Remember.

compassion |kəmˈpaSHən|

noun

sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others: the victims should be treated with compassion.

on behalf of the world,

here is an apology

for the words that have been spewed

for when the color difference in our clasped hands was pointed out amidst cackles

for when you were turned away when you should have been welcomed

for when you did not see Jesus in those around you, please, give grace, we are learning

for when you were treated like an object because of your fame

for when you were hurt, disrespected, when others turned a blind eye

for when you were killed

for when your kindness, your body, your gifts were taken advantage of

for when standing by and letting new life be slaughtered in the thousands was normal

we are sorry

please forgive us

we were but sinners, but we are redeemed now

we have turned from these ways and embraced

compassion

but, my friend

whomever you are, if you burn with anger

clench it tightly

tightly

in your fists

do it with me now.

lift your eyes up to heaven, raise your arms

and now,

my friend, my family

let it go.

uncurl your fingers, this anger will

destroy you

and i do not want to lose you.

breathe in now, my friend, my family

breathe out your anger

breathe in

compassion.

~Ruby Sky

 

 

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the scars i chose for myself – a poem

Hello Readers,

Today I wanted to share a freeform poem I wrote based off of a person I met at church. I always enjoy hearing people’s stories, and this person had an interesting tattoo to go with their story. It was one of those things that are just begging to be written.

the scars i chose for myself

my scars were inked into my flesh

i chose them, i suppose.

black and white, writhing in my skin

i fought the battle but i lost the war

and in my moment of defeat

a scar was chosen

my arm was covered

so

i

would

not

forget

how i fought and fought and

lost.

i tried to drown my demons

but they learned

how

to

swim.”

now i’m going underwater

a father eases me in

i think i hear the people

they’re singing

for

who?

for me?

my soul yearns to sing with them

but i am not ready yet.

soon.

the holy water gets in my lungs

i choke on it but it burns

i feel my demons in my chest

they’re choking too

but now i’m breathing

then i’m up

the water is gone

and

so

are

they.

i look over

and there He is

holding every last one under

they burn in the water of baptism

i could not drown them

but thank God

that

He

could.

~Ruby

Heroes & The Hard Things

Hello Readers,

My heroes have been many different people over the years. Men and women, fictional and real, famous or unknown, these people have inspired me. They have made me try harder, reach further, dig my feet in when the world tries to pull me off the edge.

I want to surpass my heroes. I want to dig in deeper, fight harder, be smarter. I want to fight like my life is too short to care about what people think of me. I want to sing when I feel a song in my soul, I want to write the words that buzz in my fingers, I want to tell people I love them without reserve or “only when”s.

I want to do all these things, and I try to do them, but the fact remains that I get scared.

This life feels long to me. The songs too awkward, the people too broken, the words too hard.

But the truth is, this life isn’t long. And I can’t do the hard things. But He can, so I don’t need to be strong. I am weak, I know this, but if God is strong, then I can be too.

Somehow, it’s hard to remember this.

It’s hard to sing when you sometimes forget the tune and your voice wavers.

It’s hard to write when the words don’t flow and things don’t make sense, when the plot doesn’t come together and the characters don’t seem genuine.

It’s hard to tell people you love them when you don’t always feel like you do. When they do things that you don’t love and it’s hard to remember to see the person and not the filth they are smearing on themselves.

The things we want to do, need to do, are hard.

But I hope I will do them. Today and tomorrow and the next day. The next week. This year. Next year.

And at the end of my life, I hope I will stand before my Maker, my first and last Hero, and look him in the eyes as my knees shake and tremble because my inspiration, the comforter of my soul, is standing in front of me. I hope that while I stand in front of him, my mouth dry and a grin on my face, that I will force out the words “I did my best with what you gave me.” That I will mean them. That then, the words will tumble and I will tell my Father what I did.

I wrote the words that you put into my soul. I sang the songs that you handed me to sing. I loved the people you put into my life. I followed in your footsteps.

This is what I want to be able to say.

All of my heroes are fighters.

I hope I will be one too.

I want to fight to write the words that He’s given me, to sing the songs that play on repeat in my heart, to love everyone with open arms.

This is my heart, and it is many of yours. So let’s fight for this.

May the grace and strength of God allow us to do so.

~Ruby

Who are your heroes? What do you want to say at the end of your life? 

A Poem Made Of Hymns and Worship Songs

Hello Readers,

The words fail to come to my fingers, my friends. They swirl in my head but don’t look right on paper. Like a misspelled word or a painting turned sideways. I want to write a poem, but I do not have the words to one. I can not write because what I have been saved from is overwhelming. I have a debt paid for that I can not explain in the simple words I know.

But that’s alright. The words will come. Until then, I can only rehash the words I know to be true. The words that have given me so much comfort.

Take heart, we are not in control.

there is power in the name of Jesus.

though satan should buffet, though trials should come…

make my life a prayer to you.

amazing grace,

how

sweet

the

sound

it is well, it is well

amazing grace

that

saved

wretch like me

there is power in the name of Jesus

i want toi need to

be more like Jesus. 

prone to wander

lord, i feel it.

