god – Accepting This

Another Way

This is not working
I am not breathing, in and out like I should
I do not want to live here anymore
in this place where the most vulnerable are
repeatedly victimized
Where brokenness begets brokenness
where weapons are celebrated and defended
more than children
Where protocol or the lack of it
prevents change and assistance
I do not want to live here anymore
inside of this body that carries the weight of
tragedy like it was designed in the shape of a wheelbarrow
and my heart is the set of calloused hands that picks it up
fingernails scraping the dirt beneath it and I can feel every pain
Like the soil that gathers around my cuticles
the dysfunction is relentless
and everyone is telling me to breathe but they
Do not feel what my chest feels like
it is like a burning tightness,
it hurts to breathe in and when I exhale I feel
flooded with sorrow so instead I
hold my breath

Yesterday I said my mind feels like two forks
with the prongs grating together and I am trying
To shake these thoughts loose so that I can sleep at night
but it is all unrelenting
How does one regain control when there is not
a moment to do so?
Even my silence is tormented by memory of the past
and anxiety over the future
I thought that I would have one sacred space in this world
but nothing is immune,
Everything is permeable
and all of this requires an incessant working towards wholeness
or else it becomes fragmented
And I am exhausted
Like the bathroom sink that once was clean
all things require a periodic scrub
all things are seemingly bent towards destruction,
I remember when I first heard the word entropy:
gradual decline to disorder
You were fascinated by it, and I chose to deny it
but now I am not so sure

Tomorrow is the 26th and it would have been his 29th birthday
but he only had 27
I have carried my grief like it could fit in my pocket but it
turns out that it is instead every piece of clothing that I wear
I have convinced myself that it is acceptable but it is not in
any way, shape, or form
I understand the way of death and resurrection in nature, see it all around me
but that does not make my throat soften so that swallowing is not painful
That does not make my body forget what it felt like to tremble on the day that he was buried
I tend to keep myself from writing these words because I don’t
want anyone to feel hopeless
but if I don’t allow them to flow through me like a river
they will flood me until I drown
If I don’t make space for this pain I will soon sink into
a bitterness that cannot be shaken and God, I don’t want to be bitter
because I believe in the tension between all that is beautiful and all that is desperately wicked
so I offer up every racing thought within me
every angry argument and uncalled for reaction
every righteous frustration and selfish motivation
every moment of giving up and giving into the inertia that haunts me
every deep hurt that seems to find no permanent solace
All of the deceit that I did not expect to receive
all of the misunderstanding that I thought wouldn’t be
I offer up everything
Take it, please, just for a moment at least
and If I must carry it again, I will add it to my wheelbarrow of a body
but right now, I must set it all down and see what You might make of it

God With Us

If you were here,
I would’ve texted you a photo and said
“can you believe this??”
As I drove down grandma and pop’s old
street and observed the giant houses that
they’ve stuffed on the plots,
nearly spilling onto the sidewalks,
That used to be yards with small
homes built of bricks and
historic memories

When I turned onto North Nelson
I felt the energy within me shift
I’ve been alternating between
Dull nothingness,
An aching pain,
And a sharp panicking feeling
For a while now, but
Especially in light of the holidays
which were always nostalgic and kind
of sticky
But at least then
I knew what it looked like where you were
and I could check in to see what you were doing
Now I live in a city that
Is a stone’s throw from
The majority of our childhood
The best times together
with plates of salami, olives, and cheese
trays of cookies and jello cake
pop-pop pouring encouragements into silver rimmed glasses
our faces all warm and red from the radiator heat
and the whole family packed in the kitchen like sardines

It kind of feels like our family has
Always been aching, yet still hopeful
I’ve been a witness time and time again
To the way that sorrow and joy can mingle together
It’s like I already know this dance

In all honesty, I’ve been moving quickly through these past few months
Not entirely by choice, just due to the nature of my work
but I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve clung to
The late nights and urgent needs like a life boat
some strange kind of life boat that’s filling up with water
and here I am, standing in it with a bucket

I’m surrounded by people that do not have homes,
People with broken relationships,
seemingly insurmountable barriers
single mom’s escaping abuse
confused children
father’s working three jobs
with out transportation
families seeking asylum
and although I am present
there’s often not much that I can do about it
I’m saturated in a broken system,
Failing policies,
And a community who seems to understand in one moment,
and perpetuate the very problems it’s trying to solve
in the next

Yet through all of this,
I’ve thought of you
Can’t stop thinking of you
And I’m trying to hold onto the light
of how precious it is to be in
A family that chooses hope
To remember that the sole
purpose of advent is to know
Immanuel, God with us
And to carry this concept deep
within my soul
I can move through these
Moments, take a breath in these moments
The gut wrenching moments,
The joyful moments
The numb moments
The disappointing moments
The angry moments
The breaking moments
In every moment
Immanuel

Nine Months One Week

nine months, one week
I can’t help but to mark my life by
the days that pass by without you here
tonight I cooked dinner
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cooked dinner since you left
I used to love to cook,
I’d research recipes for hours
I’d cook new things every week
I’d listen to music and sing while I
chopped onions, listen to stories and
sermons while I sautéed
And when you left, I stopped really
not intentionally
It just kind of happened

In the months right after
I gave away nearly all of my stuff
sold my home
started out on what I tried to claim as
adventure, wanted to fully live in every
moment, yet for so many of those
moments, I didn’t want to live at all
After a slew of events both good
and very bad
I am here
in our new apartment
and I cooked dinner
on my own, while I listened to voices
that encouraged me
to both hold on and to let go
The skin on my hands grew tight from
the butternut squash,
my senses grew alive from the scent
of cayenne and turmeric
The vegetable broth splashed on my
striped shirt
and still, I cooked

The apartment is mostly empty
since I sold all of our shelving
and we don’t have a dresser yet
for our clothes
This all feels like a sort of
starting over, beginning again
yet I feel so old
exhausted and worn down but
alive somehow
I want to keep going
and I want to keep cooking
I want to be like these many
windows that let the November light in
There is such great sadness in
the people that I love and within myself
and it is in many of those I’ve
come to know
I want to believe that it is not
stealing life, that it is actually making
all things more meaningful
I have found that when I place it
in the hands of God I can see it
differently, it doesn’t make me feel it
any less but I can watch as it takes
shape into something
The days stack up and fall apart again
the work gets hard then wears thin
the seasons change then the weather stays the same
winter sun on bare branches
I am raw like them until I get leaves again
until I cook again
until I become full again

