Wonder of a Word, Meteorite, and Other Poems
by Kristine Amundrud
WONDER OF A WORD
Three summers ago, a prophetic word was spoken over my family while attending church camp on Vancouver Island. This phenomenon was a first for me, coming from a more conservative church background. Taking it all in, I didn’t pause to question the credibility. My heart raced at the awareness that these words could indeed be Spirit-breathed, straight from the heart of God. The preacher, while implying that changes were on the horizon, relayed details only a close friend could know and concluded with: “There is a storm, but Jesus is in the boat with you.”
Fast forward a few years—passports in hand, my heart beat wildly as I entered the waiting room of the medical clinic. Navigating early morning traffic in an unfamiliar city left me frazzled. My children and I were beginning the lengthy process of overseas residency application, my husband already a Kiwi citizen. “You must be so excited to move to New Zealand,” the nurse practitioner smiled as she measured my blood pressure. “Yes! It will be great to be closer to my husband’s side of the family.” I couldn’t begin to articulate all the nuance around our decision–all the reasons for leaving behind a life and courageously choosing to start over. No clear path forward, no firm plans in place, we were in-between the present and a longing.
For years, my husband and I half expected God to write a proverbial sign in the clouds. It’s go time—chase that dream with intentionality! But God isn’t a traffic control person, waving us through to the next intersection, waiting to bless us only when we make the “right” decision.
As believers, wading through life’s spaces of in-between, our hearts remain fixed on eternity.
I wonder if all of life on earth is a bit dream-adjacent.
I would have been an excellent Israelite–wandering through the desert, tasting freedom, yet still enslaved by doubt. Fear of discomfort aims to convince me that a shift isn’t worth the risk. I imagine myself looking back, reflecting, it wasn’t so bad. But if a physical place sans discord and striving is available, then why wouldn’t I leap at the thought of pursuing it?
Now as leaves announce their changing hues, pondering letting go of reliable branches, I take notes on how they do this so effortlessly. My husband tells me that we are risk-averse people. Somewhere in the tidepools of grief, I lost my ability to leap before looking. Afraid of one wrong misstep, I bubble wrap my children in the safety of things I can control. Upending the status quo would undo any notion of sway.
God, help me to trust you wholly, bravely defying insecurities and mounting waves.
Change begets change. In the past year, soon after my husband began a new role in leadership, we felt called to leave our local church. We traded a place full of people we love and rich tradition, for an opportunity to grow. Called to attend a more Spirit-filled church in a neighboring community, I lament not yet feeling “connected.” God told me it may never be our home church, but he will use the people there to expand our understanding and knowledge of him.
God prepares our hearts in and for these places of here and not yet. They are like a stepping stone to the next chapter, and while physical roots aren’t necessarily being established, our spiritual roots are stretched in new and wonderful ways.
Most of us are familiar with Mark’s Gospel where Jesus is in the boat with his disciples. They are panicking over the water rushing into the boat, fearing they are about to sink. Their worries were quickly subdued, replaced with awe and worship. Jesus calmed the windstorm with three simple words–Peace! Be Still! (Mark 4:39, ESV) It is no different for our lives today. We are all navigating choppy seas because this is simply not Eden. But we can rely on God and his impeccable timing, anticipating the wonder when He moves.
That summer at camp, in the heat of July, I wrote down the prophetic message we received. I wanted to remember each word in detail. For when discouragement and setbacks roll in, and they will, vivid reminders of God’s promises are called for. In our own boats, overflowing with heavy hurt and daunting disappointment, God’s voice can bring us back to safety and calm.
And if, while in life’s overwhelm, we forget the wonder of a word spoken, then God sends a prophet.
Not long ago, a perfect stranger at the new church we’ve been attending approached us following the service. Not the assumed welcome or polite introduction, this man had a prophetic word. “God wants you to know that change is coming and you will face opposition. Not everyone will understand your choices, but don’t doubt his plan. Jesus is with you in the boat.”
Our eyes welled up with tears. The exact same message spoken over our family, by another one of God’s messengers, roughly three years later. So many indefinites and unknowns, yet my heart can rest in this waterlogged place, and yours can, too.
In your own drifting boat, while feet yearn for dry land, listen attentively for his voice. Not only does God reveal himself through the written word, but when we question our own plans capsizing, he shows up with a spoken word—not only to capture our attention, but also to remind us that, in our utter dependency and smallness, we are not only saved, but seen, held, and known. In your own uncharted waters, may God fill you with his peace that passes all understanding—and may He astound you with a message you didn’t expect.
