Legacy

photography by Robert Evans You would think
the smell of death would
have the power to break down
unforgiveness and stubborn pride.

What I mean is
there might be a coming to terms
with stuff,
like slights and rifts and differing opinions
and even some bigger things,
when coming to terms with
endings.

Yet, the broken breaches
caused by words poorly spoken
are a series of little deaths
adding up to
mortal wounds -
irreconcilable differences.

And, being human,
we clutch tightly to what is ours -
fighting for
the last word,
the last breath,
and leave behind
a legacy of

… regret.

Lesley-Anne Evans
09/26/08

There is a Place

His family is broken, and his life torn apart
His Daddy left them for a woman and a new start.
And he’s only a boy, now he’s man of their home
Keeps a stiff upper lip when mom leaves him alone.

She sits in the chair, feet submerged in the tub
inviting wellness to come with wax, polish and scrub.
Then she books another appointment for the very next day,
tries to hang onto feelings that will soon fade away.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view.
It would be so easy to just look away
than to point them to Jesus, than to openly say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace,
written by the Great I am.…
You could point them to Jesus.

He’s working so hard that he’s missing the truth
that the dream that he’s chasing has stolen his youth.
He’s feeling the pull and he’s longing for more
He’s paying for a lifestyle he can barely afford.

Her husband can’t love her the way that she needs
and this man that she met is so easy to please.
So she picks up her phone, makes a questionable call
His voice drowns out another voice, gentle and small.

Just a bystander wondering what you can do
‘cause life and confusion is clouding their view
it would be so easy to just look away
Then a voice deep inside you compels you to say...

There is a place,
there is a plan,
there is a story of grace
written by the Great I am…
You lead them to Jesus.


Lesley-Anne Evans
2008
These words were written as song lyrics… the tune in my head still not put down onto paper.

You might like me

I long to share things with you
thoughts, feelings, my heart
Yet you choose to talk about the weather
and the son of a long forgotten friend

I’m part of you
I came out of you
Yet you deny the part of me
that I want to give back to you

So, I share in the superficial
join the chatter and fill the dead air
with lifeless words
inside me is me
unspoken, unrealized, unknown

I retreat to my room to my
pen and paper expose,
And wait for the airport farewell
my crocodile tears
the prolonged goodbye
to a cardboard cutout of someone
I want to know better
who smiled and said,
“not today thank you.”


Lesley-Anne Evans, Sept. 2007

Palm Sunday Meditations

Meditations on Palm Sunday, 2008

Over 2000 years ago you rode into the city that would be the death of you. You rode on a donkey, and people flocked to see you and lay down palm leaves and their clothes on the road in front of you. They called out to you with shouts of excitement for who they, in their narrow minds, thought you were -- deliverer from the oppression of the Roman rule, catalyst for a new power, a new age, a warrior prophet - one whose words promised a better way.

“Hosannah in the highest,” they cried out in a euphoria that passed in waves throughout the crowd. Did they wonder why their future King rode on a donkey? Did they question your lack of weapons or armour? Did they wonder what action you would take in the capital, who you would see, what you would say? Or were they merely curious about this one whom they heard had raised the dead?

And your closest followers - what were they thinking? You had given them fair warning on several occasions yet did they really fully understand that your journey to Jerusalem would be a one way trip? As the crowds screamed, did the disciples glance at one another with a hint of pride to be counted as one of your friends? Or did they get caught up in the party atmosphere and miss the look of intent on your holy face?

What gripped Peter’s heart that day? A warriors heart, was he preparing for a fight? And Judas, where was his heart as he walked beside his comrades? Was Satan working on him even then? Did he feel discomfort, embarrassment at the spectacle his teacher was creating? Did he lag just slightly behind the rest, distancing himself from direct eye contact with you?

Who was in that cheering crowd? How many of those whom you had touched with your healing hands, had received your life-changing words where there watching, celebrating, feeling a renewed and overwhelming thankfulness mixed with disbelief at what you had done for them?