Human

I am a collection of contradictions
in the shape of a human body
My skin is the boundary
keeping the anxiety and confusion from seeping
out of me
I am having trouble staying
comfortable in my comfort
My conviction deepens within me
every time I feel something like happiness
Contentment feels like it is stolen
from those who are with out it
I am trying to separate
myself from everything else
but were we really meant to be that way?
To live in categories and separateness
a watered down version of
us versus them
We’re all doing it on some level
casting away discomfort and pain
But today I read some words from an
unnamed author
And they wondered if
our calling to “cultivate and care for creation”
did not require us to fix things
rather to “reach far into the places unknown and trust that even the smallest brush with the cloak of Christ will make us all well”
and it made me wonder too
Because lately I’ve been caught up in the notion of
fixing things
because these broken things are overwhelming
yet I am reminded in the moments of my
limited language
trying to communicate with words that
don’t make sense
That I am awfully helpless and
I am just a collection of contradictions
in the shape of a human body that is
forbidden from embracing another
And my empathy cut deep when
I walked into her room and found her crying
and all I could say was “lo siento”
I’m sorry for the way that things are
a lot of the time I am prying apart
systems and bureaucracy
attempting to be a human
To see every human as
A human
Tearing down the walls of division that
religion, politics, and pride
have built
Stepping over the boundaries that others have
put in my way, or that I have allowed my
pain to create

To be honest
aspects of my theology are crumbling as I
consider the personhood of Christ
and begin to understand the history,
the reality
Yet I feel like I am the disciple
laying my head on his shoulder
finally listening to his heartbeat
with out fear of what anyone may think
Yes, everything is falling a part
yet coming together
My love growing
as my heart goes on aching
Settling into the discomfort as the baseline
instead of avoiding it like the plague

For the Love of God

lissy tropea jordan · For The Love Of God

For the love of God
Stop politicizing your faith
The God of the nations does not identify with your sides
The God of the galaxies is not concerned with your categories
For the love of God, stop speaking so much
sit in the discomfort of silence and examine your heart
Stop projecting, expecting more from others than you give yourself,
stop painting a picture of how you want to be seen
in a desperate attempt to rid yourself of guilt or prove your personal goodness,
stop denying, stop condemning;
You are not a righteous judge.
Human, think of the conflicts within yourself
the areas of your thinking and believing that
you cannot reconcile or redeem
Do you want reconciliation and redemption?
Surely, you will not find it within
you cannot go a few days with out
opposition and pain
You inflict problems simply by existing,
lay down your pride
And understand that you are not the answer
you are the problem.

You seek your own comfort over the well being of your neighbor
you focus on the materialistic, superficial, and transient
you make idols out of lust, money, dreams, and passions
you lie for your own gain, you love for your own satisfaction
Do you truly believe that a collection of your own thoughts and ideals would bring
hope to the most broken and desolate parts of your country, your world?
You have not defied death or disease,
You have not conquered the grave,
no, you are headed for death and on a
consuming path of destruction
Everything you can hold in your hand will soon rust,
and those intangible accomplishments that you identify with
Are of no greater value than dust
If you are remembered at all after you are gone from this earth,
you will have no knowledge of what they will say or believe
About who you were, or what you did
And if you knew, would that be enough?
You are not satisfied with the words that they tell you now,
their praise and approval does not remedy the ache and void inside of you

Human, each day your body is weighed heavy by the pressure
of aging, the elements of time and space are working together
To prove your fragility and your mortality
Do you see how great of a predicament you are in
with out Grace?

Apart from Christ, there is no good
There is simply fleeting pleasure and
hollow contentment
With out the atoning blood of Jesus
you are left to your own devices
to your own efforts,
emotions, disappointments,
successes, memories, mistakes,
futile attempts at building something that will last
that cannot last,
that will burn up and
if anything at all
simply and solely be a part of the
past
Human, sit with your soul
attempt to cradle the wounds and complexities
of this strange existence,
Slow down for a moment and face the
reality of the grandeur of the skies and
the smallness of your being

I choose the everlasting,
I choose the abundant life
the one that is not dependent upon anything that I have done or will do –
The one that is given full and complete meaning
because of the perfect life of a man,
who was and is God, who was killed
who bled vibrant, pulsing blood for the
nature of my being that
was enslaved by sin
but designed for communion

I live in wholeness now,
because of the breath that returned to his body
and the purpose that was restored to me –
completely and fully alive now,
no longer defeated by the daily
anxiety and hopelessness of the temporary
I live in truth now,
I can see the world for what is is now,
an aching collection of breathing bodies
and immortal souls that will not stop
killing, lying, stealing, fighting,
dying, mourning, crying, deceiving,
breaking, aging, enslaving, and groaning…

Until, the glory of God is revealed
And the nations are healed
and every tongue declares
Jesus; savior of the world.

How do I live now? I pursue Him now,
what does he require of me?
To do justice, to love kindness,
to walk humbly with my God

Have you grown weary yet,
of eating and never becoming full?
Of drinking, only to thirst again?
The hunger within you will
only be satisfied when you no longer
Eat of this world

For the love of God,
dismantle your pride,
turn your eyes

A Prayer for Justice

5:30am and the breeze moves through the trees
like a knife against warm butter,
a morning of your unfailing love,
but do you hear the cries of the marginalized?
I hear them but I do not know what to do,
what to say. My heart aches with them
but my voice falls thin against the vast history of hurt,
the collections of oppression
O God, my words are powerless with out your purpose
my empathy is not enough, my outrage manifests
in restless nights and constant questions
I am listening, O God
I am asking, O Lord
Guide my steps and let me not cower beneath
the weight of injustice
Reveal in me any ounce of prejudice,
any underlying judgement

You are the God of all nations,
the loving father of every skin covered soul
Teach me how to be a defender
of the dignity, safety, value, and freedom of
every man, woman, child
Rid me of complacency in the face of sin
Separate me from silence when it is time to speak,
I will embrace the discomfort that is festering
knowing that this is your way of calling me near to you,
near to your heart that breaks with each act of violence,
each moment of discrimination,
each tear that falls from the eye of
a mother losing a child,
a son losing a father,
a human losing hope

You are the Lord
who practices steadfast love, justice, and righteousness
for in these things you delight
Make me a vessel for your steadfast love, justice, and righteousness
for these things, I will fight.

Dissatisfied?

Your longing cannot be satisfied by a certain acceptance,
it cannot be extinguished by a set of belongings, a state of security,
or a romanticized relationship
In your most perfect day,
your best travels, your most loving moment of intimacy,
you will still yearn and the inmost part of your being will not
settle into contentment like you’ve convinced yourself it should

You will be constantly wanting, reaching, striving,
you will not find an eternal joy on this earth
Even the most serene moment is laced with sorrow
this life ends with death, as do most of our elated emotions
After health comes sickness
after community comes desolation
after prosperity comes lacking
after relief, another burden appears
Aren’t you exhausted?
Aren’t you afraid?
Aren’t you wondering why your best efforts are inadequate,
why your greatest pursuit turns up void?

