May 23, 2012

Sister

Ah, sweet sister!
There you are hiding.
Depths like a cistern,
Still unabiding.
Eyes that lull to
The pelandrone's tune
The hands going slack,
Resting too soon
In the complacency
That quickly deceives,
That says, "This is life
The effort's to breathe!"
I know there is more
Than breath of day,
Than the empty anger
You always display.
Sister, have you never been loved
In that perfectly simplistic depth?
Held in the bonds of truest family,
So completely, you wept?
Sister, there is too much despair
For you to be cruel to yourself.
Inwardly you tear out your hair
You long to be someone else.
It would be easier.
No-one has made your mistakes
And must live with what you know,
Aware of the give and take,
The exchange between mind and soul
That creates guilt from toleration.
Penance through self-degradation.
When will the veiled attempts
To reveal the real
Become the reality
And allow you to heal?
I am your sister and your friend.
Loyal to the good you are within
You run hard to catch up to your sin,
Push it behind to relive it all again.
I run the circles, ever by your side,
Praying you won't sink when you subside
Praying even though I'm pushed aside.
Seeing you from where you try to hide,
Believing in the love you hold inside.


To the sister who has only ever believed in her outer beauty but not her inner beauty.

The Potter's Hands (written 11-19-99)

The potter's hands worked dilegently,
Continuous, consistently,

      To shape the clay that lay upon His wheel.

Difficult though the vessel was,
He never once gave up his cause,

      Determined to see completion thus fulfilled.

I saw tears forming in His eyes
And wondered why the Creator cried

      Until I saw the broken pieces in His hand.

As I watched him set them down,
I was stunned at what I found,

      Those pieces were the spirit of a man...

So ravaged by the effects of abuse,
Neglected, beaten, despised, misused,

      The world left barely anything at all;

Yet somewhere between sorrow and grief
Lay a strength beyond belief
And as deep calls out to deep

      In the rush of a waterfall,

So called the man in desperate need,
God's love began to intercede
And...
          God the shaper and the potter sat at his wheel.

This man's soul was turned to dust
But somehow he continued to trust

            Never doubting God's ability to heal.

As the tears fell from the Potter's eyes
Upon that which was so parched and dry

      The dust began to take another form.

In the Potter's hands this form took shape,
I watched God working to create

      From a spirit, shattered by the sorrow he had worn

A man of God- completed
Through God's love now undefeated,

   Mended as though he never had been torn.

By Kim DuBose

A person cannot let go of the past until he or she knows there is something tangible to reach for.

Hate Crimes Division~ dystopia

                 Originally everyone was a Hater, to some degree. Society had been loosely structured around the archaic rules of the Nazarèt; that Pitiful Prophet, Who, along with His ragamuffin crew, had tried to turn the world upside down.

                 Then came Bastion, the Magnificent Pride of all Creation, and her boss.
                 She joined the entire universe in devotion to Bastion’s supremacy, and his infinite tolerance.
                 Bastion accepted everyone except Haters.
                 Bastion’s great tolerance could not possibly tolerate the Haters’ intolerance.
                Anyone viewing Bastion’s image experienced liquid peace, and an erotic magnetism toward the asexual being. Bastion glistened like tourmaline, sporting stiletto heels which magnified his Herculean legs. As an act of worship, men and women gratified themselves, using Bastion’s image for inspiration, repeating his name as often as possible. Bastion loved the sound of his name, which eased the painful memory of people hallelujah-ing the Nazarèt long ago.

                Bastion had actually been a major player in the overthrow of that emaciated seer.

                Bastion was sent to enlighten society with his gospel of peace, and predictably, the Haters, with their dogged insistence on ultimate truth, only proved to the world that Bastion’s way was the right way, the broad path that invited all reasonable souls to share the love.

                Regrettably, even during Bastion’s zenith, Nazarèt’s spirit-driven words spread like viruses, and ignorant souls regularly found His words and ate them.
                Once swallowed, the infected fools developed a smell which made them easy to detect. Nothing could mask the odor of death attached to the Haters, and it was her job to sniff them out and chop them off, at the neck.

