Legacy

Child, stretch out your wings
Upon my shoulders
And fly.

The day is ready with a new dawn,
The world is rising to a new life,
Eager to embrace you,
Hungry to be healed,
And thirsty for your smile.

This is your carved out time
To make a difference.

This is your chosen world
To have a voice and to be wise.

Stretch out your wings
Upon my shoulders
And fly.


Copyright © 2018 Cristina Miller

Creator

We look at each other
And see people,
God looks at us
And sees potential,
Dreams and failures,
Answers we haven't asked for,
Yet,
Grace, and mercy, and joy.


He sees our hearts wide open,
In ways we thought could never exist,
Our DNA stretched
Beyond comprehension,
Like an entwined dance
Of past and future generations,
Flowing to us and from us
Life giving and bold.


He sees our every thought,
And He knows the depths of the depths
Of our hearts and souls,
He smiles at the tiny molecule
And holds the gates of eternity,
All with one hand,
Almighty and strong,
For He is majestic and holy,
Like that.


Copyright  © 2018 Cristina Miller

Vessel

Vessel at Your feet
I am, Lord.
Once broken,
But gathered, repainted, renamed.

The wind swept
Through the corners of my soul
And took away pain, resentment, and sorrow.
Your mercy and grace adorn my windows,
The wind chimes of my existence
Are vibrant and alive with Your song.

Vessel at Your feet,
I am, my King,
Eternal clay
Molded by the hands of Your glory.





Copyright ©  2015 Cristina Miller

The Night and the Rain

One day the pain comes,

It stays and it lingers,

And it won't let go,

As it steeps

In the depths of your hurting soul.

It clings to injustice

And it shatters your peace,

It rejuvenates in self pity

And abounds in defeat.

It becomes a city

With confusing, long streets,

It laughs in the face

Of your little, kind deeds.

The city is empty
And the friends have left,

You are but a shadow

Of your self, once well kept.




Another step in the rain
And despair surrounds you,
The echo of thunder

Now completely abounds you.

Yet another step is walking

Beside you, in the rain,

Someone Who had already paid

For your struggles and pain.

He knows the way out

Of your city of pain

He created green pastures

For your soul to stay.

He clothed the mountains in beauty

And stretched the skies far,

He breathed the man into existence

And with one word, He created a star.

He comes to your city

In the darkest of nights

And offers His hand

In the purest of lights.

He gently lifts you

From the depths of your pain 

That in Him you might be

Without blemish or stain.

His new creation

In His glorious sight,

Perfect and holy

As you now walk in His light.

Copyright © 2014 Cristina Miller

A Writer Is

A writer is a word whisperer
Willingly lost in the mists of the blue forests,
An archer without a bow,
A hunter and a knight
Without an armor,
A lonely rider,
Taming the wild horses
Of the unending desert.

A writer is the echo
Of a dream within
 Another dream, never finished...

A writer is a weary traveler,
Knocking at the door of eternity,
A child
And a servant of the Mightiest King.

A writer is a healer
As his own heart is breaking apart.

A writer is an answer
And a question mark.

A writer is the footstep
Hiking the trail of blossoming stars...



Copyright © 2013 Cristina Miller

The Moon and the Sun

Night was falling softly over the lake, veiling the hills around it, with quieting sounds of worlds preparing for sleep. She wrapped her lacy blue shawl around her shoulders and started walking home.
The moon was rising with a bright orange glow.  "How beautiful!", she thought, and at that moment the world seemed to freeze all around her, a fraction of a second that suddenly opened the door to long forgotten memories, so vividly close she could almost touch them.

"Grandma", said the little girl, "why is the moon all alone up in the sky?"
Grandma smiled, "My sweet girl, it's been that way for a very, very long time, even before Grandma was born, if anyone can imagine that!"
The little girl touched her Grandma's cheeks with her soft, small hands, and swiftly sat herself comfortably on her lap. 
"Oh, Grandma, you must know a story about it...  Say you do!"
Grandma laughed a little and held the dear child tighter to her heart.
"I do know a story my own grandma told me when I was young and, like all good stories you like so much, it starts with...