The depth of God’s character can be made known to you,
the vast measures of his love can be made real to you
To no longer live with a crushed spirit,
to no longer bask in the temptation of self-pity,
or base your existence off of self-sufficiency, self-indulgence,
to no longer measure your worth with an underlying taste of self-depreciation,
self-abuse, or self-hate
If it is freedom you are after, take hold of this redemptive offering
The blood of Jesus gushing out for you like an ocean wave crashing at the shore
your name on his lips as he breathed his last breath
and your name on his heart when he rose to life after a brutal death
do not let this act of ultimate love be a fake tale or some far off history
entertain the thought that this might be the only reality

Will you be hindered by modern culture and mistakes of organized faith?
Will you be convinced by hidden pride that you are in control of your soul, your life?
December has been slathered in consumerism and nostalgia,
the months to follow, set-up on goals and priorities, which you will fail to keep
and continually misalign
the spring will come with movement and growth,
and you might miss the symbolism of all of creation coming to life again and
summer will distract with events and some type of temporary hope kindled by the heat
autumn will come and the leaves will change
and then it will be winter again, and when yet another year has come and gone
what will you have to say of it?

The years will pass,
you will age
you will lose the people you love and the money that you have saved
you will feel glaring moments of sadness, fleeting moments of joy
you will accomplish things that will soon be forgotten,
and you will build things that will rust and eventually be destroyed
What will you have left,
when all good things come to an end?
What will you have left,
when your body fails and you give up your last breath?

This is a plea to those I love,
to those I have yet to meet
Don’t waste this life when you could live
in the most tender care of a King
One who will transform your weakest attempt
into a miracle of grace and redeem your bruised body
to be an eternal reflection of his glory

Through out these days of living in a state of groaning,
I rest assured knowing
that I was made to be known and to be loved by him
and I was made to know and to love him
and this simple declaration satisfies every longing
it settles my soul, gives life to my bones

–

This poem was inspired by a sermon titled “The Wounded Spirit” by Timothy Keller, probably one of my favorite sermons ever. Listen to it here. Read it here.

Like a Garment

Have you ever
seen a thread unravel from a garment?
Pulled a load from the washer
only to find a string of frayed fabric?
Caught up and tangled,
you try to find the source
but you complicate it further by digging and pulling
And when it’s in your hands
you can see that damage has been done
that what was at first designed to be
a useful and beautiful thing
has begun a process of unravelling?

The human is like a cotton garment
with lace edging on the seams,
Its maker intended for it to be worn
and for it to create warmth
and for it to contribute and be loved and held
With wear it becomes dirty
and it needs a wash
and often times the caretaker doesn’t follow the directions,
maybe they didn’t know how to read, or they just followed what they had seen
and in it goes with wool and polyester and fabrics of all kinds
it gets thrown in with circumstances and textures that it was never meant to know
and instead of a delicate hand wash it gets beaten by the movement of
the machine and strained by the heat
and when it gets pulled from the wash,
there the fabric is frayed
and the thread is wrapped around everything
tangled up and worn out

Do you yell at the garment? Complain that it didn’t
do its job right? Wonder why it failed to be washed clean,
go to the maker and demand back your money?

A soul is more fragile than a garment labeled hand wash only,
the mind more composite than sewn together threads
and we gossip about the neighbor with the addiction,
throw stones at the mother whose child floats into the foster care system
Our brains were wired for attention,
but theirs were met with neglect,
heightened traumas and coping mechanisms turned into
generations of dysfunction
and there lie our pleas to break the cycle and do something
muddled and drenched in the reality of helplessness

I do not claim any ounce of confidence,
the only thing I can do is recognize my weakness
I welcome the constancy of my brokenness
It is only there that I will have rest

I wrestle with my doubt of your goodness
and my anger over your sovereignty,
This is not a place of equal right or opportunity,
but my ambivalence over your existence and truth
is extinguished by the thought of a life with out you
Yes, this place is stacked full of misery,
all the more reason we need your saving

I refuse to allow my cynicism and self-righteousness
to overpower the only source of light in all of this
with out you, whom do we have?
with out you, where should we go?

I serve a God who came for the weak,
he bled and died, so that the blind could see
He is not a removed or cold high priest,
he is a man
who suffered for,
and suffers with,
me

Our quickness to trust in humanity,
should be deserted when we see
the homeless child in their vulnerability
an unravelled thread, a damaged piece
I serve a God who says “come to me,”
he rose to life for the weary
My conviction should not rest
in my angry defense of my inability to save
it should be an everlasting devotion
to the maker and designer of mankind and the ocean
Dismantle my pride and teach me to lay down my life
change the way that I live and the way that I die,
death to my scrutiny and life to my trusting
death to our complacency and life to our caring

My destitution runs deep,
your grace covers me,
I am no longer a garment frayed and torn,
I am a new creation made to be used
an instrument for warmth, a speaker of truth,
I exist to glorify you

Warm

He woke up before me,
and I laid in bed with my eyes still closed
listening to the shower turn on
and the autumn wind rustling the trees
the bed still warm from where he slept

I woke up early this morning,
and when I climbed out of bed it was like a small celebration,
a little success, because I so often fail instead
He was already putting his socks on
but he smiled at me when I claimed my accomplishment

I made him breakfast,
as he shuffled around our apartment
still dim from the night before,
I thought of how many times I’ve missed this moment
because of my commitment to sleep and the warmth
of the covers, keeping me safe

Safety is false,
there is always room for fear
yet I still feel safe
and sad for those who fall asleep with out,
and wake up with out,
the feeling of safety

I walked him to his car,
carrying a bowl of eggs and potatoes
and a small bit of coffee, because he left the rest for me
the air is cold all of the sudden,
the leaves are turning orange and red
another summer has faded
and the familiarity of October sets in

The light in our apartment
turned from dull to a bright contrast
the sun shining on the wall,
shadows broken up by our plants

Warm is the feeling of missing him when he is gone,
but trusting that he will be back
Warm is the joy that rests deep within me,
the absence of the depression that once consumed me
Warm is the thought of my family,
the simplicity of loving selflessly

Our apartment is still and
quiet this morning
chairs and bookshelves grounded,
frames secured to the walls
but as the wind drifts in through our open sliding door
chaos exists outside and in the rest of the world,
the warmth within me is what I will hold on to,
to have the capacity to persist in the cold

My prayers are steady and specific,
I begin with thankfulness and move on to repentance
I proclaim my pleas and then I yield to you
I long for the chance to give the warmth I have
to someone who has never felt it,
or to someone who has lost it

The comfort you have given me
is not mine to keep
I trust that you will provide
the warmth that they, too, need
and if you would,
let me be your hands and your feet

Reasoning

To live in simple moderation,
to accept what I could have changed
to look away at the sight of dysfunction or demise
to fall asleep to the distraction of a screen and
wake up to the rhythmic habits of my own world
Even in this generic approach,
I cannot deny the intensity of life

The weather rages and the stories never end,
the intricacies of photosynthesis in the trees
and the psychology behind a human mind
the endless combination of words in millions of books
each making a new and unique character
I cannot pretend to grasp the largeness of life

The injustice in our laws,
the contradictions in our nominal faiths
the little lies and snide remarks
in our daily conversations

The traffic, a sight of frustration
the ocean, a glimpse of peace
holiday mornings with their nostalgia
and the disappointment of time gone too fast

The pleasure in symmetry,
the components of anxiety
the fear of sickness and the
longing for death or dreading of dying

We must not stay distracted,
or we will miss the point
everything on earth is a foreshadowing of
what is to come or a consequence of what has happened

We must not settle for what our culture has deemed appropriate,
just a little bit of religion or a lot of distraction
materialism and busyness racing in to hold our attention
good works as our redemption
substances as our prevention of feeling deeply
or our means to stay afloat

Shouldn’t an entire world history
and continued actions of
slavery, genocide, and destruction
lead us to believe
we are innately sinful,
and in desperate need of saving?

