I gave all I loved

"Did you know that a flower cut from it's life source withers?" December 2011

I know that you forgot.
You forgot I blotted out your transgressions
You forgot I stopped the curse from spreading,
You forgot I stemmed the shedding of your blood
and instead, shed that of myself, clothed in flesh.
You forgot I drank your iniquity like water
that I led my Son as a lamb to the slaughter
that I gave all I loved, to make you my daughter.

You forgot my pain and only saw it as your gain
to use your freedom in half-hearted struggles
and apathetic intentions. Bound by conventions
and the inventions of men, you forgot
my promises, your place, and my loyalty to you.

Your poverty and my royalty were exchanged
on that day, where I asked you to lay
your own crown of ashes aside
and to wear the crown of my flawless bride.
Did you forget?
You betray your allegiance to me in the words
that you don’t speak, in your conscious silence,
in sighs of discontent, in empty whispers.
Did you know a flower cut from its life-source withers?

You forgot that I don’t measure your obedience
or your diligence in fears and dreams,
in the unseen and seen.
I don’t measure your adherence to law
in words or in deeds, in fruit or in seed.
I don’t measure your penitence
with scales, or your negligence
in black marks and fails.

I measured it on that day, between nails
and innocence, between the harmless
hands of the one Hailed as King.
On that day when
pain lost its power and death lost its sting
on that day when the mourners could sing
and the flightless birds grew wings
and the lame and the cripples had spring
in their step,
and the your rebellion was intercepted
and your unrighteousness was swept
from my presence.
This is love, the core of my essence.

But you forgot how to love. You forgot
how to limitlessly give, and simply live
you forgot how to seek justice for the poor
you forgot how to give but just stored
wealth for yourself.
You forgot how to bless your enemies
and pray with surrender on your knees
You forgot I carry your burdens with ease
and that I do not change if you disagree.

You forgot why you were made to live in the light
You’ve crept towards the shadows of night
because you
forgot the power and strength of the Spirit
and you tried and strived in your own merit.
You forgot the beauty of my grace without walls
or the majesty of my mercy without laws
so you thought you were in control
and that life was your own to worship.
You didn’t call on my name and your shame
overcame you. But not me.

You forget the present, resenting that you
You live in the past, forgetting every fresh
start I give you and every lesson I teach you.
I beseech you, reach back to me.
The I AM, who will always BE.
For now

I am not asking you to change
But I am asking you to remember.

Mercy

-An imaginary letter to a real girl.South Sudan, 2011

To a uniquely beautiful girl, who taught me so many things in a very short time,

Our lives are so different, more different than I think you will ever be able to realise. For the majority of my 21 years of living, my life has been comfortable, for your 11 years I think the opposite is the case. I know my own name, and you are unsure of yours. I know what it is to feel safe, but I think your view of being safe is from the inside of a cardboard box, or eating rotten vegetables on the side of a dirty road.I am well fed and healthy, and up until a few weeks ago you were malnourished and slowly dying.

I am from a country that claims to care and provide for its people but you are from the newest country on earth, but its a country still gripped in oppression and corruption, stained by years of war and genocide. Your country, Southern Sudan, is like a seed struggling to grow in its own soil, but there are things in the soil that are poisoning its roots. Everyone rejoiced at the planting of the seed, it promised so much, it looked like the fruit from its branches would feed its people. But it is being suffocated by outsiders thinking they know best and insiders betraying each other. Everyone is trying to hard to preserve that precious seed, and to see a bright green shoot emerge from the dust. I can see it in people’s eyes in the streets-a desperation that longs to see the shoot burst forth soon, soon, soon. Your brothers think ethnic war will cause the soil to dry up, your sisters remain hopeful of growth. In my country the seed has deep roots that haven’t always grown in clean soil, it has often been suffocated by insiders thinking they know best and outsiders being ignored. My country is mostly healthy, in comparison to yours, but I still refuse to eat some of its fruit. You will learn throughout your life, sweet Mercy, that to be different is a very good thing.

Our bodies are different from each other. You are short I am tall. You are dark, darker than most of your friends, I am fair, fairer than most of my friends. My arms are both the same length but your left arm is shorter than your right arm. They say your arm was broken and not fixed so the bone just fused together. Your small beautiful body is covered in scars, and there is a scar that I don’t like to look at that covers the part of your chest where your heart is. Your leg is covered in wounds where people have beaten you, and in fact one of the 4 words you know, and say again and again is “Tso!”-Stick, in Juba-Arabic. My legs run fast for fun, your legs run fast because they have had to.

