Deuteronomy 15:17

it is easy for me, as of late
to look with jelousy
at those seated
in other chairs
in other roles
on other journeys

the lie I hear is that
'they are getting something
you arent.'
that somehow
their joy is
at my expense

my lips thin
and I fumble for loving
words. (The ones I'd
like to think I'd
say at times like these.) 
Instead, mutter
 "I wasn't ever like this
before."
eyes glaring, heart knotted

My friend once said
there is no amount
of Butter Pecan ice cream
that will quiet
our sadness. 

Aslan told Shasta
that we only get to know
our own stories

Truth.
there is no way out from
this thinking. No way home
on this twisted road.
to choose
bitterness
is to choose
death.

Truth.
I once
held out my hands
to You.
I lay my ear to
the doorpost and offered
my heart, my character,
my desires, my glories
to You. to know. to
fill. to love.

I said. Show me Your glory. Give me nothing
else. 

I know that You have done it
that this place can hurt,
but it's my place
and You: the Shepherd
are good and 
have led me thus far.
these kids.
this time
 this pasture.

I know
you're
here. 

there is room
for a thousand tears
cried into Your good arms.
There is a path
laid out
that will take us home. 

We say 'Thank God' for things
we don't know the
meaning of
yet.

thank God they rushed to the hospital
that day

thank God the train didn't come
and he was late

Thank God she wrote that recommendation

Thank God I cried tonight
at the table
(even though I don't
know why)

Thank God for the days getting longer.

Thank God for His hand
still holding

For pasture and
silent waters
and righteousness laid out

thank God it feels
like home,
(and
there's more
to come.)

My Stepmother

there was once
this clearing in the woods
in the empty lot
beside my Dad's house.
a tree with big leaves
and mossy ground and
a path only I
knew

I remember
after the funeral, 
coming in
the family room's
dimmed light and the

forest of hushed
people.
their voices
floated above me.

I did not
know how
to be sad

Outside, I saw the bulldozer
the churned dirt
the red realtor's sign,
And cried

I hope now
that she knew
what I didn't
When she explained to the others
that, no, I wasn't crying about
her father, but
that empty lot.

I hope now,
(and this just occurs to me)
she saw not the traitor
I think
But instead just
the child
I was
who just
couldn't find
her way home

I want to give you
what I was given-


The ability to sit
inside of grief and
know you're held. To
wait until an unknown
salvation. To live in weakness
displayed. To let Hope
pick up the pieces.

This world is broken.
so are we.
You know this.

And we,
the hard-hearted ones
the unlovely and
the soul-ripped. Us,
who cannot save anyone at all,
we, who
need to learn to
hold
helplessness.
to finally give up
trying to please

and
wait

I'll never get tired of Grace (pt 2)

the woman from the Catholic church
drove up around 6 and
carried a chair onto the
little stage.
Wary sentries we were-
our backs towards
fading sky, watching
3rd graders dig
mulch with their toes


Jesus loves the light,
she told them.
(He came- after all
 this small brown boy,
to be the light
of men.)

Then,
   a hand:

 "Would Jesus
ever go
 into the dark?"

(Third graders know how
to ask questions.)

we tilted our heads,
unsure of her.
She looked directly in

 "Well yes, Baby.

He would go
into the dark to
find you. " 

things i'm learning

the truth is that Jesus encountered suffering. That suffering comes.

the truth also is that Jesus is with us in it. That the Man stands in the midst of the flames.

the truth also is that he is a shepherd. not the thief.

I'll never get tired of grace

Of the way it sits
inside me. Spread open,
like blown glass and
never breaks


it's open space. the
wood floor in the darkness
and saying thank you
thank you
for things we didn't know
were coming


It's
farm and trees falling
below
the airplane's wing,
 and I
don't have to bite
Jessica's hand
anymore-
Reality does
tell fear a different
story

It's the surprise,
That
 i do not create
my life
that somehow I
keep getting
found

that
again and
again, even in
this cynical land,
there are
things
worthy
of
declaring