Home Is.

We are a fragile flock,
we specks of life,
and our hearts scatter, 
skittish, 
at first doubt.
And we're easily drawn aside,
from His side,
when greener grass and tales of treasure
catch our attention.
And we're stubborn and shallow and sensitive---
a fragile flock---
but deep in our souls,
we do feel.
We feel so much
and yearn and long and hope.
We yearn for home;
we can't enjoy the day
not knowing where we'll lay our heads at night.
Take away our familiar place,
and you pull the ground from beneath our feet.
We lose our footing and fall on our backs
and find ourselves staring at the sky.
We need a solid place,
we fragile flock;
Without a home
we scarce know who we are.
And so we wonder, dazed and scared and lost,
"If I don't have a place, then who am I?"
We don't want to be pilgrims.
Not us.
We want to be lords.
We want a place,
a safe place;
we want a home.
Our only constant sights are the cotton in the day sky
and the twinkles in the night
and the Shepherd whom we follow.
His face, his staff, his feet.
"Lift up your eyes!"
He always tells me
when I grumble about leaving home again,
how that home will never be my home again,
but how the next place won't be like home now,
so
WHERE IS MY HOME.
"Lift up your eyes," He says,
and so I do.
I see the heavens and I heave a sigh.
I know my home is heaven;
it sounds nice.
But I am just a speck in a fragile flock;
I need some sort of home
here on this earth!
I need some sort of home
before I die!
"My lamb, you have a home here;
lift your eyes!"
And so I lift my eyes
and I look higher,
much higher than the sky,
and I see Him.

~Cheríe

Healing Waters

It's now been years that Kelsia and I have been writing Healing Waters. We've grown in writing together and collected memory after memory, from snail-mailing the story back and forth to sitting in a coffee shop for hours editing our story together. I don't think we'd take back any of it (except for maybe the one coffee shop moment when we somehow lost the results of the past few hours of our work).
  What has been so special to me is getting a chance to write a story along with my dear cousin and friend Kelsia, a talented writer and loving heart. And then there is the chance we had to delve into the story at the Pool of Bethesda two thousand years ago. (Really, to write about something, you have to delve.) We did research. We got to explore, with our imagination, the streets of Jerusalem in Jesus' time. We created characters we got to know and love, and probably my favorite is a little boy named Kaleb. He would run up and down those streets in Jerusalem looking for adventure. Everyone he met was his friend; he didn't know the meaning of the word "stranger." When he discovered the Pool of Bethesda, where crowds of sick people waited for a chance to be healed, he made friends with Zephi, a cripple. Their stories interwoven are what make up part of Healing Waters.
  When I read our story, I see it through Kaleb's eyes. Funny how a character who doesn't even exist becomes a part of your heart ...
 
