Winds of Change

And I see the winds of change, and feel the cool breeze upon my face.

And he leads me beside the still waters.

In the place of stillness, I am still here.

In the storm, I reside in the place of stillness.

Enveloped in stillness.

Wrapped in stillness.

A covering of great calm.

A soothing balm, in the place of great discomfort.

A refreshing breeze in the heat of the battle.

A comforting embrace in the place of great anguish.

An intimate touch when all you feel is the distance of love.

For my love is not far away.

My love does not stand at at distance.

My love does not hold herself back.

My love is not absent, but up close and personal.

My love longs for your embrace.

My love is not shy about her intentions.

Like a refreshing water blanket, it wraps you up when all you feel is the fire exploding within you.

For I can see your body shaking as you try to retain my fire, restrain my fire, contain my fire, try to put a lid on your very self.

Yet I can see the heat in your breath, I can see my fire in your eyes.

I know you are looking to blow of steam, but it is time to get fired up.

For my passion rages within you, and MUST come out.

I see you trying to endure, until the heat dies down, yet I know the rage that lies within.

A raging fire, an all consuming fire, something than cannot be contained, something that must be released, a mighty chain breaking fire, an explosive fire, a take no prisoners fire, a fire that melts all who stand in your way.

It is so frustrating to me, such a point of disconnection, such a challenge to know how to respond, when they are all seeking to extol the benefits of the gift that you have given to me. They talk about all that the "tool" can do for them but give little credence to the craftsman who welds it. I am so tired of it all. There seems to be this constant battle to judge the value of all that you have given me. For surely the chisel has little value, the value comes from what can be crafted with it.

And it trickles down.

And it is poured out upon.

And it rests upon that which is dry.

It rests upon that which is barren.

It rests upon that which was once full of life.

It is fundamentally restorative.

For it flows upon that which was alive, but is now dead.

What is the point of streams in the desert, for it only flows upon that which is incapable of receiving from it?

For it is not the flow that brings life, it is the seed carried by the flow.

I hear you have so much more to say.

Fire and water.

Water and fire.

One consumes, the other refreshes.

One overwhelms the other dries up.

One cools, the other warms.

Both are essential for life.

Without fire you would die from the cold.

Without water you would die from the heat.

One must be contained, the other must be released.

One is poured into a cup, the other flows over all that it consumes.

One is consumed, the other consumes.

One minute you refer to me as fire, the next you refer to me as the one who possesses the flow.

The flow of fire, the fiery flow.

The fiery seed, the seed of fire.

One ignites, the other calms.

One rages, the other flows.

The fiery flow, burns all that it touches, then brings great fertility, an abundance of fertility.

What is it you see now?

My hands wrestling with the bars of the prison cell, shaking the whole prison to its foundations, the whole room shaking, with all those within and without falling to the ground. I am so disturbed at all that contains, all I can do is make a disturbance. Shaking, such great shaking, a giant earthquake.

Yet you act like one of the prisoners, are you not free?

Are you not free?

Are you not the one who brings freedom to that which is captive.

Yes Lord but what does that look like? I feel like the prisoner is arguing with me about the colour of their shackles, or is striving with me about how they move within the confines of their cell. I see them all walking around like lifeless zombies, pale imitations of who they could be. I feel like a deeply distressed person trying to wake them up from their apathy and slumber.

I see my hand of fire shaking their lifeless hand, and for so many I see them vaporised and consumed by my hand. It is like what you have given me is so destructive, when if received as intended it would bring life to that which was dead.

Transformed restoration, restored transformation.

Have I not given you the power to transform?

Have I not given you that which is transformative?

Yet I feel for so many they would rather just be caterpillars.

In order for them to be transformed, they must enter the cocoon, they must surrender that which consumes them, enter the place of stillness, come into that which is dark, come into a place of darkness, a place without light, into a place where their perspective is altered, where they learn to see things differently.

And for those who have been transformed?

They should tell of their experience, the glory of their new experience. But if they share the gift of what you have given me, where is my reward, where is my value, where is the harvest. I am lost for words. It is like my reception is off, my ability to engage is flawed. Help me to find the way, for you are the way.

"For I want to know you, let your presence overtake my heart, come take over"

In the place of the promise.

In the place I have promised.

In the place of the harvest.

In the place of the flow.

In the place of fire.

In the place of the flow.

Let my streams of living water flow.

For the hand of fire, holds the hand of my flow.

Break open a way Lord, release us from our wayward patterns, bring us into all that you have promised. Bring us into the light. For we cannot get to "other side" unless you take us there.

"Come and breathe on us"