John 16:2 The time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering a service to God.

                
               She initiated her career as one of the best agents, but in the past few years, her sniffer had begun to play tricks on her.
                  Two years ago, she found a nest of Haters in the eastern sector, and an eight year old boy was amongst them. He smelled strongly of death, and as she cuffed him, he turned to assist her, saying, “I know how hard this is for you.”
                  She clubbed him, and the blood from his scalp reeked of demise.

 “Don’t speak to me, you little Hater,” she hissed. “I love my job, ‘cause I get to eliminate stinking carcasses like yours.”

 The child looked at her. “I know you hate me, but I feel kinda sorry for you. Can you smell my prayers?”

                  Suddenly, an aroma of cut grass and leather wafted from the gash on the boy’s head.His amber eyes penetrated some breakable thing in her soul.

“I find myself loving you,” the child said in genuine bewilderment.

“Shut it, vermin. I can’t wait to see your stinkin’ head roll,” she snarled.

“I’m glad you’ll be there” the child said sweetly, smelling of rainfall and vanilla.

                 She didn’t attend the boy’s execution. His sincere amazement at his unrequited love for her left her unsteady, and she lost her craving to see his head separated from his body.

                 Since that day, her sniffer had been off.

                 She’d track down a nest of Haters, following their yellow stench into basements and attics. And then, she’d catch that blast of fragrance emanating from the cretins while she bludgeoned and tazed them, like vapors of incense saturating the atmosphere.

                  In dreams, their apprehensive eyes implored her, even as the vermin shed tears for themselves and for her. In her nightmares, they possessed a dignity she couldn’t comprehend.  Even in her agitated slumber, she’d smell lilacs and cut wood emanating from those souls sitting beneath some sort of altar.

                 When her arrest numbers drastically dropped, her superiors suggested she resign.

                 Now, jobless, and soon to be homeless, she roams her former beat, hoping to uncover a nest of Haters and recuperate her job. She can no longer detect that smell like buzzard vomit, defiling Bastion’s utopia, but occasionally, she’ll catch an invasive fragrance of life, an unfettered aroma that hides in attics and cellars.

                 She stays far away from that perfume, that unnerving anointing which seems to follow the Haters like a shroud. 

                And so, she wanders the streets, dangling desperately in that place between lost and found.

 2 Corinthians 2: 15 We are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. 16 To the perishing we are an aroma of death; to those being saved, we are the perfume of life.

     With Memorial Day coming up so many people come to heart and mind. I hope to make the yearly trek to Oklahoma where we scattered my daughters ashes at the scenic overlook in the mountains. She was my butterfly; her life held in beauty for a fleeting moment before breaking free and flying on to the next phase. To be absent from the body is to be present with Christ therefore if I am in Christ and she is present with Christ, she is still with me.
     Two very important friends of mine went home this year. It hurt so much but I knew, just like with Grace, that they are with me still. They are free to love perfectly. We still strive to learn to love with perfection, but without the confines of flesh, they now can. They are made whole and perfect in Him who chose them.
     I think of my dad and grandparents. Tears would fall if I allowed myself to think of the lifetime I have spent loving people and how many of them are now gone but I know with all that I am that they are not beyond my reach. When my heart is missing them and my soul is reaching out for them I feel them returning that love and reaching out for me. Through God connection is maintained. In honor of loved ones gone before I would like to post the poem I read at my father's memorial service. It is titled:

Who We Were

Where warmth touches the first bud of spring,

And stirs up from within nostalgia from sleep,

And draws up through the heart memories of love,

And draws out old tears from their keep,

Is the story of who we were.

All taking place on fields full of color,

Our laughter dancing on sunlight and breeze

Where we raced, we jumped, we played and we fought,

We skinned up our elbows and banged up our knees. 

We won, we lost, we agreed, disagreed,

We climbed the mimosa in Maw-maw’s front yard,

Summer days often meant working in fields,

But we learned to live and work hard.

It’s a part of who we were.