  Can this be true? Can I really be in Israel?
  It is April 2012, and I find myself standing in the famous city I've only read about in the bible and wrote about in our book.
  The book ... it's been finished, and sometimes forgotten as it sits in some publisher's office while they decide its fate.
  It's been a wonderful time here in Israel--indescribable. Beyond words. Better than imagined. I could spend hours telling you of the places we've been already.
  I am in Jerusalem.
  One place I have been waiting to visit is--you guessed it--the Pool of Bethesda. I could hardly bear it if we came to Israel but missed this place! Here in Jerusalem is where the site of the Pool lies.
  The day has finally come ... we get a chance to visit the place where, thousands of years ago, such an amazing story took place ... Jesus ... coming to the Pool of Bethesda ... meeting the lame man, the man my cousin and I named Zephi ...
  I look down at my feet as I walk down the street. I'm following our little group as we make our way through the city trying to find the place of the Pool. There are people all around us, voices, foreign dialects ... I smile. Beautiful.
  I look up just in time to see a little Israeli boy dash ahead of me, through our little group, and out of sight.
  He's Kaleb's age. He looks like Kaleb. 
  I smile again at the absurdity of this little boy reminding me of one who doesn't exist.
  Suddenly we find the place of the Pool. Through a gate, past a railing, and you're there.
  How changed it is. I can hardly picture how it would have been. Remains of little mikvehs, remains of two larger pools, remains of a Byzantine church built beside it in later years. It only makes it more mysterious, more elusive, more special ... that I will never see how it was in those days, but that I am standing right where it happened.
  Chills run down my spine.
  Jesus.
  Here.
  "Do you want to be made well?"
  "Zephi" the cripple must have scarcely been able to believe those words. What kind of a question is that? I have been lame for thirty-eight years! What could I want more than to be made well?
  Why would Jesus ask that question? I've never thought about it before ... it's like asking a starving man if he wants a hot meal. Is it a joke? Are you trying to be funny? How can it be this easy?
  Why would Jesus ask that question?
  Zephi's faith. It was about his faith.
  How surreal; it's like someone asking you if you want what you've always wanted but never believed you would have, but Jesus asked it like He was holding it out right there in front of you. Not "Would you want this," but "Do you want this?"
  No, really ... do you want to be made well? Here! Take this gift! I'm holding it out to you!
  The only way it can be received is to reach out and take it--grasp the impossible.
  What a beautiful story.
  Here, where I'm standing.
  It's a special time for me. After a while, though, our time is up. We follow the railing and exit through the gate, back out into the Jerusalem streets. I look to the street on my right.
  A lame man. An old lame man, sitting on the street, clutching his cane.
  My heart stops.
  Zephi.
  I can hardly tear my eyes from him as I walk past. When I finally look forward, I realize I've stopped and everyone else is ahead of me. And so I pick up my pace, trying to catch up.
  I steal one more glance back at the old man.
  And suddenly there beside him on the street is a little boy. The same little boy I'd seen right before the Pool is sitting down with the crippled man, and the picture they make stops me in my tracks again and goes straight to my heart.
  It's like a smile from God, a reminder of the beautiful story ...
  ... and I'm reminded of how convinced I am that He wants us to tell this story.
 

Healing Waters

Hi everyone! Kelsia and Cherie here.
  For those of you who don't know, we've been working on writing a book for the past few years. Today we finally sent our manuscript in to a publishing company, so if you think about it, you can pray that if it's supposed to be published, God would work it out.
  So what's this story about?
  Well, the title is Healing Waters. Interwoven throughout the book are the story of Quinn, a young man who gave up hope when paralyzed in a motorcycle accident, and the Bible-times story of Zephi, an old crippled beggar who waits daily at the Pool of Bethesda for a chance to reach the waters that would heal him. Both are seeking healing waters, and the journey to find it may bring things they never expected.
  So, what does it take to break a man?
  What does it take to heal a man?
  Wait and read our book to find out!

Crazy Love

Written by Kelsia,
Video by Cherie

The Ballroom

by Cheríe

It's a waltz for the elegant
and refined.
The ballroom is alive tonight
with colorful hoop skirts swishing in every direction and
glasses clinking.
White-gloved hands extend gracefully for a
polite kiss.
Feet are moving everywhere, from the
practiced steps of the dancers
to the elderly gentleman tapping his
toes to the music
to the
slippers of the child hiding
under the table.
Music sets the evening's tempo
and mood: happy and exciting. The
orchestra in the corner sways as the musicians
play . . .
violin, viola, cello and a big double bass
blending into a symphony.
Old maids beside the punch table
gossip of engagements and scandals.
Painted young ladies are falling
in love with dashing young men
or rolling their eyes at their friends as a
clumsy oaf steps on their toes, or
fanning themselves by the wall and wishing they would be
asked to dance.
In the far, dark corner,
the negro girl in
a maid's outfit
stands still, holding a tray of goblets.
Her feet ache,
but she is
twirling inside.

