more clearly I am certain that you are no angel either. You do not seem to be much of anything!”
“He’s no king…is he Gillae?” said Brownie, seeking reassurance from the big man.
“Back away there Brownie,” Gillae said, and he took the lamp and drew it close to my face, and began to study me intently. His gaze was piercing, but strangely inspiring, and I felt life begin to flow again. I stirred myself to his challenge, and sat up to return his look. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed there were several other shepherds on the fringe of the lamp’s circle of light.
“By the Maker,” said I, “King I am…in a land far away. ‘Tis true that I do not look like a king, nor feel much better, but far I have journeyed to find the end of my travels. I seek the treasure of the ages. And why, by the heavens do you talk of such things as angels and demons?”
“Hmmm…perhaps I see royalty in yer veins, it may be as ye say”, Gillae said. “‘Tis evident that you have many miles of a journey upon ye, and ye are not well. But after this night’s drama it is no wonder that we knew not if you were human or inhuman. But ye speak of treasure…what is this treasure that a king would leave home and kingdom for?”
So I told him of the Mighty One that we sought, of the star that traveled and moved, and drew us on to the One. I told him of my illness and of my companions who had gone on without me, and Gillae grew evermore full of wonder and comprehension. Finally I was too weak to go on.
I raised my arm towards the sky, and gestured weakly at the night, at the star that still shone brightly and steadily overhead, silently shouting of great wonders.
“I must find Him!” I gasped. “I must….”
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part THREE, click HERE
Advent: The Healing of the Light King: A Story of Christmas (part 3)
For Part TWO, click HERE
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
The kings stayed with us three days, and I was determined to accompany them despite being in no condition to make such an arduous journey. We had no idea where we were going, or how far it was. All we had was a new star that the Star King said sang to him to follow until it stopped where the Mighty One was. I would most likely die before I returned and yet…I knew in my heart of hearts that I was destined for such a quest.
And so we set out that fateful morning so long ago. The Star King had a big barrel of frankincense to give to the Mighty One. The Mountain King had a big chest of gold to give to Him. ‘What will you give Him?’ they asked me. I laughed in mirthless despair. What could such as I give to such as Him?
I would most likely be dead before we found Him, but I said, if I was not dead, then I would give Him myself. HA, HA—a joke on the Mighty One—a dead King as a gift. So, I loaded my pack animals with food, water, and a large trunk full of burial spice—myrrh. It would most likely be used on me before we arrived, but if not, then I would complete the joke and give it to the Mighty One in the face of death, as a down payment for his dead King. My subjects lined the roadway and cheered us—some in jest and some in sorrow. Deep inside it was like everyone knew I was not coming back alive.
We traveled for months, following that star, and I grew weaker and weaker, and my dreams more and more terrible. I saw each blow of the whip and heard each gasp from His mouth. I saw each drop of living blood fall, liquid ruby light. I saw each time He was hit. I saw every crystal tear drop, and I saw the hammer fall time and again as it drove the nails through Him and stuck Him to the stake. I saw Him dropped into the earth like a broken sword in the midst of an empty grave. I needed constant care but death like the tide just kept creeping closer and closer.
Finally one night, in the dreams, I held onto the King of Lights as He was drawn down. Deeper and deeper into the teeth of the darkness I was pulled, but still I held on, down into such hell itself. The pressure and sorrow and grief and the undead dark were overwhelming and again, in shame and despair I had to let go and seek the light of the world I knew. But I couldn’t find my way back. I was lost, and in the darkness, I wandered alone. The Star King and the Mountain King thought me dead and left me with all that I brought.
And I lay, I know not how long.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part TWO, click HERE
Advent Poem: The Season of Emptiness
I remember
last Christmas,
lingering in my mind
midst memory’s fogs
and memories
…just grey mists now,
swirling and coiling
back on themselves,
roiling forward
from the past
and boiling over
into this morning,
this day…
this time sitting
in the midst of ashes
dead and flat remaining
from that cold conflagration
of becoming thru the fires
of that season.