Where Mike and I kneeled to pray each night

On the arm of our daddy’s chair,

Where day darkened skin, and morning began

And ended with sun-streaked hair,

We ran through puddles, scaled fences and gates,

Rinsed in the cold of the garden hose,

At times we cried like there was no tomorrow,

Not knowing what tomorrow would hold.

We broke, but we healed, got angry, forgave,

Manipulated to get our own way,

We suspected, mistrusted, still reaching out,

Hoping love would still make a way.

For better or worse these pages we’ve written

Within each of us now intertwine,

To tell who we were, on our way to becoming

The family we are at this time.

For better or worse, a part of each other,

Integrated within each heart,

We weep when one hurts, we grow distant at times,

We pull together when someone departs.

I’ll never forget as a little girl,

Laying my head on my father’s chest,

Hearing his heartbeat, not really knowing,

Girls grow up and father’s one day lay to rest.

I’ll never forget learning of God,

Knelt at the arm of daddy’s old chair,

Feeling loved, growing in strength and in faith,

Innocently offering up prayer.

The biggest part of who we were

Carries us through this pain,

Because we grew up growing in God.

And were taught how to call on His Name.

So when summer days turn gold with the autumn,

And winter days close autumn eyes,

Spring will stretch out and awaken from sleep,

The warmth of the summer sunrise.

There reminiscing in fields full of color,

Nostalgia will wake and love will stir

The memories of the better and worse

And the longing for who we were.

Kimberly Camille Wigington-DuBose

February 15, 2008

My dad had "autumn eyes." they were a beautiful shade of hazel green.

Rest in comfort and joy in the arms of our God.

Unto Molech and Belial

A Billion Busted Bruised Broken bleeding
Baby bodies
Mostly black

We wear   
This beastly fare
Blended In our shining hair
Their life gives us beautiful body~  and bounce

The biggest lie
Those women who first- time believed could not be blamed
They are taught to circumvent their brain
And trust that emancipation
of the tiny being buried below
Is but blobs of cells
Devoid of soul
They can behold miniature feet and think~ oh how sweet!
And never get the association

 But those women

Who felt the tiny ballet of being, within
And then tell others
That the dance is but a flutter of matter

These  sin
These feel blame   
These carry shame
These cannot escape the bitter pain
But by adding numbers   

to their desolation

They hope to find justification~

 Why, it didn’t bother me! Try it, you’ll like it~ it’s your choice to be free

It cannot be wrong if we tell the lie enough times
If we chant it like a song then more will buy our great big lie~   it can become reality
No matter that science
Betrays your fables
No matter that broken babies can be either mended or disabled
Healed or disassembled ~ repaired or dismembered
Broods, mostly sable, Within big belly stables

Buckets of bloody babies
12,000 butchered black babies in a trash bin
These have found Beulah
But their mothers cannot escape the bane
The betrayal which slinks up on them unbidden on birthdays never to be
The brutality of the brazen table
Matches the bitter end of this butcher’s fable

The biggest lie~ the behemoth lie~ the lie without basis or believability
Is buckets of butchered bodies~ Mostly black
Found out back
Of the butcher factory

I am the Other Woman

I am the other woman
The one who shoots a gun
With aim quite true
Who loves her infants
And her influence too

Who does not think that abortion is a divine right

it as a divine wrong
making Planned Parenthood riches
I am a scholar, who stitches  husband’s socks and kids’ britches

I know that the emperor is uncovered

You hate me because you discovered
That you cannot control me

I am not your UnStepford wife
And it cuts you like a knife

You hate me because I am resilient

You hate me because I am brilliant
And you cannot control my mind
I can play the game, and you will find
I will win

 If you were truly a feminist

You would speak for me too
As it is, my voice is my own
However, my voice is not entirely alone
I am 50% of the feminine population
And we are filled with determination

 We know the emperor is naked

And that is the truth

Out with the Old

My husband and I have been placing some of our treasures on Craig's List today.
Items like armoirs and copper fire extinguishers are up for sale,
to the right buyer.
These items we have collected, restored, loved, appreciated and really do not wish to part with
~unless someone is willing to pay us what we think they are worth : )

Prov 24: 3 & 4

³ By wisdom a house is built,
and through understanding it is established;
⁴ through knowledge its rooms are filled
with rare and beautiful treasures. 

