frustration

Futility

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I will hold, though the strand, it shreds as if it’s going to break,
I will cry at the risk of depleting every ounce of strength;
I will lay me down and rest assured that I shall awake,
I will sing although my melody is growing weak;

I will stand, though the earth may tremble underneath my feet,
I will look ahead, though my eyes must strain to clearly see;
I will be hopeful, though arms of disappointment are squeezing me,
I will exhaust my anger, for it screams aloud in futility;

I will fan the flame, the embers of which work to light my way,
I will press ahead in spite of ever-growing faint;
I will seek His face at the start and close of each new day,
I will surrender myself to the security of His embrace.

– Tina Allen

Conducting Ourselves

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We beg and plead to be used as an instrument.
We wish to symphonically communicate His magnificence to the world that surrounds.
We want to be dutiful demonstrators of His divine purpose and plan.
We long for the power of our tongue to palatize His irrespective love.
We desire to achieve a melodic influence with disciplined precision and timing.
But along comes the fine tuning.
Along comes the polishing.
Along comes the replacement of defective and worn parts and pieces.
Along comes the conductor’s selection, out of sync with and unfamiliar to our repertoire.
Along comes the direction – the ordering of our notes, when to sound and when to stay silent.
“But what about the chorus?” we exclaim.
“Why just a line or verse?” we protest.
Our seeming insignificance, irrigated by our irrefutable design and skill, quietly eliminates us from the divinely orchestrated lineup, giving way to a selfish serenade to soothe our wounded soul.
And after a season of accolades and encores, we again return to the master conductor, begging and pleading to be used.
And we are then, somehow internally gratified at the honor a single note affords.
– Tina Allen