Friends, job,
name, family,
reputation,
all consumed
by fire,
all revealed as
morsels of the moment
(that lasted 55 years and still just a moment)…
last year,
I had it all
at least in the eyes
of those who don’t matter,
I had it all…especially
the awful yawning
void of nothing
gaping inside
me, most real
inside me,
I remember
the day after Christmas
reduced me to a place
in the hills adjacent
to the place a woman
took her own life
this year,
reduced me
to screaming incoherence
because I had run out
of words to scream and
I had just begun
to scratch the surface
of what there was
to scream about,
that awful
substantial black
nothing.
that day,
it was a close matter
a razor’s edge tumble
into red greedy flames
burning long and low
all year until
they blazed in fury fanned
when smothering shrouds
were snatched away sudden
in torn and tattered strips
to consume the bribes
and chains of nothing
clothed in costumes.
This Christmas,
nothing has been exposed,
revealed as the imposter
it still masquerades as.
I am empty of screams
but full of me and
ready to receive
the Promise of words
to give voice to
what’s unspeakable, unnameable,
to dress that wound
infected with nothing
and salve it with
the scratchy tickle of truth
and set free we
shadowbound to be
our shining selves,
casting shadows
instead of being flat
and cast by them.
It is the season of emptiness, and places
prepared by pain are hungry
for the Presence
and the Promise
that only emptiness contains.
Advent Poem: The Season of Hope
I set off on this journey full of hope.
And wrapped in splendours of belonging here…
or there…it doesn’t really matter there or here
which far exceeds being nothing nowhere
But as I walked the crowds all fell away
and cruel branches raked across my face
disfigured me, tattooed with brutal scars
my garments stripped and used to block the stars
and so my world grew dim and I alone
and my companions left me trapped within
The last straw to which I desperate, clung
was dashed from my hands, hope was trashed and flung
to the four winds and blown away in dust,
left me un-moored, an object of disgust.
But hope is funny, indomitable
and it is sneaky, looking empty, full
and when I dried my eyes, what did I see?
But hope returned to heal and rescue me.
That Absent God so silent and so cruel
had made a move, become the Supreme Fool
and suffered as a lost and lonely peasant
and in absence became Supremely Present
It’s Here, in this fog, everything in shroud
Listen, hear that coming footfall loud
Lion, Lamb and Baby through the smoke
Paying every Promise that They Spoke
There…wet…thin…starving and alone
that’s me abandoned wet, drenched to the bone
and nothing beautiful, nothing of worth…
to this manger…that’s me…comes Christmas birth
And so I will press on, and I will grope
thru deep darkness in this season of hope.
Aromas of Christmas
Steeping on the stove top and smelling of the magic of Christmas 🎄. Skootch over, evil witches with your vile brews!
Ours conjures love and joy and wassail too!
Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.
Love, Charissa
Advent Questions
Where is the promise and news of The Coming?
Where are the answers we need?
Where is the end of suffering and fighting?
Where is the peacemaker’s pen?
When will we find deep reconciliation?
When will our cynical lies
Cease and desist so true transformation
Delivers from deadly despair?
Is there a hope in remembering Advent?
Waiting for God to show up?
Is there a reason to watch and to wait
For a God who arrives in disguise?
Advent proclaims God is born in the manger
Of waiting for Them to appear,
But as what? A King Mighty? A Warrior? A Sovereign?
A helpless baby laid there?
Shall we accept Advent’s great Invitation
And wait for this God to draw near?
Shall we allow our masks to fall away
And lift up hearts and our faces bare?
Dare we celebrate Christmas instead of consuming
like ravenous wolves on a Kill?
Will we with shepherds and Kings and with peasants
kneel and beseech the Babe there?
The T Word: Transgender
Constance…I have no words to express what this means to me…what is being said to me…both in the post and in the comments. I simply will repost this, and let you know something: each of you is a potential ally in someone’s life. I an so very blessed to have the one that I do, and she knows how I feel, who I am, and our welcoming, beckoning road…and thus for me to say anything more is inappropriate, in that the only legit words for to say are uh-MAZED and broken thank yous…55 years of loneliness is a long time.