That's our house.

Of course, my husband is a master carpenter,

with years of experience in woodworking and restoration.

I also have an eye for beauty, and a love of unique treasures.

So why are we trying to sell things?

At the bottom line, they are just things.

Sometimes it's good to clear some things out of your life,

even nice things,

and evaluate what remains.

I have so many nice things,

that at least half of them are not even registered  in my own brain,

until I stop to look at them.

I cannot tell you exactly which items are on my mantel right now >not without looking.

I think I have too much stuff.

Although I love beautiful things, I do not mind selling them.

I enjoy this notion of making do,

of rediscovering purposes for various items,

like all of that furniture out in my barn.

I truly believe that a person with an eye for beauty will never lack beauty,

not while this world remains.

The Lord has made so much beauty for our eyes to behold,

that we do not even recognize it

until our clutter is removed and we take a moment to really see.

Sometimes, we must clean out our stuff,

even the nice stuff,

to make room for other things.

Sometimes we can only see the beauty in what we have when we consider letting go of it.

I know, this sounds like a tired 1970's poster~ if you love something, set it free.

This is not about catchy phrases or cliche ideologies.

It's about cleaning house.

It's about evaluating the things we already possess,

and making room for newer treasures.

Opportunities

welllll, anyway my ultimate goal for this blog is to create a place where Christian writers can publish flash fiction.

There are not many markets for Christian flash fiction, and there actually needs to be someplace where we Christians,
 the few,
  the proud,
   the bonafide,
    can express our extreme God-Given creativity as we like.

The opportunity to do so might be eroding away even as we speak.

You might look for opportunity,
and it will be gone.

So while it is still called today,
I want to open up a cozy nook,
where talented writers can unleash their
genuine faith.

A corner where we do not need to be afraid of being real,
 honest,
  and unreservedly genuine,
while still having the mutual accountability of a
Blood Washed Community
to keep us always moving to
higher ground.

I have a friend.
Years ago, she was one of the most loyal and loving friends a girl could have.
And this girl can write.

I'm going to recruit this friend of mine to get this party started.

We will see what happens~ while the opportunity still exists.

White-Out

Don't you just hate it when you make mistakes?
You have several opportunities to NOT make the mistake,
and then your mom calls,
and you get distracted,
and all the sudden, you've made an irretrievable error which cannot be remedied.

That was my life.

Lots of mistakes, lots of distractions, lots of friends on the road to destruction.

Then came Jesus.

Last night I was overwhelmed by the memory of how He reached down for me,
in the midst of my radical and rampant sin,
and plucked me out.

I was a mess when He found me, and I'm still a mess.

Sometimes I cannot figure out how exactly I became the person that I am.

Was there a problem somewhere on my chromosomes,
maybe something missing or something extra?

I don't know.

Sitting outside by myself by the fire, I realize that under that darkening sky,
I am really always alone,
and yet still never alone.

In the end, we want to be known,
understood,
GOT,
but I seem to be a creature who is destined to be unknown,
misunderstood,
and actually un-gettable.

Like, who really GETS me?

God does.

For some reason, He created me,
under the specific and unique set of circumstances
which shaped and misshaped me,
and then He let me run my life into the ground.

Then surprise, wham, tada!!

He called me.
He loved me!
He loves me!!

He knows me and still loves me.

I do not have to fear that if He REALLY knew me, then He would hate me,
because He ALREADY knows me,
and He still likes me.

Under the darkening sky, my heart is hurting oddly,
not from emotional pain
(although maybe somewhere a few years back, something really did get broken??)

I am undone.
I am no one.
And yet the Creator of the heavens and the earth
still likes me. 

