Abishai

Make me an Abishai
Descending into the camp
of the enemy
of my friend's soul.

Give me an Abishai.
One who will say,
"To the enemy's camp,
with you, I will go."

1 Samuel 26:6

 6-25-13

Soulful Sojourns

In my travels across Turkey last spring, Topkapi Palace seared itself into my heart and remains the climax of my time there.  The lush gardens dripping with roses, crimson velvet cushioned bay windows overlooking the Bosphorus, and rococo styled hidden chambers were like an overindulged dream.  The myriad golden fireplaces with gilded hoods, cabinetry embedded with emerald, ruby and nacre gems, ornately carved wooden doors imbued with golden latches and hinges and Iznik tiles saturated in blues, ivories and coral reds sang in unparalleled extravagance. Domed ceilings adorned with azure and gold laced mosaics, stained glass of peacock’s colors, decorative stone pathways, and marble sinks with echoes of watery songs were mind stretching.

As enraptured as I am by Topkapi Palace, I'm equally enthralled by the gazelle.  With her gentle demeanor, endless legs, sculpted ringed horns and prominent black and white torso, it’s no wonder that her name is taken from the Arabic word “ghazalah”, meaning “a lyrical poem”. Though not always capable of outrunning her predators, she has been known to leap over her enemies with grand jetes’ of graceful agility.  Even in escape she is lovely. 

The gazelle, revered as she was by the Persians, was permitted to roam and graze in the sultan’s private gardens along with the peacock. She grazed in the lavish Topkapi palace safe from predators and surrounded by extravagance.

In my sojourns in Turkey I felt like a gazelle permitted to roam in exotic places.   From the tantalizing tastes of the seductive malta plum and the impossibly tender lamb kebab, to the soul stirring ancient wonders, from the mouth watering aromas of street vendors’ toasted chestnuts, to the Turkish tea which flowed freely on the streets, from the sonorous calls to prayer to the beautiful Turks themselves and their willingness to indulge my need to practice their language, something in me was awakened.  My sojourn in Turkey called out the colors of my heart.

I read once that to be sensuous is to be present to your own soul.  How I long to awaken to my soul on a daily basis, to be a lyrical poem that tells His greater story, to dance in the way God has crafted me to dance, to be graceful, dignified and gentle, to graze in His gardens with springs that never run dry,  and to learn how to leap over my predators with grace and agility.

Father, thank You that You are  the author of all that is lush, extravagant and precious.  You are the color Creator and You reside in the Light. You created cinnamon and calamus, cumin and cloves.  Lion of Judah, I’m so thankful You are stronger than my strongest predator, yet You browse among the lilies and long to be with me.  Ancient of Days, write Your story through me and make sure it's colorful!

Don't Miss the Hoot!

     Last night I missed the hoot.  
     It was eleven o'clock and Asher, my fourteen-year-old son, called my husband Shawn and me into his room.  
    "I'm hearing some rad bird activity outside," he said. 
     We all looked at each other quizzically and strained our necks toward his window, willing ourselves to hear some "rad bird activity." 
     My still warm bed was beckoning me back, so I dared my men to go outside and discover the mystery, and adding, with a dash of playfulness, "Maybe you will see an owl",  moseyed back to bed.
     Within moments my husband yelled upstairs, "Kim, come down here, quick!" 
     Clad in my nightgown I quickly stepped into Asher's clunky boots and, as gingerly as one can rush in clunky boots, headed out to the back door of the garage where Asher was waiting.  
     "Now look up high in the shag-bark hickory," said Shawn in a hushed voice. 
     With our breath marking the night air we craned our necks. 
     "He's gone," Shawn said.
     I missed it.  I knew going to bed was a mistake.
     Asher had first heard the hoots and had been the one to spot the beauty high up in a tree.  I'm proud of him for having ears to hear the unusual, for having the heart to invite us into the mystery, and for having eyes to discern where the elusive bird might be.  

     Tolkien wrote "It's a dangerous business going out your door…there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." 

      I missed being swept off my feet to a dance under winter's star-pocked sky.  I missed the silhouette of a majestic bird residing high over the white-blanketed earth.  I missed the hushed "Look Dad! There it is!" of my son.  
     I chose my bed over going out my door last night.  
     My friends, your beds will always be there.  Don't miss the adventure.  It might be a real hoot!