When tears are not released,
The soul forces its way through,
like a poorly dammed-up river.
Expression is as natural as breathing.
Allow lament to wash away the debris of hopelessness
and reveal comfort.
Allow quick squalls of anger to have their say.
Allow tears, contagious with laughter, to water
parched landscapes with joy.
Allow fear to escape in truthful torrents.
Jesus wept.
Tears erode isolation, intertwine
humans, and declare to a God who hears,
“I need you!”
Muddled religious platitudes
leave me questioning existence and further
hush the echoes of truth. Hypocrites!
“God bless”ripped of its earth-quaking power
by unrepentant ministers who curse children with trauma
huddled naked under their self-righteous protection. Why would I want that?
Savior? What a laughable insult. I am god of my fate.
I am independent. A pull-yourself-up by-the-bootstraps kinda
person. Connect to god any way I choose. Or none at all.
I can stoke the flame of my passion with a flip of a channel.
Obstacle or object, I can abuse or manipulate people like pawns. Bend
them to the will of my mood.
The world is crammed with little wack-a-mole idols
popping up with flashy egos. “Look at me!” And I look.
Devoid of humility. Empty of truth. These are the ravenous monsters I sacrifice to?
Forgive and forget or take revenge are one and the same when I am god. Distilled of life-giving
obedience i forget to trace God’s instilled image in you.
To forgive and remember. Now there is the coup ‘d’ etat.
Sin, the abyss of separation from God. Sin, I once recognized and crumbled
to my knees in repentance. Sin is now bridged by
religious arrogance and social norms. “You do you.”
And in the end, when soul is spent, I ask. What is really different between Saint and sinner
if truth is what I make it?
Develop in me an eternal perspective.
I know you see me. Let me see you.
Like Hagar, my sorrow is not hidden
from you. I feel abandoned. You are in the desert of my loneliness.
Like drops of water, like manna, you feed my soul with
your presence. You satisfy me.
Jesus was not a victim of sin.
I am not a victim of infliction!
Helping others—my balm.
Opening my heart to infinite possibilities keeps me
Pressing through the gaps in my filmy understanding.
Pain is but a speck on my timeline, and I
Expect good things from a God who sees me.
Dog-eared smile tucked in
the green pocket of my heart.
—Courage, sent from home.
Some of us push against your goodness
Undeserving. Wretches, Self-Stamped Rejects.
Then we spin our tale, convincing everyone
around us of our version of truth. But I couldn’t
ever burn, cut, or tear your imprint
out of me. I was and am grafted into your image.
And when remembered, it’s easy to
surrender to your goodness.
Askew,
The world pulled the thread
of my fragile existence, and I
unraveled to nothing.
God found
a lump of thread unsure
of use.
Colored fragments of His
image.
Unhindered by my
knotted abuse
He untangled and restored order.
Knit me together, humming
tenderly as He wove my new life,
pink with purpose.
Woven into a tapestry of eternity.
I am a sturdy cord of three strands,
no longer alone.
But let me tell you something wonderful, a mystery I’ll probably never fully understand. We’re not all going to die—but we are all going to be changed. (1 Corinthians 15:51 The MSG, Biblegateway)
My son’s birthday and Mother’s Day are irrevocably intertwined. He is my firstborn. The one who taught me both the joys and sorrows of motherhood. I am very intentional about May. I don’t want to forget that as much as eight birthdays without Jonathan hurts, the joy of living these almost nine years with Christ shows me hope is not diminished by the grave.
Your birthday and motherhood are intertwined
like a wild rose around my heart.
The barrier of death pricks to marrow. Yet, the
sweet fragrance of Hope, salve to my sorrow,
grows tangible beyond the thorns of your grave.
Think of a moment when something you hoped for became a reality. Did you know for sure that it would happen?
Hope is tangible, and the more we grow to know the character of God and his son, the stronger and sweeter the fragrance of hope. In Christ, hope is never fickle, no matter how many thorns we experience to the contrary.
Lord, I don’t always see the roses growing among the thorns of my circumstances. Teach me to recognize your ways so that I can see beyond this temporary life. Amen
Before the swell of gospel melody,
The steady scales of scripture
Are plunked out in daily practice.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crowd of miracles,
Prayer plods through lonely deserts
noting life’s measure.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,
Lessons in theory reveal the authentic
character of the world’s composer.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crescendo of resurrection,
there is a garden path of surrender
where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,
I close my eyes and listen to the master play.
Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Pressed between the simplicity of your call, “Come follow me,”
and the complex crush of my daily cross,
I am humbled to my knees.
Here, shaped by the gospel of Your foot
washing love
I can gently, patiently, fish for men.
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/