We are quick to identify
the terror brought on by others
yet slow to recognize the hate
and conflict in our own hearts
I have a hard time seeing how the
world will change
if we refuse the transformation of our
own hearts, minds, souls

I could resort to nihilism,
fall into cynicism,
live this one life with no thought of the next
I could say that all things go,
avoid confrontation through assimilation
but I would first have to deny the artist who created all good things,
I’d have to choose a gaping void over the deepest satisfaction,
the most clear answer to my endless aching

This is a not so subtle reminder
that moths and rust destroy
life moves quickly and what do we leave when we go,
a legacy of family, distracted and busy?
I look to Christ as my hope
a sure and steady anchor,
a purpose for my soul

But when I look to Him,
I’m confronted and convicted of a reality within
his words are not isolated anecdotes of comfort and peace,
they are like fire, burning and refining
“O for grace to discard all hypocrisy,
and to be found of Him sincere and without rebuke…”
How deep the rest that abides in me,
when I surrender everything
I admit to my ignorance,
welcoming your wholeness in my weakness
I wrestle with the absurdities of life
and even my anger with you
but I won’t bask in distraction,
busyness with no real action
Your words are sharp and cutting,
yet your embrace is so sweet.
There is no explanation for living
if I deny you as my King

Humanity moves forward,
clenching on to the past and vying for the future
I remember the truth that each person has been made
in the image of the god that I believe to be true
I acknowledge the mysteries and long to know more of you,
and I refuse to give this faith only a small part of me,
it is either everything or nothing at all.

“Christianity, if false, is of no importance,
and if true, of infinite importance.
The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.”

–

quotes by charles spurgeon and c.s. lewis

Freedom from Me

This poem is inspired by Sharon Hodde Miller’s book, Free of Me, this sermon by Rev. David Stephenson from Mclean Presbyterian Church, and my most recent life transition of moving from Arlington to Amissville.

–

Replace my self centeredness with an awareness of your
sovereign presence
Who am I to say
what will happen tomorrow,
or even today?
I’ve always known
a false sense of control
harboring anxiety like it’s a part of me
Allowing my plans and the failure of them
to dictate my disposition and my trust in you

There is freedom,
wherever you are
but not just from my past or future,
freedom from my present self
My never fleeting condition of
selfishness and pride
my constant fear of
inadequacy and the notion
that all good things will be
taken from me

There is freedom now,
your presence as real as the
invisible wind shaking the spring green trees
There is freedom in the evening,
when I’ve yet to complete all the things that
I set out to do in the morning
There is freedom in each new sunrise,
an opportunity to seek you more
to accomplish the purpose you have made me for

So let me find satisfaction in you alone
in your creation and your sacrifice
There is freedom from myself
You have forgiven all of my failures,
and finished all of my good works
I need not dwell on myself,
for you have given me a new identity
one that is made up of you,
I am free of me.

Resurrected

Inspired by John 20

–

They looked for you here,
ran to your tomb, only to find the linens
that were used to wrap you
Mary thought you were a gardener,
until you said her name
It took some time for them to recognize
to believe that you were alive again,
Thomas had to touch your side,
to feel the nail marks on your hands

The cool spring air slides through my open windows,
as the early morning sun glosses the green buds on
the awakening trees,
I listen to a recording of my pop-pop playing trumpet
off of a worn down and scratchy CD
Every sweet note lingers in the space around me
as I remember, I won’t find You in the grave,
You are alive, You are not there
You are risen indeed

The crowd gathers to hear about your miracle,
but how many of us will leave
with out recognizing that your death was an invitation to
newness, that you long to make a new creation out of me
How could I turn away from this hope that you have revealed,
my questions stretch towards the heavens but I will not
be consumed by the limitations of my humanness
I can’t stand still in the truth of all of this

Your body was broken, and you bear the scars to prove it
and if I ask like Thomas, you’ll let my hands curve around
your resurrected wounds
You’ll say my name so that I know it is You

When fear overcomes
and terror endures
I lock my doors and hide
Yet you come to me
in overwhelming love,
surpassing peace
your spirit flows
it covers me

You are not dead,
you’re not hanging on that cross
Jesus, you are alive
and you are calling us

“Come to me,
I will give you rest
a rescue from this world,
from your weariness
I am making all things new
and in this moment,
my Peace I give to you.”

This is glorious,
the grace that you have lavished upon me
this is redemption and now I can truly live
In this life I will follow you,
author and perfecter of my faith,
in every sorrow, in every disappointment,
in every pain, in every death
you stand sovereign
giving purpose to my breath
This hope is not a coping mechanism,
it is the anchor to my soul
It pulses in my blood,
transforms my every thought
The Truth of who you are,
a conquering light,
defeating the dark

He Loved Them to the End

Inspired by John 13.1-35

–

You knew the cross would take you soon
your hour had finally come
and in this knowledge I stand in awe of you
often confused by you
Knowing the beginning to the end
You loved them to the end

You filled the basin with water,
took Peter’s foot in your hand
He struggled to accept your grace,
refusing your decline to the lowly place
Reminded of the depths of his sin,
he asked you to then wash his hands and his head

You knew who would betray you,
you loved him still and again
and this is the part that breaks me
I have an odd sense of sympathy,
I beg Judas to change his mind
every time I read this piece of history

If love is what you gave to them,
and love is what you give to me
then love I should give to all
even those who may turn their back on me

If love is service and sacrifice,
because you became a servant and The Sacrifice
I should seek to serve and to sacrifice
every moment, every day of my life

And you loved them to the end,
the disciple laid his head against your chest
your presence full of peace and rest
And you loved them to the fullest extent

Red Lettered Death

Inspired by John 12.20-36
Encouraged by John Piper, Dying as a Means of Loving

–

I’ve always known the red letters were sacred
and when I read them to myself I would try to deepen the tone
of my voice in my head, to make them sound more like Jesus
to make something or someone distant, feel a little closer

And in my dark moments of depression
when I clung to disobedience in fear that
following you would leave me more empty
I may have echoed the words of the Greeks at the feast,
“I wish to see you”
Many times I made the request,
Many times you revealed yourself and I turned away,
caught up in sorrow, persuaded by the need to save
To save someone on my own,
with my own strength

And in my elated moments of pride and false contentment,
I may have echoed those ancient words again
tossing my plea like a coin to a fountain
not knowing that your presence requires death

I remember the day that I committed to following you,
preceded by a lifetime of arguing, doubting,
surrendering and taking it back,
questioning, pondering, watching and waiting,
and finally saying
make me into something new,
take my life I give it to you.

