Wineskins [a prayer]

Friends, in prayer recently an image that struck me was that of the wineskin. Jesus says, “You cannot put new wine in old wineskins”, yet how often do we try? We beg for newness, we ache for wholeness, we plead for resurrection, all the while clinging to the tattered rags that prevent us from receiving that which he seeks to give. I am guilty—the tattered edges are familiar to me. They are soft and worn and comfortable, and I know where the rips and the holes and the weaknesses are. And yet, I want wholeness. We must surrender our tattered rags to him, trusting that in our nakedness he will clothe us with his love and light and glory, and will make us new wineskins to hold his new wine. Just as Adam and Eve were once clothed by his mercy, we too shall behold his gentleness in the transformation of our hearts. I pray this poetic prayer would move you to deeper contemplation of this reality.

Wineskins [a prayer]

Oh Father,
Come in, come quickly.
I am desperate, aching, make me new.
I am swirling in the tide—
of what might have been,
of what will be,
of everything I thought I’d be,
but I cannot find my way out of this spiraling wave.

Disappointment and
discontentment and
discouragement have left me
near Eve in the garden,
uncertain of the love that is promised.

Can I hope that you see these desires?
Can I trust that you are feeding this fire?
Can I believe that you are Lord of Redemption?

I am a jagged edge:
in need of being shaped by you.
What’s broken in me is not dangerous to you.
What’s sharp in me can be smoothed by you.
What’s anxious in me can find rest in your peace.

You are not frightened by my darkness,
you are not put off by my failure,
you are not wary of my fears,
you are not distant in my unfolding.

Heal my jagged edges and
transform my bitterness and
resurrect my brokenness.

I want to be like the sunshine:
fearless in the dark and vibrant in the light.
I want to be like the manger:
confident in the One I carry.
I want to be like the alabaster jar:
broken open at your feet.
I want to be like the wineskin:
made new to hold all you seek to give.

Would you take my tattered fabric
and anoint it with your grace—
that I might be capable of holding
the new wine,
the good wine,
the best wine,
which you have saved until now?
Oh Father,
Come in, come quickly,
and fill me:
that I might be your humble vessel:
the wineskin that holds your love.

snh

Featured on arisebeloved.org blog.

[a poem] There is Resurrection Here.

Dear friends, I have been reflecting upon the springtime, and how within this season, there is such truth about life with Jesus. He is always about work in us, though it is not always visible. He is always bringing about new life, though it is not always felt. He is always near, though his presence is not always perceived. And yet, the springtime reminds us that He always brings it about. Even in seasons where He does not seem near or present, even in seasons where new life seems buried deep beneath the soil, even in seasons where all that we feel is the brokenness and aching of our raw hearts, the springtime is here and is now, because the Kingdom of Heaven is a springtime ever anew. I pray this little poem, which captures this reflection upon the spring, might bless you and lead you into dialogue with the One who has made you.

[a poem] there is resurrection here.

there is resurrection here,
in the soil beneath our feet,
as the seeds laid long ago
let life spring forth to the surface.
what was hidden is now seen,
what was in darkness is now in light,
what was mere seed is now in bloom.

driving along these asphalt roads,
i find my heart in rhythm with the springtime.
surrounded by the new life as
flowers open up my eyes and
sunshine bathes my skin.
the promise he made so long ago
is tangibly felt in this season.

it happens every year:
the colors change and the world dies
and we wait in dark, gloomy days,
forgetting that he always brings the spring.
but he always brings the spring.
every single time, every single year
march and april and may he calls it forth:
the kingdom is now and oh, so near.

the wildflowers whisper:
he will do this for you, too.

do you forget, my love?
do you forget that i make it all new?
that i redeem the smallest thing?
that i see your need and ache?
i always fill!
i am mercy and love and beauty!
i am goodness and truth!
i am the way!
oh, why do you doubt me?

i have been faithful from the beginning of the age.
i have died and risen for you.
would you let me speak it deeper?
would you let me speak it new?
i am faithful,
and even still, i am true.

sink your feet into the soil and
call your eyes to wonder and
let your ears hear it.
there is a new song and
i am the one singing it.
it is all for you—
surely you must know: it is all for you.

new life is beginning,
close your eyes and feel it from within.

-snh

Featured on arisebeloved.org blog.

[a poem] My Nazareth.