Did the man with the once withered hand lay his coat on the road in front of you? Did the bleeding woman, fully healed, weep for joy? Did the demon-possessed, now spirit filled one, sing songs of freedom that day?

And then you passed by, and they watched your figure grow smaller in the distance, the sounds of rejoicing fading with you. What happened to them then? As they returned to their homes, their vocations, their families, what occurred in the hearts of so many who, only a few days later, would be part of another crowd of people screaming, ‘Crucify him, crucify him.”?

And I see in that fickle crowd a snapshot of myself. My heart full of adoration one day then sidetracked the next, allowing circumstances to dictate my feelings and overrule my heart for you. My intentions for service, love, relationship, grand and strong, and then slowly becoming complacent. And I , like Judas perhaps, avert my eyes in embarrassment and shame for who I am, for my lack, for my defeat and I drift even further from you as I choose to look inward rather than into your eyes.

I see me in that crowd - euphoric in worship on Sunday then discouraged in my real-life by Tuesday. How many of us experience our faith like that? Striving, trying, desiring, hoping, but with no staying power?

Fall on God’s grace, you say! Let go and let God! Surrender! Yield! And my heart cries, “Yes”, while my head asks, “How often”? How often must I revisit this place of surrender, of repentance, of crying out to God to rescue me from my self? How often?

It’s getting late on this Palm Sunday and I realize the nature of time and the need to make the best of it. And my responsibility therefore lies in choosing how to spend my limited time… both today and for the rest of my life, choosing You over and over again.

So right now, I choose again to stay close to you, to do my best, to learn the sound of your voice and obey it, to love my husband and my children faithfully and well, and to learn what it means to love my enemies, and to serve you with the gifts you have given me.

And when I fall or grow tired, complacent and ashamed, I will choose to come to you again and again and again - to get a fresh look into your eyes - to fall on your mercy and grace - and to call out “Hosannah to my King”.

Freedom

Sleep eludes me.
My spirit engulfed by guilt, grief and loss
I rise before dawn and walk to the garden alone,
seeking solace
seeking peace.

The garden is cool
and the sweet smell of jasmine hangs in the air,
I want to escape from the realities of day,
that You are dead
and our love dead with you.
The false loves of my old life haunt me.
What will happen to me now?

The events of the past week play out in my mind.
From joyous celebration to sudden death and I,
weak willed bystander, fair weather friend,
watched from the sidelines.
I fall to my knees, prayer-less, powerless, broken.

I feel a presence before I hear a sound.
Someone is standing close to me.
A gardener arriving before the heat of day?
“Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.
A moment’s silence, then a single word is spoken
...my name.

I look up in confusion.
Is this someone’s cruel trick or is this a ghost?
Yesterday he was unrecognizable, yet he stands
before me now without a mark on him.
There is no denying His voice.

Astonished, I rise to my feet
and look into the eyes of my beloved.
He touches my face with warm fingers
He smiles with understanding.
My heart breathes
as I enter his holy embrace.

And then, with the lightness of fresh knowledge and freedom
I turn, laughing with delight
and run to tell the others.

“At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. He asked her, "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." Jesus said to her, "Mary." She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (which means "Teacher"). - John 20:14-16

Prayer: Jesus, like Mary I am overwhelmed by your death on the cross. Sometimes I forget that you died to take away all of my sins, no exceptions. Help me to receive your Easter gift of total forgiveness. And help me to live in the grace-filled freedom that you promise me. Amen.

Altar

Over and over
I drag it up
and lay it down
only to pick it up again,
and here I am,
ashamed,
hooked in,
co-dependant.

Laying my Isaac down
sounds so noble,
honourable,
but with coals glowing hot
on the altar,
my greedy fingers reach out
to snatch back
the sacrifice.

I convince myself of
another way,
with another lamb,
'cause this one is virtually unblemished
and strangely precious.
Somehow larger than life.

And although I know a
higher
holier way
waits on the other side of the flames,
I choose to
trade redemption
for burn’t fingers
and slightly charred
remains.

Lesley-Anne Evans
Jan. 2009
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