June 27, 2014


Janelle Spiers

The water ripples silently
Like all my thoughts combined,
I listen for the creak of oars;
Such sound I cannot find.

You’ve been away too long, My Love,
Why must you go so far?
My heart has never been my own,
For it goes where you are.

Come home to me and stay awhile,
Come bring me back my heart.
The water calls, it beckons you,
But the sea tears us apart.

I watch the wind raise up a storm,
And hope that you are well.
The gales are fast and blowing strong,
Sail home on swifter swell.

You’ve been away too long, Brave Heart,
When will you come this way?
My eyes watch ever searchingly,
In dark of night and day.

The sun reflects my straying heart;
Travelling the ocean wide.
I wait for you, and think of you,
Sail home on the next tide.

Come home to me and stay awhile,
Come bring me back my heart.
The water calls, it beckons you,
But the sea tears us apart.

June 26, 2014

Adventures In Our Path

Adventures In Our Path
Janelle Spiers

" “I don’t like anything here at all.” said Frodo, “step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid.”

“Yes, that’s so,” said Sam, “And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo, adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on, and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same; like old Mr Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?”

“I wonder,” said Frodo, “But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.”  "

― J.R.R. TolkienThe Lord of the Rings

I couldn't agree more with the two brave hobbits.  They were in an adventure that none could have told them about before they started, and they hardly looked for it, either.  Is it possible that adventure comes to you, and not you to it?

But Frodo's line at the end, caught my attention.  I applied it to any tale that I am fond of, and found that it is true.

" 'And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.”  "

What's your favorite (you can have more than one favorite) story, that you saw the end coming, you knew what would happen, and all along, you wished and wished and wished for it to come true, but you never want the character to know what's coming?  What would it change, if the heroin knew ahead of time she would marry the hero?  What would change if the villain knew he would die after years and years of wasted toil?  Would the characters have as much incentive to do good deeds, if they knew they wouldn't live to the end of the book?

Maybe that is what God does for us.  He knows the end, He's already written the last word, but He doesn't want us to know.  If we knew, why would we go on the adventures in our path?  We would already know if they would fail or succeed.  

I think that He doesn't tell us why something happens, or when something will happen for our own good. He plans to keep us on our toes, to keep us ready to see what's going to come on the next page.  I think I like it better that way; it makes all of life seem like an adventure.