Amazing grace

it is well

with

my

soul. 

nothing lasts, except the grace of God, by which I stand,

in Jesus.

it’s your breath in my lungs

hallelujah

your love broke through

~Ruby

(all lyrics are not mine)

Falling Off The Face of the Earth

Dear Readers,

First off, may I say thank you for sticking with me. I have just passed the eighty follower mark! I really appreciate every like, comment, and read. I hope that I will be able to continue to write content that will bless you, make you laugh, and make you think. You all are amazing! 😀

I have made a discovery. We, as humans, are so scared of being forgotten. We’re scared of being left behind, that our names will mean nothing one day. We want to leave a legacy.

(If you can’t tell, I’ve recently been listening to Hamilton.)

Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. -The World Was Wide Enough (Hamilton)

It’s an incredibly interesting story, and caused me to examine some things about myself. I am not scared of being forgotten, but I am scared that I will not leave a mark. I am scared that my life will be a waste of time. I am scared that at the end of the day, my life will have not meant something to someone else. I am scared that the stories I carry on my shoulder will die with me. The stories that are not just mine, but the people back and back. I am scared that the important stories of the past will die on my shoulders.

I’m scared of letting the people who made me down.

Because, you see, it’s not so much my name I want to be remembered, as the changes I make. I want to change things. I want to leave an impact.

I love old things, I love antiques, I love old music, I love old books, I love old photo albums.

I think I love them because they’re lasting craters of something someone made. They have left an impact. They have changed things, for better or worse. They have made a difference, they have laid a foundation, dug a hole to plant a seed. I have never lived somewhere long enough to put down roots, to absorb a culture as my own, and these old things ground me to the surface of Earth. These old things that have proven true over time, the ones that have not, ease out of my grasp like rotten wood when I cling to them. I hold them so tightly my knuckles turn white as I cling to the stories I know to be true.

It’s as if I didn’t have my heritage, my stories of the people that came before me, I would simply float off the face of the earth. I would drift, I would be just another voice yelling to hear the sound of myself. But because of these old stories, I can dig my fingers into this time proven soil, bracing myself against the wind that batters against me every day. I have a story to tell, a purpose as I talk out into the void. But I have enemies there too. The voices that come with the wind, yelling against me, my convictions, my beliefs.

Do you not see why history is so important? We have no roots without them. Even if you stayed in the same place your whole life, digging your fingers into the soil, eyes shut tight, you would still be blown off. The winds would claim you.

We just can’t live long enough to dig deep enough.

So listen to your stories, and add to the roots, add your stories, throw your words back at the voices in the wind. Don’t let them batter you down. Dig deep with dirt under your fingernails and hold on as tight as you can.

What is holding you to the skin of the Earth?

~Rubix

Impression of A Grieving Church

“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll”

An entire congregation is brought to its knees in a horrible beautiful way, weeping for something that they can not ever replace. Nor would they ever wish to. There is a wound now, a gaping red wound. The regular services are canceled and the pastor up front states that there are no words to describe this loss. You can feel it in the air, this tangible, horrible tragedy.

“Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul”

Three people have been lost in a car accident. Three souls have flown away to heaven. They were too good for this world. We long to be among them, and we rejoice in their joy but weep for ourselves, left behind in this broken world.

It is well
With my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

The church reacts as any ordinary family would. They weep. They hold each other. Tears flow easily and words come hard. It is the most painful beauty that we can ever experience. The bitter taste of a brush with death. The harsh sting of being left behind. They ask the hardest question known to mankind, looking up at the heavens.

Why? Why did you do this?

“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control.”

But through it all is a steady thread that the congregation grabs onto, strength flowing along that taut line. It grounds them, keeping their heads above the waters of grief. The thread is Jesus. We do not understand why this horrible tragedy befell us, but we do know this.

Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul

#singforsophie

 

Coming ‘Home’

Hello Readers,

How does it feel to be home?

Ah, I hear this question so much. What people are asking is how does it feel to be back in familiarity, in a house that I know, where the food is familiar and the language is mine.

But home isn’t that for me.

Home is my aunt hugging me goodnight like she can’t believe I’m there. Home is binge watching British shows with my cousin. Home is trampolines and pizza and avoiding trips to Walmart.

Home is sarcastic quips and jokes that take too long to get to the punchline. Home is waiting on my Gramma to hurry up and blow dry her hair already.

Home is this weird bunch of people that I love in the living room telling stories.

And what stories we have to tell. I could write a whole series of them, but I don’t think I ever will. Part of me is selfish and wants to keep these stories hidden away for myself.

I don’t want to share my home.

Because home isn’t a big red house with a white picket fence. Not for me.

Home is butterfly wings and cicada shells in my hair. Home is screeching laughter and bike rides. Home is a crazy wild thing that I do with the people I love.