I was a grain of wheat
fighting my fall to my death,
thank God for the moment that I finally gave in

I gave in to your grace and my death
led to Life,
I wish to see you Jesus
for who you are and not what I’ve made you out to be
I wish to know you Lord,
in the intricate ways that you have known and loved me

As you laid your life down for me,
teach me to do the same
Every day dying to self,
Heaven is my gain

As you shed your red blood for me,
spoken in red letters on paper to see
Dismantle my pride and obsession with
shortcomings,
Conquer my desire for earthly things,
put my selfishness to a red death
by a crucified King

Because of a Mustard Stain

I missed you the most
when I put on your plaid denim shirt
looked in the mirror and saw a mustard stain in the reflection
It made me think of hot summer days and eating hot dogs
Visions of you laughing and stirring potato salad flooded my mind
and I wanted you to be here again
I wanted to run to the freezer in the back room and grab
a popsicle to soothe the flushed feeling that fell on my face
at the thought that you cannot be here again

Your absence brings an ache larger than a missing person
When you left here you took an entire era,
my childhood was wrapped up in your existence
showered with boston cream pies and birthday cakes
I want to give to others the way you gave
I want my home to be like yours

The beginning days with out you were sticky
and frozen together by winter air and an odd adjustment
to a different kind of living where my worries of you would be
extinguished by melancholy peace
The days ahead will be riddled with thoughts of you,
the desire to talk with you

I’ve been dreaming of you nearly every night,
reminded that you are now more than alive
let the reality of heaven steal away the gloom
the empty moments where I miss you
The knowledge of your state produces a
joy greater than pain
a fragrant contentment like the scent of your
leftover laundry detergent

Our apartment is now home to your old
windowsill plants,
They traveled with you from arlington to amissville,
back to arlington with me and soon to amissville
again they will be
Irony is alive in this life,
we go from child to later become childlike,
with the weakening of bones and the
deterioration of strength
You had so much fear but you
held fast to your faith

I believe I learned how to truly pray because of
my prayers with you
kneeling down beside your bedroom chair,
holding your hands in mine
hearing the heaviness of your lungs pulling in
a breath, and the most holy name rolling off of your lips
you would whisper his name “Jesus, Jesus”
you said his name like a friend,
like the comforter he is
and I would pray as your whispers became the chorus,
God let us see beyond circumstance
let us trust beyond capacity
let us be near to You more than anything

I learned that prayers when you are sorrowful,
prayers when you are sick, can be uttered with
desperation and met with surpassing peace
Just say the name, “Jesus, Jesus”

When you were overwhelmed with suffering,
body fighting the pull of death
My mother said that just as entering the earth is painful,
so is leaving it

The difference here is that the life to come after
won’t be one of peaks, highs and lows
No, the life that is to come is incomparable
I think God uses contrasts
He shows us the darkest pit to reveal the truth
of the most glorious heaven

On the night that you left,
my terrified anger mellowed out into a deep trust,
my husband said that we could do one of two things;
question why a good god would allow suffering like this
or thank our good god that it doesn’t end like this

Thank you Lord that this is not the end
Thank you Lord that you said “Come to me
weary and burdened, and I will give you rest”
We are weary and burdened, you will give us rest
She was weary and burdened,
you took her from this life to the next,
The heavens are rejoicing and
every sweet memory declares your sovereignty

To Be Yours

It’s a desire to be in more than one place at a time
not a fear of missing out, but a fear of time
The quickness of it, and the thought of am I doing enough?
being enough, loving well enough?
Never enough and that’s the core of it all
My actions don’t satisfy my debts, my words
don’t earn your approval
My life could decrease in works and increase in mess
and you’d love me all the same

I would make it work the other way, if I were God
I don’t have thoughts on my own that are anything like yours
My thoughts are like dark roads covered in black ice
waiting for a chance to sneak in and crash up the movement of sanctification
If I were God, I’d say
the better you do, the better you are
and that would be more comfortable, knowing that my merit is earned
but I am not God, thank God

Instead, you give freely
and I come up short
you meet me

I am most at peace when given the opportunity to sit on the couch
with books and your word, and a hot cup of coffee
and I also feel anguish in those moments with the knowledge that I can’t
stay in this place for as long as I want
and among the peace there is also torment
the wrestling of my flesh, I just want to be more like you
I am not a savior though, I am simply saved

Simple in the sense that your blood is real and covers it all,
I long for your truth and the shaking off of my hindered perspective

My perspective that is hindered by the daily anxieties that I hate that I have
when I admit the things that truly worry me I am ashamed
Uneasiness rises within me at the sole thought of moving from one place to another
travel, food, sleep, furniture, finance, any ounce of change
I’m embarrassed by the concern that causes my chest to tighten,
I hold my breath when you’ve given me reason to breathe

When conviction runs rampant in my anxious heart,
I am left feeling defeated and undone
I crave to get every single idea and event inscribed on my internal calendar
and carried out into eternity but I fail
I fail to accomplish the simple things, and I have always been
compelled by the complex

This is an admittance of guilt for things that I should rightly feel guilty for,
but you told me that to set my mind on the flesh is death,
and to set my mind on the Spirit is life and peace
and I want to live

I want to live in utter admiration of your character,
letting this knowledge of you lead me away from darkness
the shadows of my heart and the way it sets my mind up for failure
Let compassion be an enabling emotion, leading me to
serve you out of freedom and genuine care for others
Let each day be counted as good because of your work
already finished
And in my lacking let your fullness be
illuminated

Slow my internal discourse, my outward speech
make a symphony out of my discomposure
and let me hear your voice above it all
saying

“Child, you are mine and that is enough.”

Old Has Gone

It is in the sweet moments of peace,
the swift glances of understanding,
the comfortable silence

It is in the slow mornings,
the continuous car rides,
the cups of hot coffee

It is in the smallness of this too large life
that I’m caught up in the awe of you
and the gratitude of knowing that you are for me always

It is in the change and complexity of this newness,
the melancholy movement of time,
the habits that are forming and the ones we’re trying to let go

It is in the subtle suggestions,
the casual reassurances,
the new notions and knowledge

It is in the consecutive days spent by your side
that I can dream of a whole life defined by goodness
and my past guilts and preconceptions slip into oblivion
and all of who I am is known by you, loved by you

This is a new kind of freedom, one that I thought impossible
this is a different kind of being, one that is aware but not condemned
and as the days go on in mundanity, or the years pass through us like a mist
my soul is solidified in the symbolism of this affection
The old has gone, the new is here

Another need for freedom

Let my thoughts not be declared by what my eyes see,
A thousand images on a scrolling screen
Let my insecurities not be birthed from comparison,
Like a toxic breath shaking the foundation of my cells
I want to think on my own again
I want to look at what is around me again