Friends, my heart has been in a space of waiting for a while now. I’ve been working on this poem for a few months, coming back to it on the days I feel the ache of waiting most acutely. The words have really flowed, putting a shape to the experience of waiting that is often so foggy and inexplicable. I’ve been waiting for the right time to share it, and today it feels like the Lord is encouraging me to do so. I pray this brings you peace in the waiting, encouragement in the growing, and leads you into the garden of His Heart. He is always near to us.

My Nazareth.

I am waiting here,
waiting for You to tell me when it is time to move.
I am praying here,
in this undefined space,
this open ended, foggy, shapeless moment.
I am in the garden
and Your blood is on the ground.
I echo: Father, Thy Will be done.
This is the preparation,
the moment before the revelation,
full of achey dreams and disconnected passion,
the one without the times and seasons—
for who am I to know?
Plant the seeds, Good Lord,
so that when the whisper comes
after the earthquake and the fire,
my heart and soul and mind are attuned
to recognize the wind that blows where it wills,
to hear You in this holy space:
the Good Shepherd, the Familiar Voice,
the One I took the time to know.
Then will be the time, then the season,
when my earthy heart unfolds inside me.
With spittle on my eyes I will wash
in the water of Your abounding grace
and watch the fog vanish in Your Piercing Clarity.
Sprung forth from the seeds which have been germinating
and soaking in richly prepared soil,
might I respond with new eyes and open hands
to receive Your quiet invitation—
echoing the Holy Virgin and
the Courageous Martyrs and
the Ones who have all known Your Ineffable Light:
“Here I am, Lord.”
In the moment of the call,
I want to be the one who responds generously:
with the whole of my life.
But for now, I must wait: my Nazareth.

-snh

Magdalene.

She enters the room
looking only for the gaze of One.
Her entrance is met by mocking whispers and reproachful glances—

The sinner is here.

Their blind glances undress her of her newfound purity;
every muttered word a blasphemy against her metanoia.
And yet, she walks unafraid through this room that is ablaze with reminders of her unworthiness.
She comes to Him—
the one she knows to be the fulfillment of her deepest desire,
the one who satisfies the hungering soul inside of her,
the Living Water she thirsts for.
Behind Him, she lays herself upon the floor,
her heart and the oil one and the same,
resting on the wooden boards which will soon become His throne.
As she breaks the alabaster jar,
the fragrant perfume falls upon the feet of her Beloved
and so too do the tears pouring from her broken and hungry heart.
At the feet of the Lord lies the heart of the Magdalene,
and He knows.
She need not say a word for in this act of silent adoration,
her tears quench His thirst.
He turns to face her, placing His hand upon her cheek:

Daughter, He speaks.

At the sound of her name, she leans in
to breathe in the sweet scent of her Bridegroom.

Daughter, He speaks once more.

And the two hearts converse—

I know you—every sin and ache and fear that plagues you here.
I know the movements and stirrings of your heart, and I am well pleased in you.

My Lord, my Teacher I have sought long and hard to fill the gaping hole in my chest. There is none beside you—take away all of my idols, possess me entirely.

Daughter, I receive you. Receive me.

The dialogue of their hearts is interrupted by Judas’ rebuke—

Do you know the cost?

Her gentle gaze speaks the truth her battered heart knows so well—

I have spent myself on many things, and here lies the finest treasure I have ever encountered—the pearl of greatest price. He is the one on whom I desire to lavish all I have and all I am. I know Him and He knows me. I will remain with Him, even as He lies in the tomb, for He is the Lord and I believe.

And the Lord defends her—

She will save it for my burial.

He looks to Judas—

Oh Judas, won’t you come home to me?

But his hardened heart does not hear the question.
The naked Magdalene looks back at the Lord and is met by His perpetual gaze:
she is clothed as the lilies of the field.
The weary soul has come home—His heart is her refuge.
His Heart speaks to her once more—

Behold, Mary, I make all things new. Come with me to the Cross so you may know of my eternal love and be covered in the anointing of my Blood.

Jesus stands to leave with His disciples,

Come now, my hour is at hand. Rise and do not be afraid.

Magdalene stands and follows Him—
at His side she will remain.

-snh

Come.

Jesus said to them, “Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Mk 1:17

Come. Jesus speaks this word to Simon and to Andrew, to James and to John, to all of us.

It is the single most powerful word He speaks, for it is the single most powerful invitation we receive.

It is a familiar sound—He invites us over and over, speaking to the unuttered part of our hearts, calling us to arise and enter into the glorious dawn that awaits the kingdom people.

It is a decisive point of judgment—the decision to respond with a vibrant yes or the choice to allow its sound to be met with silence, falling upon sandy ground, lifeless soil.

