Sunday, January 09, 2011


In the romantic dream of a sage who teaches you the world's and better ways
is where I often live.
With an honest, in-the-chest yearning for oldness,
history, wrinkles to tell their tales
to speak of human life. To draw me to a warm hearth - and tell me desperate stories.

I have no such formal sage.
Though I searched, and beat my breast when there was none to be found:
a bit like an orphan - wondering what daily life in Christ looks like.

No, but I am in the company of many,
and in the economy of mercy - I am one, with them.
The night of my conversion, the speaker spoke to us on the ground,
"get up, and turn around - welcome to the family of God".

I have read Lewis, Augustine, Keirgkegaard.
Theresa, my Mother of faith, Nouwen,
and His tracings scrawl across the lives of the enlivened and upon the rocks that call.
The stories, yes - desperate. The telling of them unique, human-voiced: loud, boisterous, crying, painful, laughing; and heart felt.
Mmmm, that He might make our hearts the listening hearth upon which His stories tell and resound.

Thursday, January 06, 2011


ended up sitting in the middle of mess- surrounded by pieces that impossibly fit together - listening to His voice to know when to move one, and where: to follow holy as I have never before.

Ignorance threatening terror - but these words are of the most delicious of all.
If I know Him who whispers them,
The One who brings our bodies up with His, through sin - brokenness - and blood,
The One who crushes walls - no matter the magnificence, to get to you - to me.

craving: the frankness of one's insidious sin,
Death to be risen,
And Grace, the soothing balm to mend the ache.
I dance, limping - contented sways of hip to the Master's hum.

break.down -
by violent crash,
or Lover's potent whisper,
into the sweetest Landing of this World.

And be

all. swept. up.

- with Em and others
much peace.