I am becoming surely convinced that this is all quite unnatural,
Checking in on a thousand other lives but knowing nothing more
than highs and lows – the intricacies of humanness are being stripped from us
The need for individuality strikes a wrong chord
It’s a self obsessed world we are making with each image and caption
Whether we love ourselves or hate ourselves, we really have put a lot of
emphasis on ourselves

This is not a call for ignorance, for being unaware
It’s not a call for judgement – we are different and we all handle it differently
but God help me if I don’t acknowledge the stickiness of over connectivity
The way it seeps into the parts of life that were meant to be private

Transparency is to be promoted but it will not come in the form of a filtered, cropped,
and framed photograph
let’s call it for what it is – we want to be known
but this desire is a harmful thing when we no longer experience
the current like it is our own, no longer savor the moments with those living, breathing bodies around us

Many have lived before us, untouched by the weight of a phone in their hand
This is insanity! My fingers have curved to cradle it’s edges even when it is not present
This is an obsession! My chest feels heavy when I have not “checked in” on things
I’ve allowed myself to feel defeated, like my success of the day was non-existent if not documented

Somedays it’s a more subtle kind of thing, others it’s overwhelming
Is there a balance to be had, or should we disengage entirely?
How would we experience the world surrounding us if it were not
perpetually shared for others to see?
How would we love and believe and know and learn
I want to love wholly
to believe undoubtedly
to know with taste and wisdom
to learn with focus and dedication

Not this double tap, swipe down kind of love
not this edited and revised kind of belief
not this over saturated, too soon kind of knowledge
not this quick and done kind of learning

So here is a plea for reconsideration
to stop being so sure that we are in control
This is just scratching the surface,
A plea for refocusing,
A plea for intentionality
God, let us be freed

Wading

Listen to this while reading

My words are like honey,
they stick to my teeth, to my fingertips
They sink to the bottom of a glass,
get gulped up in the quickness of drinking
the speed of everything

I don’t want to wait to do something better,
don’t want to hang in time and comfort like
I am unaware of reality

I’m getting to know winter in a new kind of way,
not so sorrowful anymore, not so heavy
My depression has become nostalgic in a way,
hints of it rise up when something reminds me of it
I told him the other day that I feel guilty for being content,
and then I remember when contentment was my most frequent emotion to envy

Constantly peeling off my human tendencies, my tendency to feel unworthy
to feel anxious, to feel unwanted, to be self-destructive, to be abrasive
My tendency to slink into fear, to become irritable, to distrust and to complain

I’ve made a sincere attempt to maintain happiness, but I can promise you any bit of joy I know is divine intervention

I’m developing a theory surrounding hardship,
one that is often spoken of but hardly acknowledged
Something like each moment of pain makes you more relatable, if you let it
each broken up circumstance makes you more glad in the whole parts
but only if you hand them all over, the pains and the breaks, and the inexplicable times

I wish that we would speak of our imperfections more often,
but not in the effort to receive pity
not in that self-deprecating kind of way,
no… maybe we could just speak of the ways we are lacking
to realize that we truly are
and to be open to the possibility that we will never be perfected
despite our trials and triumphs
And in this imperfection I rest,
because there You are in my weakness

I want to no longer want
I want my desires to vanish and reappear as selflessness
For my longings to dissolve and to be aware of
real, true needs
To be aware of each person as a soul, a body and a mind
to allow my convictions to settle like dust on my organs
brushing against me so I do not forget

Do not forget that these days are fading
that these times are fleeting
that these thoughts are washing and wading back
into an ocean of your being

Still Intact

Let my words be large, let them overflow because my
Dreams are saturated and enlightened and I need to grab
on to something now

The man I love told me that my emotions are compulsive but my actions are methodical,
so let that be true, let me feel deeply but act in patience, in worthy commotion
I want to give, that’s the core of it
he said being selfish is exhausting and
everthing in me agrees

My heart is breaking and simultaneously being repaired,
each moment of realization that she is decaying
and too many things are toxic, and challenging
my heart sinks beneath the surface and succumbs to
hopelessness and then it rips its way back up to the
light again, strapping itself up with encouragement
My God is Greater, my eyes seek Heaven, my soul knows rest

So rolling forward with bandages on wounds, regaining strength with
Each new hope and possibility (solely found within the realm of
believing) I take my thoughts and I marinate them in truth and I speak
them back to myself as best as I can

I spent five days wandering hospital hallways,
I saw the brittleness of reality and the opposition of health,
And then I spent five days on the road, traveling with a dear soul and
I saw the world in ways I never have before
and even in new perspective I can get swallowed up in old trains of thought
and even in virginia mountains, tennessee alleys, and texas deserts
I can see that I am small but the desire to live greatly is embedded deep within me
I know that my sentience is only developed through experience

To live greatly does not mean largely,
no, I do not need more than I have
To live greatly means to live in empathy,
to live with kindness and a capacity to see differently,
to live with flexibility, I have my dreams but I’ll be alright if they
are taken from me
To live greatly is to live selflessly, to stop saying “God make something of me”
and to begin to live in the identity that He has already given me
Free, adored, consecrated, new

I am new each morning because of His redeeming glance towards me,
and how can I avoid speaking about this grace in my poetry?
It is the greatest thing, and with all of this ridding of the unnecessary I am left
with the bare bones of life and my God is the spine

My grandmother has called me her Rock, but I am a small stone
her life has been full and I try to absorb
every sound that echoes from her,
from the spoken memories of her Italian childhood,
to the movements that she makes
when the sun is first rising, and I can hear her slippers shuffling
through the crack of the door of our shared bathroom

Time is fleeting and my small revelations of existing cannot slow it down,
with an aching heart I’ve read love letters of past lives, I’ve watched new
uncertainties develop, I’ve seen injustice rise up like a plague,
I’ve gotten swept away in worry, doubt, and fear
and through all of these things, Time is fleeting

Let my heart break and be repaired, the days will follow as they always do
let my shaky voice settle in the confidence that this place is not our final home
let my prayers be consistent and ever reigning over the temptation to stay discouraged
To live greatly is to live overwhelmed and still intact

In an Effort To Be Productive

The desire to make new things gnaws at my heart when I am not moving,
I try to eliminate the guilt that I feel with distractions, small batches of laundry, and random bouts of cleaning.. so, I stripped my bed of it’s sheets, got the washer running and proceeded to attempt to make some space on “my side” of the closet

The closet that I share with my grandmother, who has become particularly obsessed with her stuff since my pop-pop died. Obsessed, not in the way of clenching photographs or lamenting when she sees furniture from their old bedroom, more so obsessed with unendingly vocalizing that through our moves and the process of building a new home she is missing all of her “Stuff”. This closet is a small representation of how many items are jammed into corners of our living spaces, wrapped up in newspaper, hidden in the dark, only to be found out when someone wrestles through the disorder to open up boxes and find sentimental items mixed with literal trash. I believe she’s formed this relationship with her belongings because it makes her feel she can hold on to the past, she falsely associates the goodness of a life well lived with the culmination of material things.

