As I laid down to rest,
My glasses dug
Painfully into my head,
A constant reminder
That I must get up,
Pull myself
From the condition
Of words drummed
Into my skull—
All that is shameful,
Stillness, breath,
‘Stand up and move—

Tire your soul,’
until you realize
there is nothing left

Sin upon skin—
Rosy & blameless—
holes in delicate wrists

Nailed down wood
A final plea, an outcry
of love in opposition—

On your knees—
Disbelief, a question
Of Who would
Do this
for me?

Iron on Iron—
Sparks of God’s glory
Flying from the interaction.
Seeds of growth
Burning holes in the curtains
Of the sins we justify.
Light on light,
Illuminating a dormant candle
To the glow of Jesus.
Iron on Iron,
Sharpening one another's
Swords of faith.

A fraying string, sagging down,
A bridge fallen into a chasm—
My head heavy on its stem,
Joints all dislocated—
A pile of mismatched items,
Their use, coalition, unclear
To my strained eyes—
Gaze lifted beyond understanding,
The silken Spirit reached down,
Using the useless parts
For His enduring plan.

The tents dotted the landscapes—
Rolling tundras, burnt sienna rocks,
Mountainous rivers, suburban yards,
Hallowed beaches, and empty fields…
We are all homeless, living in the
Temporary tents of our lives here
On earth. Ultimately, our home
Resides with our Savior.

My loyalty blinded me
To the absence of feelings,
The construct I had created
To ward off unwanted emotions.
The position was filled—
An unattainable relationship
I chose on purpose, imagining
Butterflies when there were none.
A glowing heart, but one
That did not align with mine.
I was loyal to a safety measure,
My eyes seeing no one else in that
Enamoring light—

The brightest faces,
The most promising
Bodies of water—
Laughs that enchant
Like siren songs--
I remember
Coral is more beautiful
When dead inside.

My bones sighed,

Crossing under me

in a field of rest.

I braided flowers,

Weaving my worries

into a crown of grace.

The sleeve pitched too low,
The fist that curls like a mouth,
Sour with regret.

An endless round of lashings,
All thirty-nine, wrought upon
Ourselves.

Backs against the wall,
Deadweight in our hearts,
All our fault.

Shame is not from God.

the wind stole away the words
of the souls I imagined
leaning on the deck of the ship,
our shoulders touching.
the clouds rolled like purpose,
nothing and everything.
my hands grew numb on silver,
anchored to the sea.
I sank into the feeling, a stone
to be exchanged for
the cornerstone of my Father’s
grace and Holy Spirit

The roads of my voice
Are uneven. 

There are dips and
Unforseen turns.
Gorges and caverns,
Wells that sink
Deep into the earth.
Some syllables
Reach to the sky,
Align with the sway
Of the leaves.
I walk like a beggar
Trying to find
My way along the winds,
My throat raw
As I say the words that
mean something.

I left on my own,
My hand still on the
Smooth doorway.
I could see the blood
Of past generations
Smeared over the paint,
Flickering in my eyes.
The original cross—
I was not on my own.
I was covered by
The Lamb.

I walked between words—
In the silence of pauses,
And the panic of hiccups,
On the cusp of outbursts,
At the end of confessions—
My shoulders brushed the
Sides of the alcoves, soft
And indefinite as they
Thrummed with possibility.

“Why can’t I feel it, Lord?”
He leans back in my chest,
A sigh, a tilt of the head,
The firelight gentle as it
Glazes the side of His face.
“Are you looking for My love,
   Or a feeling you already know?”

Smudged tiles and tilted walkways,
Machines that clunked and rattled,
Accompanied by drowsy people
Waiting for grace.

I stumbled to an empty metal box,
My filthy rags clutched in my hands,
And threw them in, falling to my knees.
I had no detergent,

No way to wash the deep-rooted stains
The world had reaped upon them.
My own choices stared back at me like
Dirt from the subway.

Tears started to carve tracks down my
Face as the blood of Jesus soaked
Into the garments, covering the grime
As they began to spin.

When I opened the door, they were
Made new again.

The pattern of the chains
Imprints on the pads of
My hands as I cling tightly
To the swings.

My hair is taken by the wind.
I hear a song in my head.
I sway back and forth, my
Feet dry from the sand.

The moment is taken
Too soon.

No matter the years
That settle themselves
On my frame,
I will forever be a Child,
Pushed on the swings
By my Father.