I suppose it’s all perspective, isn’t it? My home is my stories of long summer days and cold winter nights.

And maybe one day I will share them, but for now, I’ll be selfish and keep them hidden away to keep me warm.

~Rubix

 

The Sea’s Calling

Hello Readers!

 

I’m sorry for the long hiatus, and I wish I had a good reason for it. I simply couldn’t think of what to write.

I don’t know how to write what I am feeling because I do not understand it completely myself. And if you can’t understand it, how do you explain it to other people? How do you explain things that you don’t know?

I’m scared. I’m happy. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I feel like a walking contradiction.

I’m moving, as some of you know, and I know it’s time to go. But the thing is, knowing it’s time to go doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad.

Lots of people think that kids like me, moving around a lot, don’t really care when it’s time to pack up and move because we can feel the sea calling. But we do.

I miss things, I’ve missed things my whole life, and that’s fine. It’s the way it goes, and for everything I miss there is something different to discover. Something new, something exciting, maybe something better.

It’s always scary walking out into the unknown, leaving what you do understand behind. You don’t know if this new world will accept you, or if you will accept it. But I have learned that there is always beauty to be found, always wonderful people to meet, and that everywhere you go there is God.

It all happens so fast. You talk and talk about moving, and you know it will happen, and then one day you wake up and somebody is moving your couch out, you’re taking down posters, and then you know. And it’s not a bad thing, knowing it’s time. It just shocks you for a bit and then you realize that you get to go out into the world again. You get to meet new people, make a difference in a different way.

I believe moving is a good thing. I know this next move will be good for my family. And I know it’s time to go, because I can feel it.

Missing things is like listening to the sea. It’s there and you know it, and sometimes you can sit there and listen to it, but other times, you have to move beyond the warm beach and dive into the freezing water. There are things that must be done and you can not listen to the water forever. You have to get out there.

I am excited for a new opportunity, I am excited for a new house, a new schedule, a new way of doing things.

But I will not forget the old ones.

~Rubix

Star Gazing at the Sea

Hello Readers,

I stared up at the stars two nights ago. I stared into the black swirling deep of the sky until I feared I might lose my mind in the vastness. I fell back down to Earth, and stared at the concrete.

To no avail, my eyes went back to the sky.

I stared at the stars and forgot to blink as they twinkled at me.

The night sky looks like someone spread a sheet over the world and poked holes in it to let the sun through.

I recognized a few constellations and tried in vain to count the stars like Abraham did so long ago.

Recently, someone asked me if I felt all the history of the sea as I stood by it, if I felt impacted by the ancients who walked its beaches long, long ago.

Yes, I feel the history, the weight of time. Yes.

But it’s also personal.

This wasn’t just the ancient’s beach. It’s mine. It wasn’t only their sky, it is mine as well. I have just as much claim to the stars as they did.

I have spilled my secrets and my songs and my soul to the sea. I have cried to the night sky and I have prayed under the moon’s fragile veil.

I have walked a pilgrimage in the sand. I have failed to count the stars.

I have found shapes in the moon and I have ridden the waves.

I have gazed up at the stars and been scared out of my wits.

For me, the sky, the sea, these vast things that I live so close to, are… almost people. Almost friends. Not impersonal giant objects.

They were not just the ancient’s. They’re mine.

~Ruby

 

 

 

 

Suffocation

Hello Readers,

Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile (that is, assuming people actually read these, haha). Just been busy/low on inspiration.

Anyways, I, being a musician, have come to terms with something I like to call ‘suffocation’ (and I didn’t just come up with that on the spot. Definitely not.). Now this isn’t literal suffocation, I just call it that because it seems to fit with the feeling. With the situation I have been experiencing lately.

This ‘suffocation‘ happens when I sit at my keyboard, looking at the keys and thinking, “How on earth could I ever make a song that would be any different or any better than the million already written?” “How could I make anything original? Am I just copying everyone that has come before me? Do I have any talent or am I a parrot?” This feeling, though, is not one that only I get, nor one that only musicians get. It’s a feeling that writers get when they see their blank page and think, “Are there really any good plots left? Is there really a character that’s never been written, or an idea that hasn’t grown into a book?”

This feeling often haunts me when I’m playing my piano, as I’m sure it does many, many other musicians. It’s a feeling that says, “Is there anything left? Can you really play something beautiful? Or even halfway decent?” And let me tell you, it’s hard to shake off. Like smoke that clings to your clothes.

Now, usually when this idea comes, another thought consumes me at the same time. The thought of a thirteenth note. Crazy, maybe, but sometimes I wonder if it’s out there. Somewhere… A sound nobody has heard.

A book idea no one has written.

An equation for a graviton.

A color no one has ever seen.

Or maybe we don’t need these things. Maybe all we need is the twelve keys given to us. Maybe all we need is the creative mind given to us. Maybe all we need is God’s will for us.

Maybe, all we need is a little light to see the sheet music.

-Sam