After throwing away three pairs of my worn out, too-small, or too-big shoes, folding clothes that had slipped from their hangers, and awkwardly setting aside a glass house cradling a frog figurine, a broken violin, and a giant plastic wrapped comforter, I found something different.

Something that did not irritate me, something that had a presence and eeriness to it –
My pop-pop’s toiletry bag sat there solemnly, a slightly oversized red-brown leather rectangle with curved edges and a zipper down the center

It was heavy, a weight that went beyond physicality and laid on my soul
I decided to move forward anyways in my new minimalist fashion – to look at this item with out overwhelm of emotion and solely for what it was – an old bag filled with various items… sticky cough-drop wrappers, expired Tums, an unopened package of floss…
but then there was an oiled shaving brush,
then there was a half used travel shampoo bottle from a beach house we visited many autumns ago,
then there was his cologne – and my sentiment returned in the form of a fiery blanket at the base of my throat and blurring tears behind my eyelids

This stiff leather bag was carried, stuffed, and used by someone I love dearly
and as unnecessary as many of these items were then, and are now
they smell of him, and they make me think of mortality and the fragility of time

My pop-pop was an entrepreneur, a fixer, a joker, a musician, he loved others and was loved by them,
he was stubborn, he was compassionate, he was thankful — always

I remind myself that these personal items, even with all their very real and human characteristics are not what makes my memory and love for him live on

I kept the floss (because I needed some) and a key (which I will eventually discard because I doubt I will be able to find what it unlocks) And for now, I’ll keep the cologne, because it’s scent will inspire a sticky sadness that allows me to visit lost days then reorients my eyesight on heaven above.

The extent of my minimalism ends at photographs, I cannot bring myself to discard of them.
They are time – frozen, and not just the history of myself or my family but of the entire human existence
We make up the world, so this photograph of my grandparents in July of 1947 does not only exist for them, but also as a representation of that day in the past
which may have held a memory of happiness, or an event that disrupted the hope that we often place in this world when we wrongly identify glimpses of heaven on earth

This desire to rid my surroundings of clutter,
to let go of material things that don’t add value or serve a purpose,
is not solely for a clean area that settles the OCD in me but it’s more so a desire to simultaneously live in the very moment that is happening with respect of the past

To give space for my mind to see beyond things and stuff, and recognize a variety of more important matters –
the importance of being with each other,
the necessity to disconnect from irrelevant occurrences,
to let go of thoughts of past and future and solely be present
of making money not because of the fear of not having enough, but with the intent to use it as a tool to further what is truly deemed invaluable in this life
of spending money with the goal of investing into a larger, more pure notion, not just a temporary satisfier or filler of a hole dug by advertising and inadequacy

– Are you missing those around you because you are missing someone gone? Are you enveloped in comparison instead of creating authentic experiences? Do the things that you own serve a purpose? Is that purpose worthwhile? Or do the things that you own cause conflict, in your household or within yourself? Are the things that you own made well? Or was it at the expense of someone else, someone less fortunate than yourself? Are the things that you own stealing peace of mind and potential creative thoughts? Does the way you make money reflect what you value? Do you need all the money that you make? Are you forfeiting personal contentment for status or justification by those around you? –

We have decided that these questions should be less common then “how are you?” and “enjoying the weather?” for the sake of convenient conversation, but if we really want to know the state of our being and the wellness of those around us, we need to accept that our lifestyles cannot be compartmentalized, it all works together, each thing makes up who we are and the quality of our living

My pop-pop’s toiletry bag could’ve stayed in the closet, could’ve been found by someone else, but In An Effort to Be Productive, I discovered it and developed a train of thoughts that would not have been there before

As I move on in my attempt to rid my life of the unnecessary, I will
remind myself that things are not what make up the personalities of people,
that our accumulation of stuff is not the reason we maintain memory,

That which does not hold purpose, could still hold meaning, but I am meant to be alive now
to be awake now, to be real and true now

The past of my own and the history of my family has made me dimensional,
given me perspective and carried me through time
I desire the validity of my character to be made up by attributes, to escape the distractions and crowded closets, to eternalize memory with out the need for physical items

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth,
where moths and rust destroy”

how long will it take

Oh, how quickly we whine
at the faintest resemblance of discomfort
when we are inconvenienced or set back

How eagerly dissatisfaction sets in our brow
when we are told we cannot have
What we believe should be ours

And how vastly we believe
that this life was meant for our own taking,
when in actuality we have been given something
Far greater (or less) than what we deserve

How long will it take
to find contentment and
an amiable disposition in the midst of ever-changing
flaws and thorns and circumstance

Uneasiness is rooted deep within me, I won’t be dishonest
the second confrontation surfaces, my insides shake up and
my ideals crack like the autumn leaves on a paved road

I want to fix everything, and everyone around me
What a fool I must be, to ever believe that my own imperfections
will not get in the way

I want to bind up my wounds, and yours
and even when my intentions are good they
rot beneath the speculation of others,
and when I feel my thoughts carving out
craters in my mind in an attempt to uncover some
hidden solution that will smooth out the
knots and gnarls of existence

I come up empty,
always empty on my own

So I’ve gathered up my greatest inquietudes,
I’ve got plenty now but I know there will be even more soon
and I’m giving them to You

To You, I give my pride and my desire to be with out thorns,
my inability to satisfy every echoing demand,
my selfishness in the state of change,
my fears of displeasing and being displeased

Because dismissed anxiety is like a venom, it stores up in my system
and brings on symptoms that I cannot bear

I won’t discount the reality of these
unsettled situations, but I will not reduce the sovereignty
of an all-knowing God in light of my discomposure

Wake up, to the thought that response remains
the primary concern
my response to You when I am:
in pain, uneasy, at a loss for words, helpless, overwhelmed, taken under, sorrowful, dissatisfied, aggravated, distressed, disappointed, angry, or a thousand other things

let my response to You be only
praise, and I know I will fail at this but God
then there is your grace
and I know I will take it for granted but God
then there is your peace
and I know I will be anxious again but God
then there is your hand and you reach out to me
and you are present in all of my responses and lacking
and why in the world did you think of me?