METEORITE
I sought the night sky,
and from it,
borrowed
repose.
In the distant starfield, lay
a myriad of memories,
blinking
brightness
then dim.
Flashbacks form constellations—
each star,
a person
I have loved.
The harvest moon blooms marigolds,
drips melancholy—
for all of us, earthside,
striving to connect dots of
cavernous meaning,
through
cloud
layers of
lament.
When naked truth and deceit collide,
light years of
thorny
discord
burn up in one rebellious streak.
There is a meteor that
wars on behalf of
stymied souls.
Spirit agape, fragments of fear
flare.
Particles of pain, no longer precious,
combust.
Doubt ignites.
And when a star falls,
who will catch it?
Is this where healing lands?
Never will I fully grasp the enigma of the
empyrean, or its hushed spattering of stars.
But I cling to the splendor,
the serenity, the smallness of
my unknowns, and I drink in
His omnipresence, each night.
When the meteorite’s light
looks to be gone,
watch me worship
in the quietest of ruins.
LIONHEART
When my childhood thicket
surrenders to breaking down, it sparks
a novelty in me—
a fiery defiance matched only in
the surging waves at sea.
A tint of bravery,
a tinge of daring,
the alluring palette of confidence.
Witness your bruise
dim to flaxen yellow.
Healing shades exhale solace
to commemorate
a long hoped-for
release
from old sways.
The trees proudly adorn themselves,
blushing boldness–
calling all demure to partake in one
gutsy flourish
before disrobing.
Transparency ushers in a courageous letting-go.
Watch the woodland lionheart bleed out
deep crimson and carmine,
weeping gamboge,
dripping ochre.
Dauntless prelude to liberation.
Petioles that formerly shook
with pain, and trembled with
trepidation, grant their leaves fall
down and worship freely—
devoid all hesitation.
Beautiful abscission for the heart
championing change.
From catkin to leaf bud,
a tiny flower,
painted green, turns
to russet blood.
Dearest Lionheart,
You will not always flow scarlet from a wound.
Colors cry out from your deepest place,
preparing your heart for a
brilliant, golden,
transformative
grace.
Breathe in the woodland’s natural way, of
finally letting go.
WILD ANGELS
November draws near, and
I can hear their familiar
flight calls anew—
faintly overhead,
like angels migrating to
the new heavens.
Beckoning a shift, nature declares
what we know to be true—
frozen lakes, firm disrepair
are the things worth saying
farewell to.
Thirsty daylight drinks residual tears.
And my faithful geese release their keening.
In the golden hour,
I cling to the dream
delayed, anticipating and
awaiting take-off.
I tuck it safely away
under my pinion,
lest it fall prey to
winter’s doubt
and apathy.
In the quiet place,
desire is set to words–
and it builds,
and it mounts
into more
than a dream.
Can you rouse to the urge of
an innate pull—
a call to mimic the wildfowl?
Contemplate the move,
such ungainly awakening.
Set off across fields,
post-harvest,
where stoic stubble stood,
and run across a sultry
skin of water.
Take to the air,
trusting Holy Spirit be your guide.
Paramount, you defy the
glance back toward granite,
stiff comfort and the demons insisting
you stay bound.
Beloved departed breaks
headwind and trumpets,
this is your emancipation!
In time,
brave lovers
form their own
sleek skein–
a triumphant “v”
across the horizon.
A foe would surmise you are running away,
but this is your escape
toward exaltation.
When water
vapor traps autumn’s
flushed cheeks beneath
a coat of crystal, and
breath condenses on
a rear-view mirror,
consider it due time.
Mount up with sturdy
intrepid wings!
For flight feathers are only ever clipped
in our minds.
Nature refuses to question direction.
And the geese call out,
as if from heaven itself—
go on, live your life.
KRISTINE AMUNDRUD
Kristine Amundrud is a poet of faith, passionate about pursuing healing through story-work and writing. She hopes you will find traces of God’s redemptive power in her words and that something will stir inside of you upon reading. Currently living in rural Central Alberta, she’s drawn to the majestic Canadian Rockies out her front doorstep. Kristine finds immense joy in dreaming alongside her husband, Joseph and their three treasures, Britta, Elsa, and Soren. She is honored to have work featured in The Way Back to Ourselves, Calla Press, and forthcoming in Solid Food Press and Truly Co. Connect with her on Instagram @kamundrud