June 24, 2014

The Walled Garden

The Walled Garden
Janelle Spiers

I opened my eyes.  Swirling mist and vapors danced around my ankles, sending tendrils of their smoke to caress my fingers as they hung limp by my sides.  The Man was still there. 
            The Man stood a little ways off, enveloped in a twisting net of fog.  He beckoned me with his hand.  He beckoned me, and I moved towards him.
            My feet moved slowly, heavy weights trying to keep me from him, and so I fought harder.  Doubt placed a hand on my head and ran his fingers through my hair, whispering like the mist, “This is a trap.  Flee from that Man.” But I pushed on harder.  My heart felt the lightest of all, and it flickered a pale, yet determined hope within me. 
            The Man turned and walked further into the cloud.  I followed faster, struggling to keep up, to stay in sight of his broad back.  I didn’t want to be left behind in the mist...
            Moments seemed like hours, seconds felt like centuries as I wrestled with my sluggish feet.  But all of my labors were fruitful as I stepped out of the mist, and onto soft grass.  The silver blades of plant-life beneath my feet felt cold, as if they were thawing from a winter of frozen sleep.  I noticed that my feet were bare, but hadn’t my shoes been on moments before?  I turned and saw them behind me, nearly hidden by the haze of mist.  I stooped to reclaim them, but a rich voice rang out in the silence.  “Stop, take off your sandals, for this on which we stand is hallowed ground.”
            The Man was before me with a thick iron key in his hand.  His feet too, were bare.  I thought no more of my shoes, but stepped forward with a swift stride.  I was no longer encumbered by the clouds, and so I pressed ahead, with an eager palpitation of my heart.
            I saw now that the Man stood before a wall of stone.  A door materialized in the wall, for the world was still filled with a thin haze of fog through which I could not see.  As I reached the Man, he smiled, and extended the key to me.  “Take, and open the door.”  He said.  His voice was like a song, and its notes lingered in the quiet.  I took the key and unlocked the door.  But as I reached for the handle, I felt afraid.
            “Courage, Dear One,” the Man said gently as he placed a hand on my shoulder.  “Fear not, for I am with you.”  The door slid open with a flash of beaming light, and I stepped forward, through the door. 
            The air was warmer, and the mist was nearly gone.  I was in a garden.  The walls were covered in green vines, clutching to the wall with such strength, they looked as if they were melded to the wall.
            The Man moved towards the first of the many flowerbeds. “Are you ready to see why I have brought you here?”  He took a dark stalk and pulled it up out of the earth.  There were no roots, only a dry, crumbling clod of soil, encrusted around a small sphere. “Take it,” the Man said, handing me the orb.
            I dared to speak.  “What is it?”
            “It is a heart,” he said, brushing away the dirt.  “And I want you to see inside.”  There was a flash of light, and the globe fell open like a puppet with a broken string.  The heart was dirty inside and very dry. 
            “How can a plant flourish when it is so thirsty?” I asked.
            “It can not.” The Man said sadly.  “It must be bathed in holy light, and washed in living water, so that it may be clean...and prosperous.”
            A gentle breeze blew, and the heart crumbled.  Dust and ashes were whisked away into the air, and my hands were left empty.  Suddenly, the Man placed a new heart in my hands.
            This time, as it fell open, it was moist, but with red blood.  Scars and cuts had torn away the lining of the heart, and it was worn so thin, that nearly none was left to keep it from breaking altogether. 
            “How can a plant flourish when it is filled with such pain?” I asked.
            “It can not.”  The Man said as a tear ran down his face.  “Its wounds must be bound, and the scars must heal, so that it will not grow thin and break, but will be healed and comforted.”
            A light rain fell, and the heart washed away.  Blood, sweat and tears, melted away, and my hands were empty.  But the Man placed a new heart in my hands.
            This heart did not open like the others, it was heavy and solid.  It would not break, even at the Man’s gentle touch.
            “How can a plant flourish when it is so burdened?”  I asked.
            “It can not.” The man said with a sigh.  “It must be broken, so that it may feel again.”
            A bolt of lightning struck the heart, and it broke into a million pieces, falling away at my feet.  Again, my hands were empty.  But the Man placed a new heart in my hands.
            This heart was green and tender.  It opened slowly and gently, like a caress.  It was green inside and it made tears run down my cheeks; it was so beautiful.
            “Surely, this plant can live and prosper because it is so alive?”  I asked.
            “It can.” The Man said gently.  “But it must be tended and nurtured, because it is so young.”
            This heart he took from me himself and placed another in its stead.  This heart was the most beautiful I had seen.  It was filled with light and color, beauty and grace, and love. 
            “This plant is one that need not fear the winter, it does not doubt its gardener, and verily, it is the loveliest.” I said.
            “This is the heart I desire all to have,” The Man said.  “For only by a heart filled with love, filled with grace, filled with light and beauty, only then can a heart be prosperous and bountiful to its final days.”
            “Please sir,” I asked as he took the heart from me, “What does my heart look like?”
            The Man’s eyes were sad as he looked at me. “Do you truly desire to see your heart?”
            He plucked another plant, a plant without flowers, and a plant with few leaves.  He handed me the orb of my own heart.  It fell open, and I wept.
            It was a dark heart, moist with emotion, but filled with enough filth to prevent fruition.  It was a heart with tender places, but hard stones of uncaring.  There was little beauty, and I felt ashamed.
            “Fear not, Dear One.” The Man said.  “Your shame is the starting of a new heart.  See?” He said pointing to a splash of white color on my dark heart.  “Because you desire to have a heart of beauty, you have already begun to see it.”
            “Help me, sir,” I cried.  “Help me to have a heart of beauty, help me to have the heart of love.”

            The Man smiled.  “My Dear One, as you have asked, so it shall be.  All hearts take time to ripen and grow beautiful, and in time, so shall yours.”