Come.

It is the word that speaks chosenness over the lame, the weak, the sinful.

It is the gentle pull that tugs day after day on the hearts that have seen and witnessed, and yet struggle to believe.

It is the word of conversion.

Come—the invitation that opens a door to the most glorious mission that mankind can embrace—following Him.

When we embrace this mission, we imitate Simon and Andrew, James and John, who, upon hearing the sweet sound of Jesus’ invitation, leave and follow.

Brothers and sisters, the invitation to come is to be met with these two actions: to leave and to follow. But before we can leave, before we can follow, we must first understand who it is he calls.

The Lord calls the empty—so there is room to receive.

He calls the little, the humble, the detached. He calls the ones who will leave room for the grace to answer yes. He invites the ones who will wrestle with the desire for more, the ones who understand they are too small to be anything without Him, the ones who do not desire greatness but seek only the greatness He bestows.

“They were in a boat mending their nets. Then he called them.” Mk 1:19

He comes precisely at this moment—when it all is failing and there is nothing else to hold on to. He comes precisely at the moment when we are most empty, most broken, most unprepared, most unworthy to follow someone who is full, whole, and highly worthy of all glory.

And here is the mystery—his merciful eyes meet our own and suddenly, we leave and follow.
Brothers and sisters, in the encounter, lies the beauty, and in the following, lies the Cross. We ought to praise Him in the beauty, and then we ought to take up the Cross and follow Him because real beauty, real conversion comes in the intimacy of walking with Him.

Ask Him what He is inviting you to. Ask Him for the grace to leave and to follow.

He is saying—Come, come, come. Closer, so you might see. Be my disciple. Be my friend.

The Poem of the Wood

When I was young,
I held the infant King.
Meek and mild, He rested on me
and slept so sweetly beneath the stars.
I feared my splintery outside
would hurt the Gentle Babe,
but the Virgin wrapped Him tightly
and let Him rest in me.
I whispered that winter night,
“Little King, could you make something special of me?”

As He grew, so did I.
His hands began to shape me.
He learned to cut and hammer and nail,
practicing how to make me beautiful.
I became tables and chairs—
something new every day.
Gentle Joseph taught Him,
remaining beside little Jesus,
adoring His every movement.

The child’s hands
became coarse and calloused
from years of working with my roughness.
And yet, He laughed and smiled
as He created and made me new.
A gentle Carpenter He was.

Soon, He left the little woodshop
to share the reason He had come.
The Humble King dressed in rags,
brought joy and love to the unseen.
His secret and I remained in the little woodshop,
near to Joseph and the Virgin
until the day when His Hour was at hand.

The Infant I once held,
now marred by whips and scourges,
gripped me with a tender embrace
as the two of us started up the hill
on our final journey together.

I remember the soldier’s grasp
as he placed me on the King’s back.
I became covered in His sacred blood
and my splinters scarred His glorious skin.
I cried out, for I did not desire to hurt Him,
but He embraced me nonetheless.
He fell, and I crushed Him.
He was weary, and my weight hurt Him more.
And still, He never set me down,
carrying me all the way,
until He was laid upon me.

His hands and feet nailed harshly,
His bloody back pressed into me—
so close was I to the Precious King.
I heard the sound of His whispered prayers:
Father, I love you, said He;
All for Thee, He whispered.
I saw the sorrowful gaze of His Mother
as she grazed me reaching for His Feet.
Her gentle hand was shaking in agony.
I heard the sound of her tender voice
repeating: I love you, my baby boy,
until the cry of the Son’s surrender
caused her to silently fall against me.
I remember the feeling of His body
as He breathed His final breath.
The life left him quickly,
and I held only His torn flesh.

That Friday, I died beside the King
who first breathed life into me.
I held the Maker of all things,
the one who once held me.
Together our bodies returned to the earth,
to lay in solitude with groaning creation.
And I feared this was all I would ever be—
the wood that killed the King.

But days later His Creative Breath was restored
as His resurrected body breathed once again.
His once darkened flesh
now shone with radiant light.
Rejoicing covered the earth,
for the darkness was now powerless.
The gentle Carpenter, a master of the wood:
for though I once held Him,
He now held me,
and lifted me high to be adored
as the faithful wood that held the Savior of the World.
Whispering softly to me He said,
“Little Wood, you shall remind this fragile world
that indeed through me,
all that was once broken is now made whole.”

And I rejoiced, for the midnight plea in Bethlehem
had now been answered by my Savior King.

[s.n.h.]