They found you on the streets and the market ladies said you were crazy. The market vendors probably told the Aunties not to bother with you. But the Aunties did, and with their own Rescuer guiding them, they saved you from those streets. They think you are “autistic”, which is a label in our country for people who are different, or people who have minds that are gifted to think in a certain way. You hold your neck when you speak, and my Mum who used to be a speech-therapist, later explained to me, that its probably because it comforts you to feel your own voice vibrating against your fingers. You love to touch things. We loved drawing together, but you preferred to watch me draw, while you touched the crayons. You lined them up depending on how smooth or pointy their tips were. The only colours you wanted to draw with were white and purple, but the white didn’t show up on the paper, and it made us both laugh, but you still drew and drew with white.

Somehow our minds work the same way. I only like to speak when I want to, and I am thoughtful like you. Our thoughts don’t always make sense to the world around us, and we are often misunderstood. We both love colour and shapes and could be quite content with sitting on a mat arranging nuts into patterns for hours, or sifting dusty sand through our fingers. We find it difficult to communicate what we are truly thinking alot of the time, but now, we have people around us who want to understand us.

You as an 11-year old girl know that your imagination is powerful, you are reminded all the time by your new family, that you are an anomaly because of the way your mind works. I have only just learnt, at 21, that having a mind that works differently is a good thing. It is Mercy, I promise. You will learn this. Your imagination has probably been useful growing up on the streets, you have probably created own worlds inside your head, worlds of unselfish love and kindness, worlds where you can truly be yourself, and you aren’t treated with injustice, and where pain doesn’t exist. I used to create those worlds as a child, but God has taught me as an adult that there is a place where those dreams are a reality, and He is the only one who can get us there, we can’t get there on our own.

You call everyone around you “Mama, Mama”-its your second out of four words. I think its because your own Mama left you as soon as she saw you were different to other children. You love eating in your new safe place, because food was witheld from you for so much of your life. Let me explain something to you, my darling friend. I have never had nothing to eat,I have never been cursed by a witch-doctor, I have never been hit out of anger, I have never been raped, and watching you makes me somehow hate. It makes me hate those who have hurt you, and hate myself for having everything that you have never had, or having things you once had but had taken from you. Why you and not me? Or why me and not you?

I love watching you eat because you enjoy each mouthful, you have known what it is to be starving. You challenge me to enjoy each mouthful of food before me, infact you challenge me in so many ways. I love watching you dance because your shorter-arm bounces around and your legs cant walk in a straight line but you don’t care what other people think. I love that though you have been hurt so much, you can still dance. I love having hugs from you, you saw me each morning, cried “Mama!” and shuffle-reversed into me and wrapped your arms around my waist, it was the clumsiest hug in the world but it was best start to each day. I could hear you speak your four word vocabulary over and over again and still smile as if I was suprised with you when you point and say “What?” in your language, at something every ten minutes. I try and explain what it is to you that you point and you listen well but you don’t understand, this makes us laugh too. You have the most incredible mischievous smile and your laugh makes me laugh, and my laugh makes you laugh.

I was born into a family that loves me and a society that protects me. I was taught that we are weak but God is strong, and Jesus longs for us to know Him because he doesn’t want us to die all alone. But I think you, Mercy, were conceived in sin, deceit and shame. You have been taught to be strong because others are weak, and God doesn’t care. You probably don’t fully know who Jesus is yet, but somehow, He was next to you, when you felt alone, He never wants to you be alone again, He was even there when the aunties rescued you a few weeks ago. Because of how people have treated you in your short-life you may think that you are valueless, but you are the most valuable thing in the world.

I knew you for one week. Seven days. I know it was God’s plan that we met, I just know it. You taught me more than many people have taught me in my whole life. One day, I hope to see you in that place where your most hopeful imaginings are a truthful reality, ruled over by a perfect God. Yes it does exist-trust me.

Thank you for everything you gave me.

Do Not Awaken Love

Acoustic version of new song based on Song of Songs verse ' Do Not Awaken Love until it so desires.'

Acoustic version of new song based on Song of Songs verse ’ Do Not Awaken Love until it so desires.’

I am joined by two friends from church on beatbox and violin. This track is the title track of the new EP just launched on iTunes this week.

www.alicewatts.co.uk

YOU ARE SPECIAL by Max Lucado

A story to make you cry when you consider how God loves and values you

Below is a VERY powerful kids story that I regularly read Jacob that makes we want to cry most times I read it. Potentially you could read this at the end of your MG. It was written by Max Lucado and there is a fantastic picture book that goes with it. I was hoping to read it out on Sunday but ran out of time. Let me know what you think of it

YOU ARE SPECIAL by Max Lucado

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village. Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village. And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.  Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another star. Others, though, could do little. They got dots.

Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots. After a while he had so many dots that he didn’t want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason. “He deserves lots of dots,” the wooden people would agree with one another. “He’s not a good wooden person.”  After a while Punchinello believed them. “I’m not a good Wemmick,” he would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.