"You change your life by changing your heart."  Max Lucado

June 19, 2014

What is Blue?

So, I have to admit, I am on a Color-Themed Poetry Spree.  This poem is in the same format as my, What Is Gold? poem, and I plan to have a whole rainbow posted pretty soon.  (Yes, I am aware that gold is not in the rainbow, but it could be, and I think it would look pretty good...)

What is Blue?
Written by Janelle Spiers 
Inspired by Mary O'Neill

Blue is a sapphire
Concealed well in a stone
A treasure forgotten
All alone.
Blue is a breaking heart’s moan.
Blue is cold,
A biting wind, sharp and cold.
Blue is a song
Blue is a car,
A lake, a clear sky,
A dying star.
The sound of blue is
“Dong! Dong! Dong!”
A death knell rings
A mourning song.

Blue is bliss –
A gentle day,
Without a care
Happy and gay.

Blue are berries
And a pair of jeans,
The banner of rich kings and queens
Blue is a feeling
Bitter and sweet
So melancholy
You feel defeat.
Blue is eye color
And watching the news
Blue is a risk
Win or lose.
Blue is lost
Beauty to be found
A peacock plume
Lying on the ground.
Think of what picnics
And rainbows can’t do
Bright parties, rolling waves
If they couldn’t glow bright with


June 18, 2014

The Ideal Situation

The Ideal Situation
By Janelle Spiers

Ideal: satisfying one's conception of what is perfect; most suitable

Why is it that we only ever ask God for the ideal situation?  We ask him for financial blessings, healthy families, and peaceful worlds.  We ask for good things...but yet, that is not how God often works.
Yes, it escapes our notice, but God does not use ideal situations in every day life.  Consider the Israelites, the chosen people of God, who were attacked, raided, captured, killed, persecuted, and shunned so many, many times.  Slaves in Egypt, Captives in Babylon, these people whom God chose as His own, were unaccustomed to the ideal situation. 
However, there were ideals.  The Garden of Eden, paradise for mankind’s forefather.  King Solomon of Israel, the wisest man to live and walk the earth. 
But even in those ideal situations, where wise men ruled, and peace and happiness reigned, something happened to the hearts of those who had what they wanted.  Without a care, or a worry, and full of confidence, those people began to rely on themselves, and not on the Ideal Giver.  Adam and Eve sinned against their Father, looking for something even more ideal.  Solomon disobeyed his Father by adding wives to his harem, trying to appease the ideal lust. 
So, in those ideal situations, the hearts were far from ideal...
Even in the far from ideal situations, something was different.  Slaves in Egypt, whipped and slaughtered by their tyrant rulers, clung to hope and waited for deliverance.  And then, up from Midian, rose the shepherd to God’s people, Moses who led the way, who redeemed the people, who answered the prayers of the slaves.
So when we ask for the ideal situation, and get it, we no longer depend so greatly on the one who gave us that blessing.  And in the not-so ideal situation, we beg and complain, desperate for something better.  Where is the in between?  Where is the medium?  Are we destined to be stuck in between terribly sinful or miserably ungrateful? 
Perhaps there is an in between.  Maybe what we need from God is not the ideal situation, but the ideal attitude.  Maybe what we need is to be like Daniel, the captive in Babylon, who praised and thanked God for his situation three times a day.  A far from ideal situation, with an ideal attitude. 
Maybe instead of asking God for the ideal situation, we need to ask him for the right attitude, to help us through times of financial drought, through sickness and danger for the ones we love, and hate-filled, war-torn lands.  Can we be like Daniel?  Can we be grateful for the place we are in, the place where God has put us in?  Can we choose not to doubt and complain, worry and fear, but be filled with the peace of God?  Can we let Him work in our hearts, are we willing to ask him?

In the less than ideal circumstances, in the heartbreak and loss, in the suffering and sadness, if we choose to give thanks, and bless those around us, and cling to God in thankfulness, then that circumstance can become more ideal.  The more our heart is thankful for the far from ideal, we can open our eyes to see that “ideals” are merely how we choose to see the world.