Music Box

She twirled around the abandoned hall; her perfect, movements fluid.
The yellow fabric of her dress rustling with every movement.
She danced to music none could hear.
Upon her toes she pranced,
light, buoyant,
memory locked deep inside,
brought to the surface only by the music.
Like her dress, her dark hair flowed,
glowing, shimmering
with deep red hues in the low lighting.
Her waves tamed only by a small tiara upon her brow.
Her fingers loose,
free of any partner’s hand,
and still she danced,
unceasing as the music played on.

The child watched,
her brown hair flowing down her back,
she watched the red headed dancer spin,
blue eyes tracing the perfect form,
dreaming as the music plays.
But the music begins to slow,
coming to a halt.
The young child sighs and closes the lid,
stopping the music.
In the absence of the music,
the beautiful dancer collapses,
falling to the abandoned dance floor in a heap.
Small fingers turn the dial, winding it again.
Slowly, those fingers lift the lid once more,
reviving the dancer,
the music box continuing to play entrancing tones
as the young girl stares into it,
dreaming.

Without Ceasing

Thanks be to God
For he hears our prayers
He sees our tears
And he understands
He hears hearts grieve
And he lends his hands
To hold us up
To lift us up
Father you are worthy
Worthy to be praised
Gracious a Dios!
For he heard me when I prayed
For I did as he commanded
Knowing he would answer
I prayed without ceasing

Praise God! I still have my friend, she is still with me!

Fingertips

As she danced, with flowers in her hair,
bare feet twirling across the grass,
a song on her lips,
a tune in her throat,
she sings to the rising sun.
Arms open wide
the sun kisses her cheeks and accepts her warm salutation.
So she lies in the grass,
the blades tickling her face as her eyes rove the sky.
The clouds are her dreams and they change as she grows,
ever they are at her fingertips…yet just out of reach.

Broken

The great beast snorts
A mighty breath.
The oppressor sports
A determined stance.
Poetry in motion, intoxicating potion
Of hair and hooves and eyes.
The black on cerulean, a sight to be seen
As the stallion rears toward the sky.
The man approaches
The horse retreats
As danger encroaches
The battle will cease.
With fire and wind, the long whip descends
The flesh streaked with blood, a torrent, a flood
Runs down the poor beast’s flank
The fall to its knees
A smile on his lips
A horrible plea
His hands on his hips
A bridle, a saddle, the reins his command
A spirit none own dies under his hand.

Day Without a Cloud and yet it Storms

Today was a beautifully sunny day, smiling faces, laughter rippling across the campus. So much noise, just the normal conversations: homework, boys, girls, drama, the long weekend beginning after lunch. But today of all days demonstrates how quickly that warm chatter can turn to cold silence. One of my girls, a high school senior named Neema, was in the hospital due to complications with her sickle cell anemia. We just visited her two days ago, Tuesday on our way back from town. She was sitting up, eating, and laughing with us or at us. This morning after staff worship it was said she’d probably get to leave the hospital soon, she was scheduled to be released Saturday. Spirits were up, smiles were present and we went back to work. Not long after I get a call from Mrs. V… Neema is gone.

I know my heart stilled for a moment, it’s hard to process, and until we gathered everyone together I didn’t shed a tear. Not when I could hear the girls sobbing in the rows in front of me did I cry. It wasn’t until the closing prayer that a tear slipped from beneath my eyelids. This morning was hard on the girls, I saw many crying, some doubled over in silent agony, others wailing in despair. I vividly remember when Corine came in. She was supported between two other girls, she was barely walking, dragging her feet and moaning. It was an eerie and mournful sound.

They guided her to her bed where she lay, still moaning. At times she would move in a way I can only describe as convulsively, her wails would grow louder in pain. I climbed across her, sitting there with her on her bed, softly trying to calm her. It is then that I cried, tears flowed easily from my eyes at the intense pain. Pain that I know all too well was demonstrated before my eyes. I knew that pain, from nearing two years back. All I could do was hold her and rub her back in an attempt to comfort her.

Today was a sad day despite the sun. Neema’s presence will be sorely missed as she was one of the kindest girls I know. I am at least glad she did not die in pain. The doctors say she just went to sleep, they tried to revive her, but it was not to be. Goodnight Neema, may you sleep in peace until the day that Jesus comes back for us all. I am glad to have met you even if it was for a short time.