Breathing Alive

We walk each day

With thoughts of life,

Pretending that we're not

All burnt inside.

We lie and swear

That nothing's wrong;

Meanwhile limping

And stumbling along.

The wound's too big 

To cover with hands,

So we cover our eyes

And forget how to stand.

For all we know,

We're all alone;

Everyone's outside

And perfectly fine.

But if we could only

Take just a peek,

Ignoring our shame,

Looking up from our feet,

We'd gape and stare

And see and learn

That every one soul

Has suffered a burn.

Then the doctors could heal,

The builders could make

A bed for us all 

To rest and awake;

Living again and learning to thrive,

Tasting the sun

And breathing alive

Letters from the Farm - 1

(I wrote this letter on a yellow legal pad and mailed it to my friend in England last year. I sent it to my good friend, Melissa, in the hopes of making her laugh. It was probably just confusing.)

12/6/12

Dearest Melissa,

I write to you at this first week of December with thoughts of you, Christmas, and the coming winter months. Thoughtful of the famine, it is likely the farm will suffer heavily this season of freeze. Though I am no stranger to hunger, this year will be a tough challenge nonetheless. If the farm doth freeze, I will be forced to sell, only hoping to find a reasonable purchaser, who lacks that vulture mentality. Wish me well, good woman, for this winter may undo me.

In less gloomful news, I was wandering through some less traveled – nay, uncharted – land when I came across, bubbling out of the ground like a spring of water, some thick, black liquid. I cannot say what it is or what it could possibly be used for, but I shall trek into town tomorrow eve and inquire upon the noble and knowledgeable lawyer, who will undoubtedly inform me of the uselessness of my inquiries.

Otherwise, the neighbors’ 2-headed calf finally died. Moo-Moo gave a good fight but could not overcome her genetic shortcomings. I suppose the old mantra holds true: “Having two heads is too much for just one heart.”

Separately, my small farmhouse has fallen victim to raccoons. Though cute, they are unbelievable destructive. I should have been alarmed when they occupied the outhouse. I began to worry when the porch became a hostile place to transverse, but finally grasped the fatality of the situation when my bed began to be a nest for newly born raccoon cubs. But alas, I have sharpened my machete and will begin work on my bamboo raccoon traps this eve. (Machetes are so useful.)

Alas, I nearly forgot; last Wednesday I fought and defeated a wolf. He was very large and I could see my death in his eyes. He leapt on me and nearly had me but for my quick reflexes. I nimbly strafed to my left, nearly losing my footing in the deep snow. His first unsuccessful move left him vulnerable to my left hook that I delivered with authority directly to the beast’s wet nose. Hardly a whimper was out before he charged back and grasped my arm in his vicious jaws. We struggled so closely; I saw his gray eyes and felt his hot breath on me. But as he snapped to earn a better grip, I swung around, slid my bleeding arm under his chin, and locked it there with the other arm. In those long but hopeful moments I could only think of you and what a beautiful coat you could be wrapped in if I managed to slay this animal. He was a beautiful white wolf with wonderful, dark gray markings to match those eyes and, though I hardly felt compelled to compliment my attacker, if I had to, it would have been regarding the softness of his royal fur. So it is with tremendous sadness that I tell you I do not possess this fur. For in his last remaining amount of oxygen, I heard an old owl hoot so profoundly that it drew my attention. Looking into his huge eyes, it was clear to me I was not to end the life of this carnivorous canine. And so I released him, and he darted away. My wound revealed to be quite minor, in fact, so I returned home and threw up. And every so often, but only at dusk, whilst walking I find nearby wolf tracks and simultaneously, though I cannot say whether far off or simply within my mind, I hear in the wind the hoot of an owl, who protects his brother animals in this severe earth.

But you must be bored of these mundane stories by now. I bid you a merry goodbye and wish wonderful happiness to you! May your coat keep you warm and the great Owl protect you!

Keep Warm & Ever Hopeful,
Watchful of the Seasons,
Affectionately,

J.L.Harrison

Twins, Summers, and Resurrection

Summer is coming! It's true, it's only March, but it's (mostly) warm and sunny and there's no looking back! Before adulthood, summer was easily the best time of the year. No school; what more could you ask for? Besides chores, my sunny seasons were spent riding bikes, playing basketball, and hanging out with friends. But after I finished school and entered Youth With A Mission, moving to Alberta, Canada, the summers merely meant that the sun would still be in the sky after work was over, as opposed to seeing stars come out at 5 pm. But besides work, the June, July, and August months meant occasionally visiting good ol' California to see my family.

Now, I have a twin sister. Before you ask, we are indeed identical twins, both in facial appearance and height. Yes, throughout our lives, most people can't tell who was James and who was Julie. It led to all kinds of problems. Julie would dress like me and get into all kinds of trouble, and the next thing I knew, I was being punished! It was tragic. But as adults, we've reconciled our conflicts and get along just fine. Mostly.

Joking aside, one thing about my twin is this: she is summer. She embodies it, from her bubbly personality that cannot be eclipsed to her shining face filled with excitement. If you're around her, you know what she's feeling. If she's happy and laughing, you will be too! The sun is a ball of light and energy, never ceasing. And my sister is just as hard to shadow if she has set her mind to something. Once when we were seven, Julie got a hold of some flower seeds and started digging a hole. When I found her she was reading the bag of seeds and asked me what 6" meant. Intelligently, I told her, "It means six feet." She said, "How big is that?" "Julie, you'll have to dig for as tall as Jacob!" Sitting in the dirt with her wild, brown curly hair, she thought for a moment, then said, "Okay," and went back to it with the shovel.

She is persistent, loving, and full of life. Like the sun. Like summertime, that time of year I'm accustomed to seeing her. So when I think of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, I think of a special time of the year, lasting the entire year! Seasons disappear and it's summer all year around. The atmosphere is energetic and life is the air we breathe. Our Creator is persistent to plant seeds that don't stop growing, and he will never withhold his Spirit that waters us each day, until the sun stops shining.