Hope was chiseled here
Awakening truth in the hearts of prostitutes, liars, and outcast.
Ideas of who you are are no longer boxed in
When the dust settles over grave and grass grows thick over death, your life still quickens in the womb of a mother’s grief.
Bouquet of memories
Birthed from the womb of your grave, I gasp my first breath of new life and cry out.
You flatly refused my flattery and filtered my deflated ego through your humility .
God’s in the kitchen whipping up a fresh day. Sunshine sprinkled with cinnamon clover invites me into barefoot, porch swing conversations with the Holy Spirit. He kneads my soul with scripture. Buttering bitterness of yesterday’s failures with confession and forgiveness and baking in the truth of my Father’s character. Jesus traces the shape of his…
I thought I was refuse . . .
Your suicide left my soul deep within smothering grief. . .