Awake, Autumn Soul.

There is just something about the changing of the season—as all that is green and bright is transformed into radiant color that awakens the still soul inside.  The monotonous green countryside becomes a rainbow of golden delight, as reds, oranges, and fierce yellows pierce through, calling for us to notice that the world is ablaze.   Their vibrancy whispers, “Darling it is time to come alive!!”  and the soul responds with a dance of joy as it stands in wonder and awe of the changing world around it.

And yet, is this not the greatest paradox?

The changing of the leaves and the fiery colors reveal that death is ever near and fast approaching. The vibrant colors shyly whisper that soon, the world will be covered in gray and white, and color will fade with the passing of the October sky.  In the midst of this passing change, there is a great mystery: the whole world holds its breath in wonder as the mystery of life and death begins to unfold in nature’s existence.

I suppose it is a reminder of the eternity of the soul and the hope of resurrection.  It is a reminder that though the colorful beauty will soon die, eternal beauty remains vibrantly alive inside of us—the dance of the soul in response to the deep red leaves and vibrant fall sunsets continues far beyond the falling of the last leaf.  And yet, the season at hand is an awakening for the soul that has not yet entered into the eternal dance.  The colors catch the attention of our senses and beckon us to not be satisfied by the world outside, but rather call us to turn inward and see the vibrancy of the created soul that animates our being.  It is a call to enter into life eternal and a plea to renounce the death that previously grasped our soul–awake, O sleeper.

It is a great mystery, that nature’s death can awaken such truth for the human soul.  It is the most profound gift from our Creator, that each year he calls us back to Himself through the external manifestation of the soul’s destiny untouched by redemption.  As you watch the leaves fall, be reminded of the One who moves the wind—the same wind that carries the leaf gently to its death also breathed eternal life into the chasm of your soul and cleansed you in His Blood.  It is a call to embrace the life inside and bathe in the blood that saves us from the fall into nothingness.

Be at rest and be vibrantly alive, for though the world is ever-changing, He is ever constant, His Redemption ever fruitful, and His Resurrection ever new.

[a poem] Exposed.

Exposed You are upon the Cross,
naked and unashamed.
Blood covers Your Flesh.
Bone is seen through Your torn Skin.
It is a horrifying sight.
And yet, in the horror I see only one thing:
Love—the greatest Love!
Your Arms are open wide.
You are the Gate.
The piercing in Your Side calls us to enter;
to enter into Your Side and be pulled into Your Heart,
to pass through the human gate of our salvation
into the heart of Divine and Ultimate Love.
You call me to be exposed as You are,
stripped bare of all fleshly fear,
naked to the core—raw and able to be seen.
A call to surrender myself—flesh, bone, body, soul,
to the One exposed upon the wood.
As your Head bends low,
Your Arms stretch wide,
and Your Side bleeds forth my welcome,
I lay aside my garments of flesh and fear
to enter into the Heart that calls me saying,
Welcome home—draw near.

-snh

The Sorrowful Mother.

She is all we have ever needed,
and everything we have never deserved.
She is kind and merciful,
a Mother of the truest kind.
She feels our sorrow in the swords of her heart,
she knows the ache of loss and suffering,
she sees you in your absolute misery,
and chooses to advocate for you.
She points to all you desire,
and everything you want to be. // [snh]

In the past few weeks, the Sorrowful Mother has been in wild pursuit of my heart—and it has shaken me to my core and brought me to the stillness that can only be found in the gentle grasp of a Mother’s love. And yet, her love is not necessarily beautiful in the way the world would define beautiful love.

Her love is shown in the agonizing expression she holds at the foot of her Son’s Cross. It is evident in the tears she weeps upon His dead and lifeless body. Her love is manifested in the silence she maintains while He is scourged, mocked, accused, and brought low.

The love of the Sorrowful Mother is a suffering, piercing, agonizing love that holds within it all of her children’s hurt, sorrow, sin, and brokenness.

As joyful and magnificent as her Immaculate Heart is, we must remember that it is also Sorrowful—pierced by seven swords and brought into union with the wounded heart of her Son. It is in her sorrow that we meet the raw and authentic mother, who wept and felt and ached and agonized over the gruesome death of her Beloved Son.

She also weeps and mourns and sobs and aches for us—her beloved children gifted to her at the foot of the Cross where she waited in silent obedience to give birth to us through the pain of his death.

She is our Mother—her heart broken in the unfolding of our redemption.

She is our Advocate—her guiding hands and glorious eyes unraveling our knotted hearts with the piercing glance of mercy.

