Think it Through

Inspired by many of my experiences out sharing in Santa Monica, here is a poem I wrote. It's a little rough at parts, but I just finished the last few lines and figured I would just post it now.

Think it Through (or, Some thoughts on Life and Sharing)
Some unimportant words on the important things in life

A simple little question that so often scares away:

"Sir, would you care to take some time out of your busy day?"

And usually they walk,

But if they stay to talk,

I'll ask them my first question and see what they have to say

"This one's a little tricky" I will warn them in advance.

"Why are we here? For God? For us? Or is it purely chance?"

Their speech begins to stall

But their features say it all:

They haven't really thought about their present circumstance.

The problem isn't time, or "I have better things to do"

(They had the time to stop and talk with me about their view)

It's a pitfall in disguise,

And here's what I surmise:

The problem is they simply haven't thought to think it through.

Either God is real, and Jesus is the Truth, or else He's not.

But if He is, then Heaven is sublime, and Hell is hot.

They say the thought is nice,

And they're open to advice,

And yet they live like atheists without a second thought!

A life that's lived apart from God can never be enjoyed;

No cause, no purpose, no effect; of principle devoid.

The only road from there

Is one-way to despair;

A faithless leap from off a cliff into an empty void.

See, I remember planning out my story like an arc,

But when I reached the very end, I wrote a question mark.

Some day, we all will die;

Why do we even try?

And then I found the One who turned my life to light from dark

Whenever I begin to doubt and wonder what to do,

There comes a time when I decide to question what is true.

And answers can be found

Where grace and truth abound.

I find them every time because I choose to think it through.

God made us all in love, but then we chose to go astray;

We pushed aside his perfect plan and chose a broken way.

But God didn't leave us there

He came down, His love to share,

And nailed his own Son on the cross, our debt of sin to pay.

When I was dead and fallen, I had nothing left to do.

I had no way to save myself, this much I knew was true.

My mind could not conceive

The grace I would receive

Thank God that He's in charge, not me, and He can think it through

So now it's said, and what is said I do believe is true.

I thought it through and made my choice, so now I challenge you:

Don't take life sitting down,

Get up and look around,

And turn your doubts to questions, and then choose to think it through!

The Meadow, the Snow, and the Wooden Rock

The other day, for some inexplicable reason, I decided I should journal and write a free-verse poem. I have no idea why; I am by no means a poet, and when I do try to write poetry, I almost always prefer strict rhyme scheme and metre. Nevertheless, here it is.

The Meadow, the Snow, and the Wooden Rock

While walking through the meadow

I see the clouds ahead

White, puffy masses

Not dark, to bring rain

But they will block out the sun all the same

I stop to issue a brief prayer

Then cautiously begin again

As I walk, it starts to fall

Not in flakes, just drops of snow

The ground is speckled white,
      and soon it is covered

The trees all lose their leaves
      and stand spreading their bare branches
      like open arms,
      looking up to heaven

At first it seems surreal,

A snowy paradise,

A whitewashed escape
      from the meadow path

But as I walk further

I begin to see what I do not see:

An end.

I don't want to go back,

Though I'm not sure I could
      even if I tried

There is nothing but to trudge
      onward

As my feet grow heavier
      with each step,
      laden with snow

Gradually I being to see that,
      beneath the thick white blanket,

The meadow grass is still there.

Here a small hill,

There a dip,

There a shrub.

But in this whitewashed land
      they all appear as merely small defects in the landscape,

like pillows beneath a white comforter.

True, the plants are there,
      beneath the snow

The meadow land remains the same

But as my vision turns to white,

My memory goes blank as well;

The look of dirt,
      the feel of grass,

The slopes between the highs and lows
      all start to fade from thought,

Lost in a sea of blank unfeeling.

And soon the lumps seem to be
      no more than lumps,

Dead remains of the things beneath

Soon my confusion turns to
      anxiousness

My curiosity to hopelessness

In my despair, I remember my prayer

Issued at the threshold where
      the meadow yielded to the snow

I begin to think,

"Surely I have left the trail,

If, indeed, there ever was a trail."

Was there? Was the meadow real?

Or was that the shadow, and this the reality?

Beneath the white sky and the
      white-covered land

There are no signs, no landmarks,

Nothing to help me find my way,
      or even confirm there is a way.

Worry turns to doubt and fear,

To anger, bitterness, mistrust

There is no way out of here

So I do the only thing
      I know to do

I turn around and begin to run
      as fast as my snow-laden feet
      will carry me

Back to the meadow from whence
      I came

As I run past the monochrome landscape,

The unchanging scenery,

I begin to wonder how much further.

"Surely I did not come this far"

And surely I didn't,

But the snow remains, so I run on.

Twice, thrice, four times the distance
    I think it ought to be

But all I can see is white;

No meadow is in sight.

Here I am, my efforts spent,

My best ideas gone down the drain.

With no thoughts left,
      and my energy lost,

I fall to my knees,

My head stooped in surrender

And in this posture,

A familiar prayer returns
      to my lips

A promise echoes across the land

Not heard, but felt, as if
      the thought had been my own

But it is too foreign and
      too powerful to have originated
      from my spent and broken skull.

I raise my head,

And open my eyes,

And I find myself gazing upward

At those two wooden beams from the
      foot of that cross.

This, the first and only steadfast
      landmark I can see

Had always been fixed
      at the end of me.

As I stare at that bloody tree

I see the sky is no longer pale,
      but cloudless and blue

The sun's light shines down
      on a brand new scene

One I have never seen, but know
      all the same.

Behind that steadfast wooden rock

I see the path I am to walk

Through the grass it weaves into the trees

A great big forest, dark and deep

Lies ahead on the path for me

Yet I will walk with courage and humility,

Knowing that, should I lose my way,

There is a path, and an unfailing Guide,

A terrible tree that points the way,
A wooden rock, the light of day,

When I fall on my knees and give my life away,

At the end of myself,

The beginning of eternity.

Now that you have read the poem (and maybe even enjoyed it, though I dare not press my luck), I should probably clarify that this poem is definitely metaphorical and, for the most part, autobiographical. That's all I will say on the matter, at least for now.