One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he’d ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lucia. It wasn’t that people didn’t try to give her stickers; it’s just that the stickers didn’t stick. Some admired Lucia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn’t stay either. ‘That’s the way I want to be,‘thought Punchinello. ‘I don’t want anyone’s marks.’ So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it. “It’s easy,” Lucia replied. “every day I go see Eli.”
“Eli?” “Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him.” “Why?” “Why don’t you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He’s there.” And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away. “But he won’t want to see me!” Punchinello cried out. Lucia didn’t hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots. “It’s not right,” he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.

He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard. “I’m not staying here!” and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name. “Punchinello?” The voice was deep and strong. Punchinello stopped. “Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you.” Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman. “You know my name?” the little Wemmick asked.  “Of course I do. I made you.” Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench. “Hmm,” the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles. “Looks like you’ve been given some bad marks.” “I didn’t mean to, Eli. I really tried hard.” “Oh, you don’t have to defend yourself to me, child. I don’t care what the other Wemmicks think.” “You don’t?” No, and you shouldn’t either. Who are they to give stars or dots? They’re Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn’t matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special.” Punchinello laughed. “Me, special? Why? I can’t walk fast. I can’t jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?”

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. “Because you’re mine. That’s why you matter to me.” Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this—much less his maker. He didn’t know what to say. “Every day I’ve been hoping you’d come,” Eli explained. “I came because I met someone who had no marks.” “I know. She told me about you.” “Why don’t the stickers stay on her?” “Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them.”  “What?” “The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers.” “I’m not sure I understand.” “You will, but it will take time. You’ve got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care.” Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground. “Remember,” Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. “You are special because I made you. And I don’t make mistakes.” Punchinello didn’t stop, but in his heart he thought, “I think he really means it.” And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

Our King

Who would dare to welcome us in?

It’s been a little while since I’ve posted here but anyways I was inspired to write this after a prayer meeting in Holbeck this morning. I originally wrote this with a mixture of singular and plural first person but I felt doing it all in the plural was a better reflection.

There is no-one like our King
Who would dare to welcome us in?
We’ve wondered in a pitiful mess
Brought to a place to confess
For in our hearts we were lost
Until You paid the ultimate cost
You sent Your Son, to us You gave
Now He has torn up the grave
Raised up to the most high place
We are astounded by Your boundless grace
‘Cause one cannot same themselves
Astonished by how deep Your love delves
For this we can shout “Come and see
My Lord, my God, my Saviour has rescued me!”

A Blood Drenched Cross

Re-focus your vision

Thrashing winds cutting and spiralling around
Fear-filled air comes bearing down
I walk in Your stead as You lead me by hand
Through the valley of the shadow of death
‘Cause it was for the sake of love that
You came down to the deepest depths
Following His footsteps on this narrow path
Past the bedrock of the derelict hill
I collapse to my knees in a weeping mess
A wail protrudes from my lips in utter distress
As I look heavenward, raising my eyes
From the very foot of the blood drenched cross
You see maybe I’ll die today, maybe I won’t
Maybe I’ll live a full amount of days
But I can feel the clock slowing
As my every breath escapes me
There You are, on the doorstep waiting
But just how long will You wait for me?
From my high throne, my shattered crown
Until it all comes crashing down?
Now I have walked away from it all
Though I cannot speak it now, I am too proud
For without I would not even be able to begin to cope
But it is in His resurrected life I place my hope

The Only Place

A simple song about how good and praiseworthy God is...

Obviously the recording is all very (ahem, very) rough and ready BUT please do let me know what you think, especially open for suggestions about the lyrics - I’m still not sure if the rhymes are just too blatant and cheesy.

At your feet is the only place that
I find mercy I find grace
In your love is the only place that
I find strength to run this race

There’s no other I can run to
with my troubles with my strife
There’s no other whose almighty hands
are holding my whole life

Lord you’re the only one the only one
Who’s praise-worthy
Boundless your love boundless your power
Yours is all authority

Forgive us Lord when we run to places other than your feet

Found

Originally by Hillsongs, recorded at the Albans's wedding, beau song of truth that I really connected with and thought I'd share

Lyrics:
Amazing love, now what else shall I need
Your name brings life, it’s more than the air I breathe

My world was changed, when Your life You gave for me
My purpose found and all that You want for me

And I’ve found myself in You, Jesus
And I’ve found myself in You.

So take me to a place where I can see You face to face
and all I wanna do, yeh all I wanna do is worship You

Learning

A simple song about being a disciple - constructive criticism very very welcome

When everything crumbles in my surroundings
That’s when I know to you I must cling

I’m learning You are faithful
I’m learning You are true
I’m learning You are worthy of the praise we bring to You (we bring to you)

(I’m learning You will catch me when I fall)

When I can’t see forests for all the trees
You whisper reminders of Your love for me

We’re learning…