I was Holding my Breath, but then I just Died

So I'm laying awake
and I'm having an argument
with several people
in my mind.
For years, I have played the game,
trying to say the right things,
trying to "confess positive" so I don't come across as
too dark and negative,
but tonight, in my bed,
I'm cussing in my imagination.

There are three people mainly I'd like to tear into,
but once the anger starts spurting up and out, the list can  potentially expand.

Tonight, I am not on my own list.
Don't worry, I have chastised myself endlessly
for my own fault in this matter,
for my sins which have surely caused me to reap this harvest of scorpions.
Tonight, I'm not on the list.
Tonight the bitter anger is directed at others.
I target Jezebel and her enablers.

(I can hardly even deal with my own son. That is an exquisite pain, one which is like a sword piercing my very soul.
Like, son, "How can you be doing this?" and even, "Who exactly ARE you?"
That pain is too jagged, too brittle and imminent to deal with for very long).

So I direct my rage at that skinny brat,
with her flat bottom wagging around the internet,
draping herself across her bff's in suggestive poses
with  her ever-present alcoholic beverages
like idols
to which she sacrifices her dignity
    with way too much affection.

For five/ten minutes, I let all of them have it.
You know, I VENT.

 But all of it is in my mind.

As soon as my fury has had its fifteen minutes (give or take) I repent.

My heart immediately goes up to God and connects with Him,
and I tell Him I'm sorry for being so ugly.

And then I think He lets me in on something we all know,
but which strikes me as a bonafide revelation, nonetheless.

It is this.

He knew what was in my heart and on my mind even before I formulated the words,
allowing them to take on the hideous mental shape of my hurt and rejection
and pain and shame.

It is like the Lord stalks my tweets, and even though I don't catch Him lurking,
in my mind, I still know He is there,
and He can discern my thoughts and behaviors any time He wants to.

He knows me.

So venting in my imagination was really a sinful little exercise,
but it was not surprise to the Father, not one little bit.

Psalm 139:4
Even before there is a word on my tongue, Behold, O LORD, You know it all.

There is nowhere we can go to escape His awareness,
and if there were such a place, would we even WANT to be there?

Just a thought...

The Whys

Why Heap Coals?
Well, Jesus said to be good to your enemies, and pray for them which spitefully use you.
 In doing this, you will be heaping coals upon their heads.

This sounds painful.
Sometimes, we'd just plain like to see some pain heaped upon our enemies.

However, it is not as simple as that.
With Jesus, nothing is so simple that there is not a deeper meaning for those with ears to hear.

There was a custom, back in the day.
People did not have electric-start gas burners, or propane tanks, or Bic lighters.
Sometimes, instead of running next door for a cup of sugar (does anyone do that any more?)
they would go borrow a few coals from their neighbor to get the fires ignited in their own houses.
Allegedly, they carried these coals on their heads, I suppose in some type of vessels.

Jesus, really?
Can You not stop this relentless demand to bless those who have hurt us?

Some have said that the fire of God upon the head of an enemy
will cleanse and purge  their conscience,
bringing on repentance.

I sure hope so.
Because seriously, Jesus, I am waiting for the day my enemy comes to me and says:

"I am really really sorry for bringing destruction and pain to your family,
 for being an ungodly influence,
 bent on carnal delights,
 rather than being a Proverbs 31 woman who adds wisdom and love into your family."

I am really waiting for that moment in time.
I am waiting for repentance in the life of my enemy.

So this heaping coals stuff sounds pretty good,
even if it is not exactly what I had in mind.

This blog is for keeping it real.
I have spent so many years saying the right Christian phrases concerning my enemy,
speaking love and hope and giving her credit for things she does not deserve.
I was told that anything less than this was lack of faith.

I have lived five years now feeling ashamed that  this has happened to me, to my family.
I have cried, repented, suffered and died over anything I have  ever done to allow this to occur.
(Because, keeping it real, I have caused my share of havoc in the lives of others, back in the day.)

I know in the end, Jesus' way is the Only Way, the Right Way, the Way that works.

But sometimes you just gotta mourn with those who mourn,
and weep with those who weep.
Sometimes you gotta let folks be real.