In Which The Long Losted Returns

Hullo again at long last, ye kindreds very dear!

It is I, Emily—Of—The—Disappearing-Act… Oh, very very glad to be back, and having as Lizzie once said, “graduated from the Society—Of—Well—Kept—Eyes”!

You’ve no idea how lovely it is, truly😜 There’s nothing like a famine to make you rejoice in the prospect of feasts! And here… I am (: Back at last! 

Now… This isn’t particularly intended for a long post, just a “Return Of The Runaway Scribbler”, and to post a poem that once wrote itself… And wants to be posted now. 

Scribbles are wonderful, marvellous, splendiferous things, and funnest of all when they go with the wind and a bestie (;

But perhaps the most—humbling and inspiring sort… Are the ones that seem to write themselves, to come from beyond yourself. Have you ever had that happen? The kind where you look at it afterwards, and you can’t even take credit for the writing of it, because, as Emily Byrd Starr The-Original said it….

“Lovely thoughts came flying out to meet me like birds—They weren’t my thoughts, I couldn’t think anything half so lovely. They came from somewhere.”

That was the case with this poem. Ever since I was little, words have done things to me. They tickle until you simply must put them down, and tempt you with the turning of them, the weavery and splicing and fiddling of them…

An art to be joyed in. 

But the finest things…. Are written during the times when you sit back in sheer awe afterwards, and know that it was not you who wrote it. It was only written through you, not by at all.

It is… A humbling thing, to know yourself to be only an instrument. Only? Nay, not only. Broken, but beloved… Empty and useless on our own, yet perfectly directable in the Master’s hand. Useable. I think that’s the part that strikes me most! 

Even when we don’t see how. 

Can you imagine what the prophets must have felt, receiving divine revelation? Being given what would, thousands of years later, be true scripture, yet knowing in the moment only that it was God who gave it to them… To preach, yet not experience, to prophecy, but not to see… 

Now,in no way am I comparing this with scribbbles! Just a thought that struck me… 

Anyway. The piece aforementioned!

                               

Neither Ink Nor Author I,

Only an instrument in hand…

A vessel purpose driven, 

through the love that ever stands.

It is merely I who form the words,

Who sets them on the page.

They are not mine, but given me

Each word in His wisdom placed.

It is not I, yet I rejoice to be used,

Held in the Master’s guiding hand,

And in wonder, I see, word by word,

All the way… In the portrait emerging 

His fingerprints, 

and in awe and amazement 

I stand.

The ink, from the Spirit flowing.

Renewing in It’s power…

A strength and shelter freely gives, 

A hope for each new hour.

Neither ink nor author I, 

Only a pen in His hand…

But to be used by the Master

Brings true joy in the The Way,

And the Light of His love, 

Joy commands. 

Like the song says… Fill up my cup, let it overflow!

Wishing you all His joy today, and may you walk in the fullness of His grace…

May The Lord Bless You And Keep You Until You Meet Again.

—Emi K