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The Thunderstorm

by Cheríe

The thunderstorm
is rising far away,
and the far-away is getting CLOSER.
I can even smell the storm now,
so I am certain it is real.
The idea of a thunderstorm is a frightening one. Exciting.
Things have been the same for so long . . .
Safe. But dry. Very dry and unchanging.
My world is steady, but not growing.
I'm standing outside, trying to remember what a thunderstorm
is like.
I've only seen one or two. Small. Years ago.
But this one is different. I sense it in the restless wind. This storm will be vast and powerful, leaving nothing unchanged.
I survey the landscape around me. There is my house, the small cottage in which I've always lived. In the back is my garden. It's having trouble growing, but I'm not even sure I like vegetables.
There are worn dirt paths, here and there,
telling the stories of the few places I have walked.
And there stand my beloved trees. Surrounding my house is a little forest of them, and my favorite ones are scattered closely in the yard.
What would a storm do to them? To everything?
In my mind, I can see the wild wind tearing off branches and floods of water washing trees completely away. Washing away everything I can't hold on to.
Washing away me . . . !
If this thunderstorm comes, my world will never be the same again. The life I've always known will change. The landscape will be entirely different.
I dread the storm. Stay away.
But . . . it compels me . . . rolling in the distance. It will snatch away normal life, but what if it brings something better? It will wash away the dust and change everything. It will change me, too.
My heart is pounding. How long before the storm comes?
Will it come? If it passes, I will have missed something. I will have missed the power and excitement of watching it wreak havoc in my dilapidated life.
With a shudder, I realize that I can suddenly feel the chill of rain on my skin, the wind nearly blowing me over where I stand.
The thunderstorm is coming.
The thunderstorm is change,
and I think I want it.


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Blue

by Cheríe

"Can you believe in Me?"
He asks,
From somewhere above those dark clouds . . .
From somewhere deep inside my heart.
I keep looking at the clouds:
"I can't see any blue, Abba.
How do I know it's there?
How do I know You are there?"
My Abba looks down on me with love bigger than the sky.
"Do you wish to believe because you can see Me right before you?
Or because you love me enough to be faithful while you can't see?
The ones who have not yet seen . . . and still believe . . . are very blessed indeed."
"I know,"
I whisper,
"But I feel as though I must see You all the time."
"Yes, you do,"
He replies.
"I created you that way."
I say nothing, and He waits.
After a brief silence, my Abba
Pulls back the grey clouds, and the beautiful blue is revealed!
"It's there after all!" I cry, raising my hands to Him.
The blue sky lifts my heart.
"Now," continues my gentle Father,
"When the blue sky vanishes from your sight,
And hides behind the grey,
Will you still know it's there? Will you still believe?"
I hesitate again.
"Yes," I decide.
And the grey clouds cover the blue once again.
"Do the same for Me, child. Believe in Me
Even when you can't hear or see Me. If your faith is in Me,
Nothing can upset it. BELIEVE IN ME UNTIL YOU CAN SEE ME."
"I believe," I say, the words coming from my heart.
I'm looking up at the sky, and the grey is still there. But my Abba is with me. My Abba loves me!
I close my eyes.
And I see blue.

