- Rising -

I am a balloon pulling on its string,

straining towards the freedom a northward wind offers,

missing the current of 

a sweet summer zephyr.

They come, carrying promise of a higher experience

and touching of heavenly realms.

A tug-of-war between my earth-nature and my divine-nature,

God’s Spirit helium,  

lifting my earth suit,

a bright red orb of latex stretched tight

but tethered.

Always yearning

always knowing

I am not meant to live earth bound.

I am destined for golden pink horizons and 

views shared with eagles mounted.

For soaring over spires of pines and evergreen cathedrals and 

silvery rivers turning a labyrinth,

turning my thoughts,

turning my heart 

ever towards The 

Eternal 

One.

Why do others float 

so freely?

I watch their effortless risings,

a rainbow of colors lifting 

unrestricted. 

Some  

s  l  o  w  , 

others quick.

But I still strain against this cord. 

It must be me -

Something about my string -

Too tangled?

Too complex?

Too short?

Or my skin -

Too tight?

Too small?

Too bright?

Or my capacity -

Am I not enough?

Am I lazy?

Am I limited?

Lies sometimes masquerade as

questions.

Doubt is just a nicer word for 

fear. 

And control is a thief of

freedom.

Three thin strands -

lies, doubt, control

twisting together they 

sometimes hold me

D

O

W

N

.  

“Cut me loose!”, I cry.

A gentle wind whispers wisdom and 

I remember!

I lift a glimmering blade.

Sharp Truth Words wielding

fury and

blazing light,

I sever dark strands.

I lift my voice to agree

with my enoughness.

My capacity found 

in my Savior and not in my 

earth suit.

The next breeze moves 

towards me

around me

under me

lifting me. 

Ascending, I watch shreds of string  

fall powerless

below.

Mounting on promises and

filled buoyant with

Spirit-Hope

I worship from new heights.

Vistas of God’s new mercies

on morning horizons

lift my heart heavenward.

And I become nothing

as I see His glory 

from a

closer view.

post script ~ I began this poem before the week that two people I loved left this earth. Then my voice got stuck. I couldn’t find words to complete Rising. Now that it is finished, I realize that while it began as a piece for myself, it is also in part a poem for Janet O’Connor and Scott Fortune. They have truly Risen.

Robin Sturm

2.6.2020