She is our Lady—revealing the dignity of our humanity and showing us how to love, live, and be His alone.

She is our Consolation—showering us in her sorrowful tears to cleanse us of the dirt that binds us.

She is our Queen—reigning over our disorder and our internal restlessness.

She is, though, most perfectly, our Mother—and it is this role that she places above all, for this is the role of her sanctification, the role in which she alone was uniquely chosen to love the Lord.

She, our Sorrowful Mother, weeps and prays unceasingly for our return to her Beloved Son, for our continual conversion, for our hand to reach out to her own—for it is her greatest desire to walk with us toward the Eternal Word that took up a home in her womb.

Call to her, seek her, place yourself in her gentle hands—let her lead you through the path of sorrow so that she may lead you to the place of your redemption, her most sacred sword—the Crucifixion at Calvary.

The Summer Jesus Met Me on My Knees.

I am sitting on a plane back to my home state, where the sun always shines, mosquitoes don’t bite, and the ocean is a short drive away.

As this plane lifted off the certain ground and into the unsteady atmosphere, the words from a song played in my ear by no uncertain coincidence: “I’ve got a heart overflowing because I’ve been restored.”

This truth echoed in the recesses of my newly transformed soul. And as the sunshine radiated in through the windows and onto my skin, I could not help but smile like a fool because I am so utterly in awe of who my Father is.

There is no reasonable explanation for why I spent my summer in a far-off state, with no connections, serving for Totus Tuus in a tiny diocese full of farms, cows, and an absurd number of mosquitoes. The only reason is this: the people were starving for Jesus and I was absolutely aching for newness.

By His Divine Providence, the Good Father brought me to this place. I poured myself out day in and day out I like I never have before. Each day was His—He anointed my hands, moved my feet, gave me His Heart to Love with and His eyes to see with. I started and ended each day on my knees in utter gratitude for the way His Grace was running through and ravishing my soul.

I met Him in the tiniest faces, the most broken hearts, the most holy and beautiful families, the witness of faithful marriage, the challenges of homesickness, the joys of service, the emptiness of a heart that has given itself. I met Him in the daily Eucharist, in the marvelous sunsets, in the miles of forest and lakes, in the laughter of genuine friendship, in the freedom of authentic joy.

Even more astounding though is the ways He met me.

He met me in the morning as I awoke and gave me the grace to get out of bed, in the tiny hands that clung to my own, in the giant smiles that greeted me each day, in the up-close encounters with lives characterized by real pain and suffering, in the willing hearts of the priests who became my Fathers, in the serving hands of the selfless people who helped us day in and day out. He met me in the middle of talks that seemed to be crumbling to pieces, in the classroom that became a sanctuary for His Love, in the middle of the playground when tiny feet ran up to me with hugs. He met me in the manger of innocence, the ministry of love, the Cross of compassion, and the tomb of rebirth.

I have always been told: The Lord provides. And while I have always thought I understood this beautiful sentiment, I came to understand it to be much more. It is a radical motto that was fulfilled in the very depths of my being when I could not move and He gave me the strength to take another step. He did not need to call me to mission, but He did—He did it for both of us.

He called the tiny ones to encounter His Love. He called the angsty and the confident, the lost and the seeking, the fervent and the lukewarm, the broken and the whole, to encounter Him through me.
He also called me. He called me to be restored through the innocent and purposeful love of His Littlest. He called me to be rid of fear through the childlike faith of His kiddos. He called me to be undone, outpoured, a self-gift. He did not promise that it would be easy, but He taught me how to love from the wooden Cross at Calvary and showed me what it really means to live for Him every single day—even when it seems impossible, unthinkable, absolutely insane.

As I sit here taking in the array of colors that fills the evening sky for me as I travel back home and on to the next adventure, I am wildly confident that I have no idea what He holds for me next—but for the first time in my life, I am unshakably certain that He is doing real work in me, molding me into who He calls me to be, and multiplying the fruit of it every moment that I breathe. I am filled with a wild sense that I am becoming someone—I am becoming myself—free, joyful, resurrected, renewed, restored, and abounding in gratitude.

I used to be afraid of what He would call me to, but now I know that I am entirely His and He will always, without fail, meet the desires of my heart—because that is what the Father does. When He tells you, “Behold I make all things new” and “I make beautiful things out of dust”, believe Him.

This summer was spent on my knees and I do not plan on standing up again because let’s face it—life is infinitely better with the One who created you in control and marvelously at work in the sanctuary of your heart.