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Vision

by Cheríe

I see this picture of the world as a large group of people crammed onto a cruise ship. They laugh and party and enjoy the rocking of waves and the thrill of the high sea. They are in their own world, caring of nothing but pleasure and enjoyment.
  What they don't realize is that the ship is sinking. Slowly and imperceptibly, but sinking. They have cast their anchor into the bottom of the ship and water is slowly trickling in. No one sees what will happen.
  Far away, miles back on the safety of the shore, there are other people, some waving and calling for attention. They try to communicate the disaster that is coming. They know. They beg the people on the ship to swim to shore before the ship sails far away, out of sight of the shore, and sinks into the abyss.
But the ship-dwellers, they ignore the forms on land that are calling them. Some laugh and make fun. But most of them do not even listen.
  Once in awhile, a ship-dweller makes his way slowly to the edge of the ship, longing to be free ... to be safe. They know that safety lies in the choice they make.
  But then, they look down into the deep murky waters and it frightens them. They shy away, thinking that they couldn't possibly do something so daring as to leave the boat. They realize that freedom would mean to first jump in the water and swim to shore. They do not take the plunge.
  They cannot.
  I don't know why I keep thinking of this picture. It pains me. It pains me because I am dwelling on the shore in safety. I have jumped from the ship already, making the hardest but most important and fulfilling decision of my life.
  My heart throbs for the people on the ship. I can faintly hear their laughing voices and the sounds of a wild party.
  But I cannot reach them! For the life of me, it seems. I call softly from the sand, nervously ... afraid to shout. If I am too loud, I will disturb someone. I will stick out like a sore thumb and sound like a lunatic. But if I am silent, what will happen to the people on the ship?
  I stop and look around me at the people beside me on the shore. I see differences everywhere I look.
Some people squat in the sand, building little temporary sand castles. They labor in vain. Don't they know that as soon as they look away, a wave will come and destroy the puny little sand castle? They act like the people on the ship.
  Behind me, some people sit in groups with picnic baskets. I watch as one person from each group stands and draws a large circle around his or her group. Anyone who steps inside the circle with their little clique is scolded or ignored.
  They are saved. Should they not be trying to help others? Yes. They should be doing more.
  But then I turn, look to my right and gulp as my self-righteousness fades away into guilt. There stands a small handful of sincere men and women. I watch closely.
  They are waving. Frantically and recklessly they are waving. Some are crying out as loud as they can. They stand out, that is for sure. But they are not afraid to stand out. They are only concerned about reaching the people who are headed for a certain destruction. They care only about getting the attention of the ship-dwellers.
I look closer. Can it be tears on their faces? Yes, I decide. It is tears, streaming freely down their cheeks. And I wonder ... how you could care that much for someone that you don't even know? Someone that does not listen to you?
  Inside I desire to help them in this. I feel a pressing weight on my shoulders, calling me to help. I want to! I promise that I do. But I am stuck. Wedged between different groups of people. On my own.
I am too afraid to shout with the people on my right. But I can't possibly join the uncaring people on my left. They are too proud. They care only of themselves.
  What shall I do?
  I stand back, my feet in the warm sand, shading my eyes against the bright sun. I begin to survey everything.
And then I realize: This will not work! The ship is sailing farther and farther away. What can we do? There is no way the ship-dwellers will hear us now. We are only people. Our voices will not carry that far.
The ship is now growing smaller and smaller, blending in with the horizon.
  We need help. Someone. Something.
  But then, I see something else. Something that draws my attention quickly.
  A small, gentle-looking man is climbing quietly into a lifeboat tied to the dock. This man has a look of compassion and determination on his face.
  "I will help," He says. There is no arrogance or condemnation in His voice, only gentleness. Then He smiles and shakes His head."Did you really think you could do this without Me?"
His eyes are on everyone, but I feel that He is talking only to me. I walk closer and I recognize His face. I know who He is! He is Jesus. He is the whole reason that I stand in safety on this island with all I'll ever need!
Suddenly I know what I have to do. Numbly, almost without knowing, I step forward and climb into the boat with a few other people.
  How foolish, I realize. How absolutely foolish I am to think that I could save souls without the assistance of my Saviour. I am only a messenger for Him! He only can save, because He has already given up His life for everyone.
We sit in silence as the Master grabs the oars and rows confidently out to sea. He is strong, I think. So strong, and yet so gentle. The people beside me in the boat are silent as well, content only to enjoy the presence of the Master.
  Ah, yes. That will get us somewhere.
Before I know it, we pull up beside the noisy ship that towers over us. Our rescue boat bobs up and down on the merciless waves. Saltwater sprays my face.
My heart beats faster. I remember now how afraid I am of the water.
  "But I have Jesus with me!" I whisper to myself."He is rowing the boat!"
Indeed, this gentle man I have grown to love. But still I am afraid. Afraid of stepping out. Of the unknown.
We both see the many people milling about on the deck, rocking in one slow motion. So many ... so many!
Jesus nods sadly, his strong hands gripping the oars."Yes, My child,” He replies, reading my thoughts. “And so very few will come with us.”
  “And what of the ones that don’t?”

  “We come again.” He looks ahead. “Again and again and again. We won’t give up just because we’re rejected.”
Jesus looks straight at me."Child," He says, all authority in His voice,"call up to them now. Call loudly and tell them ... tell them that their salvation is at hand. We will take them safely to shore." He smiles and reaches over, grasping my shoulder."I ask you to proclaim this, dear one. I ask you to lift your voice for the lost souls."
 I freeze where I am.
  Jesus is not forcing me to do this thing. He is asking. I have a choice.
   But at this moment, I don't know what to do. A huge, monstrous fear looms up in front of me. Why am I afraid? This is childish and absurd. There is no reason to be afraid.
  But what if they laugh at me? What if they think I'm crazy? What about my reputation?
  I sit there, weighing things over in my mind, gripped with fear.
  My vision ends here.

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