You don’t get to decide the truth. Other people have their own experiences, just as valid. This is easy to forget. Your slice of life seems so large and unmistakable, like a mirage of wholeness from where you stand. But it is your job to know better and not confuse your small piece for the whole, even if you sometimes forget. Life is big—much bigger than just yours. This is the only note to self: other people are real. That’s all there is to learn.
— Frank Chimero – The Only Note To Self
At an event earlier this month, I sat reading over the only flyer available: an advertisement for The New Three Tenors. As I glanced over the neon page, I saw two sandled feet standing inches from where I sat. I found the feet peculiar, noting that the toes weren’t bare but layered with seamed stockings, and…
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Like a Rose (Come Holy Ghost)…song for Mama from 1994
As you know if you read here regularly, I love to refer to the Holy Spirit as Mama…and back in the 1990s I started calling Her “Lady Grace”, based on the stories my baby was writing back then “Tales of the Blood King.”
I have always had a very deep interest in and affinity with Holy Spirit. As a child, I used to be scared of our orchards, because I was certain that I heard a “ghost” calling me to come out in the orchard and meet her. It frightened me because it was so unusual, not so much because I thought harm would come to me. When I tried to talk to my parents about it, they just laughed at me, and marveled at “the imagination on that kid!” Yeah, that sorta hurt…but why would they think or do otherwise? It certainly is not “normal”!
In college, thanks to my beloved Dearest Darling, I met Holy Spirit very personally face to face (in my heart of course…the literal face to face is still to come!). And since that time, She has been very present and with me…with the exception of last year in the autumn, when They strategically withdrew to break me out of dry dock, and launch me on a voyage.
This song was my attempt at conveying the beauty, the blessing, and the healing of Lady Grace’s presence. Whenever I played it, the reaction was dramatic…some people were transported into a deeper realm of devotion and union with God…and other people literally at times tried to stop me from playing it, to the point of threatening to kick me out of church if I persisted. I persisted…
Take a look for yourselves…and may you always find a door to open in your heart to Lady Grace, the most gentle and comforting and powerful of beings!!
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Like A Rose (Come Holy Ghost)
The fragrance of Your Presence here is all I need.
You fall on me like dew on thirsty ground.
You pour out golden oil on my hungry heart,
I will drink of heaven’s love come down.
Chorus #1:
Holy Spirit come (echo). Holy Spirit come (echo)
Come and pour the Wine of Father’s love.
Holy Spirit come (echo). Holy Spirit come (echo),
Come and fill our hearts with Love again.
The fire of Your Presence here is like a Rose,
You blossom in the dark night of my soul.
Your steadfast love surrounds me and You melt the snows,
And I am set aflame by First Love’s coal.
Chorus #2:
Holy Spirit Fall! (echo) Holy Spirit Fall! (echo)
Fall like Holy Fire from Father’s Throne.
Holy Spirit Fall! (echo) Holy Spirit Fall! (echo)
Come and set our hearts on fire again.
If I could go back…
What would I do?
Why, I would have a best friend and go bike riding with her all day
and end up at the creek behind the Gibson House
Buried deep in the pear orchard
where the water doggies dance and skitter across the surface
and my dog, chest deep and soggy-doggy dank,
(Mighty Huntress!)
would chomp and snap them up, protecting us from
those threatening piranhas and keeping safe our
Treasured Trinkets
We would shinny out of our clothes like
young garter snakes shedding our skins and
cannonade off the bank into the cold and merry flow.
Smelling of sun and creek and joy we would swim and
shrilly shriek (quietly, lest we be discovered).
And then we would lay in the weedy straw (waiting cutting,)
and dry off with closed eyes and open hearts
holding hands and content.
Later, after we rode through the orchard (on our way to Paris)
we would end up late at night watching
Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie
eating popcorn by the handful and ice cream by the
painful spiky skull full til we at last had
outlasted my parents and been ordered to bed.
And when I woke in the night, fearful and stiff and petrified,
she would be there
my friend, and breathe on my cheek and
tell me that Jesus loves me.
If I could go back, I would ask only and ever always for that…
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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