Once upon a time, there lived a woodcutter.  He was a kind and simple man, with a good heart.  His wife had passed away many years before, but she left him a beautiful daughter, the most beautiful anyone has seen in that land.  For quite a while, the woodcutter's daughter kept close to their home in the forest, away from any human eye.  But, as she started to walk farther and farther, word of her beauty spread faster than she could even be aware of.
A wicked witch who happened to hear about the girl's beauty decided that, in order to keep her power and evil magic, because you see that witch was so old and her strength wasn't like it used to be, she needed to make the girl her slave.  The beautiful girl cried and cried, and begged the witch to let her go back to her father, whom she loved so much. But the witch said, in her screechy witch voice, 'Dearie, fret no more.  You shall work for me from now on.  Hehehehe!'
Oh, how the poor girl cried and asked for mercy!  The witch only laughed and made fun of her some more.
Until one day...  A handsome prince came hunting in that very part of the woods.  Right as he was getting ready to kill a deer, he saw the beautiful girl coming out of the house with an empty bucket for water. He fell in love with her at once, and from that moment on, he couldn't think about anyone or anything anymore.  He didn't tell any of his men about the girl, fearing that all of them would be falling in love with her as well.  Instead, he came near the witch's house in the woods, every day and watched the girl, while his heart seemed to beat so fast, he thought it might be jumping out of his chest.  He wanted to gather a little more courage to tell the girls his feelings, and he was also very intrigued about why the girl didn't seem very happy, in spite of her beauty.  Finally the day came when the prince's heart slowed down just a little bit from all that beating, and he spoke to her, ' Your beauty has captured my heart.  Who are you, queen of my dreams?'
He was really smitten by now, you see", Grandma said, and the little girl approved with a chuckling smile.
"Go on, Grandma.  What did she say next?  Did she like him too?"

"Oh, she did, my child.  For even though she didn't know he was really a prince, he was just as handsome, and had a heart of gold.
The beautiful girl told him her whole story and oh, how much she wanted to be free, to see her father and to never work for the witch.
The prince never told her he was of royal blood, for he wanted her to love him for who he was only.  But he promised her he would bring some brave men and set the girl free in three nights.
Finally the night came and the prince and his men fought hard to free the girl.  But they didn't know the witch's power had been growing since the girl became her slave, and after the witch defeated all the brave men, she stood before the wounded prince, with an evil look on her face, ready to kill him too.
Right then, the beautiful girl ran to her prince and held him in her arms, begging the witch to spare his life.  The witch didn't even want to hear her cry, but, because she had been in love once, a very, very long time before, she found an ounce of mercy in her heart, and said, 'Very well.  I shall spare his life, bu you, my dearie, will have to pay for this.  From now on, you'll light up the night sky and he'll rule the day, never to be together again.'

To this day, my sweet girl, the moon waits for the sun to set, where one ends, the other one starts.  Sometimes, once in a while, the moon sneaks out when the witch isn't looking and she smiles at the sun during the day.  And so..."

The little girl fell asleep with her head gently leaning on her Grandma's shoulder. She dreamed she was all grown up, a beautiful woman, with a lacy blue shawl, walking at night.

She stopped near the lake, watching the moon reflected in the velvety waters.  A lonesome bird flew across the lake with delicate wings, like trailing echoes in the dark.  Frogs and crickets were cheerfully continuing their symphony in the grasses bellow.

The woman looked down with a faint smile on her face, while the girl looked up with big and bright, beautiful blue eyes.

High on the hills surrounding the lake, the jasmine was blooming that night.

The Unfinished Dance

Almost every day that comes, finds me thinking about my grandma in some way.  Her smile, her voice, all bursting with life and energy, her fast step and joyfully impulsive nature, like a dance she always managed to leave unfinished somehow...
Her warm embrace with strong, farm worked arms, her laugh, still girlish, but seasoned with experiences, and life accepted and savored in the acceptance.
The way she loved coffee and how she held her cup up high, as if to cheer the glory of life with one sip at a time.
Her sparkling eyes and will to live, her suffering, as she resisted death, and fought it back with all her strong might.
It's all forever etched within my soul, like a growing tree with branches stretched out.  It's all in the tear hanging from the corner of my eye.  And it stays in the tear, silent and ripening each day. 
I keep on walking with the same unfinished dance she passed on, I smile and say, "This is my happiness now, this is my time to be thankful for..."
While thousands of miles away, in a country cemetery, at her grave, grandma's flowers are the most beautiful, I'm being told.  Vigorously growing, bursting with color and life, singing in the rhythm of the unfinished dance.


(image: "Forest Clearing" by Romanian painter, Nicolae Grigorescu)