Opposing God

People do not realize that when they disagree with the Word of God, they disagree with God Himself.
Don't let celebrities and other ignorant people tell you who God is.

1 Thessalonians 4:1    Finally then, brethren, we request and exhort you in the Lord Jesus, that as you received from us instruction as to how you ought to  walk and please God (just as you actually do walk), that you excel still more. ² For you know what commandments we gave you by the authority of the Lord Jesus. ³ For this is the will of God, your sanctification; that is, that you abstain from sexual immorality; ⁴ that each of you know how to possess his own vessel in sanctification and honor, ⁵ not in  lustful passion, like the Gentiles who do not know God; ⁶ and that no man transgress and defraud his brother in the matter because the Lord is the avenger in all these things, just as we also told you before and solemnly warned you. ⁷ For God has not called us for the purpose of impurity, but in sanctification. ⁸ So, he who rejects this is not rejecting man but the God who gives His Holy Spirit to you.

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