Excitement was padded
By the weighted blanket
Of nailed in dates—

Times I knew I could not
Let people down, or back
Out, without hurting them.
I wasn’t giving up—

If it was up to me, I would
Already be up, up, on the
Wind, away from all that
I could not change—

But my soul still resided
Here, in the body God
Crafted for me since the
Beginning—

I was not a bundle of joy,
Planning things with the
Anticipation of a child,
I was a servant—

Abiding God's plan in Him
Wanting me here,
 the Spirit
Working in my otherwise
deceitful heart.

The only thing I can do today
is breathe.
--Feel the air move slowly, quietly,
begrudgingly through my chest.
The pressure of the world squeezes in,
and I try to walk, try to use my limbs.
But all of my energy is occupied
by the simple act
of breathing.

The busy-bodied thoughts
That complained they were
Late for work, slowed their
Pace as a gentle Spirit
Descended on the grubby,
Activity-ridden streets.
Their hands loosened their
Grip on the hard-edged
Briefcases, and the buzz
In their bodies settled
Into a lackadaisical hum.

When my head is spinning with the blades of excuses
Used by the enemey,
I see Your love in the light of the drapes,
Your glory in the morning.
I say to myself “I am nothing, I am nothing.”
But my hands continue to make plans
Without You in them.
My heart bows to shame, my ears to false prophets,
And I kneel before You, Lord,
Wondering what kind of love allows You to be faithful
To such an unworthy servant.

“I want to go home.”

I said the words
Like a child,
The world suddenly
So big, so daunting.

Someone kneeled
Before me.
It didn’t matter who,
And said,
“This is your home,”

Confusion was slanted
On the front door
I had painted,
So long ago.

Still, it was
not my home.

I turned away,
Tears on my skin,
And tipped my head back. 


“Lord, why won’t you
Take me home?”

The trees warbled
As I walked down streets
I hardly knew. 


“You are needed here.
I am not done with you.
Have faith, Child.”

Shema—

His words leak
Into the stones
Of the pasture wall,
Into the folds of
My heart.

Shema—

Open our ears
And let our actions

Reflect the love
Of our God.

Shema—

Listen closely;
Let our attention
Wander over the
Goodness of
His word.

Shema—

With all our heart,
Strength, and soul,
Desire the guidance
He provides out of
The love we cannot
Understand.

Shema—

Help us comprehend,
Lord, open our ears
To who You are.

Shema—

I can’t be

Happiness

Today, but

Let me be

Kindness.

The thoughts dawdled
As they walked through
The valves of my heart.
They repeated “I, I, I”
As if it were a passkey,
Fueling the sedation
That sunk into my body,
The darkness making
My limbs heavy and my
Head loll to the ground.
With every thought I
Made about me, the
Deeper I felt I was
N ot  W orthy

I searched the city streets,
The gum-strewn sidewalk
And the hurrying people
With downturned eyes.

I searched the rainforest,
The ropes in the trees and
The family that lived too far
For frequent phone calls.

I walked the corners of my
House, wondering if my
Horizons were too wide—
But that was not the problem.

I searched the air in metal birds,
Looking for meaning in the
Formation of the stars, knowing,
Somewhere, I must belong.

I searched for a place to
Fill my heart and make it
Heavy with joy instead of
Sadness and leadweight loss.

I searched and I searched,
Over fairy moss hills and
Through low valleyways,
Above the towering treetops.

No matter how far or wide
I walked, my heart always
Longed for a home this earth
Could never provide.

I folded my legs under me,
Blocking out the beauty of
All I wished could fulfill,
And prayed to my Father.

His presence was the only
True home I would ever have.
Is that why it was so hard to
Live here, in this life?

My heart was an elevator shaft,
Falling too fast, skipping floors—
It was rickety as it tried to fulfill
The orders of my mind, reeling
As each new person found a
Home within its walls.

The button lights flickered, unsure
Of themselves and the places
They were supposed to foretell—
Only, there was a repairman in linen
Who peered over the edge at the
Metal and torn cords.

He knew the only way to make it
Steady again, was to let it descend
Deeper into the depths of the building,
Until the small figure inside looked
Up at him through the square cavity,
And realized it was safe.

The elevator was not falling--

It never had been.

The man in linen held the ropes
With sure, steadfast hands,
Saving me from the darkness
Separating me from Him.

Heads slouched back
On worn bus headrests,
Their sighs forming a
Pause in the constant
Hubbub of the city.
When they breathe in,
It is only the Holy Spirit
Filling them with peace
And strength in a world
Preferring anxiety.