Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Write in the POETRY genre (05/17/07)
TITLE: Walking Through the Wasteland
By Frances Seymour
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Susan had been on the mission field of life for many years. Out there in another land, she worked hard physically and yet with a happy heart led devotions with workers and with the local church. Susan came back to her hometown a few months ago. Oh, how she looked forward to working and serving in her own local church again. However, she quickly discovered that things were not the same and nothing worked out the way she had envisioned.
It seems that every interest she had in serving the church, someone else was already doing something similar and did not need or want her help. She even offered to begin some new projects like a newsletter or prayer walking in the community but gained no enthusiasm for these ideas either.
Susan felt like other people thought she wanted to come in and take over. All Susan really wanted to do was be an assistant. She didnít care whether she led any of the areas she was interested in. She only wanted to be a true and faithful servant since she strongly believed that Jesus called all of His followers into servant hood.
Susan even went to work in another church within a group that made her feel very much wanted and needed; yet she sensed a hesitant attitude in moving forward from complacency to enthusiasm. Here again, she tossed ideas out to be picked up on but there was no real solid interest in doing anything Ďoutside the box.í And so the dry spell or wastelandóthis devastating desert experience was everywhere she turned. On certain days, Susan felt completely and totally engulfed by a windy, chapping dryness.
Susan still feels the effects of the dryness today. This dry place is what she refers to as the wasteland. As you journey with her, Susan hopes that you will enjoy the scenery as you travel along for a glimpse of her current life perspective.
Walking through the wasteland
Locked in a box.
A place where no one listens,
The hands stopped on the clock.
A place of quiet contentment
No one dares to rock the boat.
So, they go though the motions
Struggling to stay afloat.
Where new ideas are halted,
Since, no one wants to change.
The idealist feels assaulted,
Thought patterns, he canít rearrange.
As he walks through the wasteland,
Desert sand stings his eyes.
He seeks guidance from Godís hand
Knowing itís in Him that comfort lies.
He must keep moving ahead.
Heís come too far to turn around.
A few more tears he may shed
Before Godís lessonís clearly found.
The idealist will certainly keep doing
What he knows is good and right,
Knowing one day the box will open
And endless ideas will gain flight!
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