Wednesday, July 04, 2007


A thousand lights run up and down your threads
As the angle changes the outsides edges disappear
But less or more light does not vary her purpose

The tender threads might deceive a reader's eye
Hinting at a permanent fragility that's false
For, have you ever tried to wash away a web with water?

A few threads may disentangle at the pressure
But they tenaciously deny you your prowess and hold
A product that proves her purpose despite our supposed power

Against nature she wins against mightier wind, rain or snow
She always leaves behind a remnant of her work
A flag of strands that wave in the wind defiantly

What effort it must take to make such a material
A process of a production that is made and given, again and again
Does she think about what she will leave behind?

Her home is never abandoned without another plan
She weaves and spins another cloud of protection
The old one may still stick some prey but for what?

She's left it behind; that is not her home.
As I sat on our private balcony yesterday morning, I was struck by the spiderwebs that clung to the edges of the railings. I am inspired me to think about the value I place on "home". I think we all weave "clouds of protection" as we strive to create some comfort on earth. What do we count as weak or strong and what is of our own creation and what is His? We all know that we should not "store up for yourself treasures on earth" but it is more real to me as I consider the Shank's sacrifices as a family over the years. I may have left one home, but they have left many. You cannot cling to the illusion of strength in your web-- Christ compels us to leave everything and follow him. And we must surrender to such sweet love as Spurgeon says so eloquently:
"Speak Lord for thy servant heareth! O that He would walk with me; I am ready to give up my whole heart and mind to Him and every pother thought is hushed. I am only asking what He delights to give. I am sure He will condescend to have fellowship with me for He has given me His Holy Spirit to abide with me forever. Sweet is the cool twilight when every start seems like the eye of heaven and the cool wind is as the breath of celestial love. My Father, my elder Brother, my Sweet Comforter, speak now in loving kindness for thou hast opened mine ear and I am not rebellious (July 1 Evening)"

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