And how long will it take
to recognize the veracity of Your character
and the weakness of my own,
my flaws and thorns and circumstance

How long will it take
for me to loosen my grip on this
idea of perfection found in anything
other than You

You are the only one
to save us from ourselves

something beautiful, something good

It’s moments before my twenty first birthday,
the humid august air runs through the open body of my
black 2002 cabrio convertible and I listen to the
CD player spinning sounds of heartbreaking hymns

I recently came into possession of recorded audio of
my pop-pop playing trumpet, converted from cassette,
once upon a time they nicknamed him harry james
because he played magically, igniting raw emotions
with every trembling note

tonight, the absence of his body on this earth
has taken the form of visions in my mind,
I can see him playing, using the same hands that
I used to hold in mine, the same hands that I would
lay thick layers of lotion on when they became old and cracked,
gold bond would gather around his wedding band

I can see his glasses wiggling on his nose
as he inhales, I can see his thick eyebrows
rising with the melody, sinking through the bridge

“Something beautiful, something good
All my confusion He understood
All I had to offer Him was brokenness and strife
But he made something beautiful of my life

If there ever were dreams
That were lofty and noble
They were my dreams at the start
And the hopes for life’s best were the hopes
That I harbor down deep in my heart
But my dreams turned to ashes
And my castles all crumbled, my fortune turned to loss
So I wrapped it all in the rags of my life
And laid it at the cross”

I can speak of restoration in an all together honest way,
and how grateful I am for this ability.
I can promise you that the bitter sorrow I have known
has made this deep joy all the more wonderful

I have a multitude of words within me that I am desperate
to write down, I have a thousand thoughts of thankfulness
for the way that these years have revealed the tangibility
of a loving, sovereign creator

How strange my collection of days have proven to be,
but how beautiful it is to be made new over and over and over again
I have found myself in awe of the goodness that has overcome
the view of how I naturally perceive this life

It is something beautiful, something good
to admire the present and a nostalgic past
something beautiful, something good
to extinguish loneliness with the truth
something beautiful, something good
to settle upon surreal peace in the evening
and to awake hopeful in the morning

a content poem for all the discontent that came before,
a content poem for all the trials that might await
a grateful soul, for always

A series of wants

I want to be stronger,
to not feel aching and zinging nerves
stretching through my neck and hands
like sand scratching the bottom of the ocean

I want to see my parents
everyday, to make my father coffee
and read the clues of crosswords out loud
to my mom while she sits cross-legged on the couch,
With her glasses on

I want to be bigger than comparison
to not let my mind get wrapped up
in the disabling perception
of bright images and larger smiles

I want to have wealth
in the form of travels and adventure
in the shape of a rectangular kitchen
with floor to ceiling windows,
a small sunroom turned cafe on the end,
and a copper tin roof

I want to help others recognize
the capacity we each have to form
new thoughts and original ideas
the way our minds are vast and
programmed for dreaming

I want to never feel the
gaping hole in my heart where my grandfather once was,
or where he once was,
or where she once was

I once found a quote that my gram
wrote on a postcard labeled “With Deepest Sympathy”
it read “when you are sorrowful look again in your
heart for you shall see that in thought you are
weeping for that which has been your delight”

I’ve been sorrowful always at the sight of sentiment,
and I’m always trying to turn that sadness into
a thankfulness for what once was and what is
to come

I want to be in love effortlessly,
with life and the people in it
to never have to work for sweetness
to never have to scrape out the seeds
of bitter feelings and frustrations,
or old times and scarred memories,
rooting in my heart and mind

I want my own home,
with a bar cart and special glasses for
different cocktails
copper bowls and kitchen utensils
and a pantry always stocked with ingredients
to make bread from scratch

I want to fix all of it,
all of the unfixable things
from poverty and broken lives,
to the tension that rises up out of awkward situation
from the disbelief and anger,
to the lack of good music on the radio

I want to be talented,
to truly believe that I am good at something
and no longer seek validation from
heightened numbers or passing conversation

I want to see Japan and Argentina
and Greece, and Iceland, and I want to photograph
it all with a film camera and hang the prints over my bed

I want to feel free
from guilt and obligation
to only be uplifting
and be rid of my selfishness

I want to be a person
who never misses a birthday of a friend,
family member, or acquaintance
who sends post cards in happy times
and writes letters when life is stolen away

I want to always please
to never disappoint
to always give my best
even at my worst

I want to not want
for anything other than the
wholeness of god within me
the completeness of his character
overwhelming the inadequacy of mine
the contentedness that only
comes from his grace extending
over my flawed disposition

Lead me to contentment despite circumstance
lead me to satisfaction disregarding fullness
let me exist only as what I was built up to be
give me the wisdom to know what desires should
consume and which should die

years later

let my heart rest,

although time runs through my fingers
like liquid, or grains of sand
although each moment gains momentum
and my whole soul weighs heavy at the sound
of silence, or the sound of her voice
(I am older now than you ever were)

let my heart rest,
because the night can come smooth
or it can steal, darkness can be the overcoming
abyss that it is
but my heart, it will rest,
because years later I am echoing the
hope that has been written across my
bones and the vision of eternity becomes
more real with each passing day

It’s easier to become numb, and to let
the ache form callouses and corruption
of feeling and it’s no longer freeing
But this time, I’ve been broken up
and aware again* of the ability of loss and
(AGAIN*, all the things of today arise and remind me of old:
Pink Lilies smell like Funeral Homes Pink Lilies smell like Funeral Homes
That is NOT Her, she is NOT there, Her body was just a case for her soul
We Lost We Lost We Lost Gone Gone Gone)
The terror of grief and that
seemingly god-forsaken moment in the night
where gloom and desperation
charge at the idea of ever hoping again

The state of despondency is my greatest fear,
lurking at my bedside when I fight to get up in the morning..
and how my heart aches, so deeply and intensely
when I see that fear approaching the ones I love
and I can’t help but to cry out to God
to throw myself in between and pray that
my weary growl will scare it off from ever
grabbing a hold of someone else’s heart

There is a multitude of emotions
that trample over the people left after death
A range of detestable sentiments
and they will not leave you unscathed

But I will still say; hold onto hope,
destruction has no reign here
Do not let your heart
become hardened with worldly time
Let your heart rest,
for with every ounce of pain
there is new hope and wholeness multiplied.

years later, I am sitting by a fire,
listening to voicemails that are not hers,
and aching all the same
because I remember the longing that comes after loss

years later, I am seeing her absence
as more of a normality
and it breaks me up,
but this is no time to be broken

I am not a hopeless being,
and neither are you
lay down my doleful spirit
and pick up joy again
my heart is, and will always be at rest
so that yours can someday find fullness again

In the light

I am often entirely caught up in the present anticipation of the next moment,
signaling my emotions, intentionally letting my heart get a head start on what is to come
this idea of preparation started the second I realized my body
was capable of losing control of it’s breath.

There is something disheartening about anxiety,
actually everything about consistent fret and oncoming doom
can shake any mark of confidence from your being
If I allow my identity to be built up of
weaknesses, I will inherently be made weak

This is factual, this is brick and mortar,
this is tangible and real-life
This is truth and transparency,
it’s a constant conflict to stay at peace
or feel an ounce of it at all

To take this concept of pressure,
that often overruns my existence,
and to label it as ‘manageable’
can render me defeated

Oh, how I am a mess
my heart fails at the sight of hardship
my tongue sets flame to destruction and
my mind lets chaos reign
left alone, I am broken up
and fearful – pitiful and desperate,
selfish, jealous, and insecure
condemning, bitter, and impure

In the light, I can see this great decision
to be made, and oh how I am grateful
for the opportunity to choose,
even when it’s unbearable, I can still choose
I can choose to rest in an undeniable truth
I can let my best intentions, my greatest strivings
and ambitions dissipate and in my weakness
I am given peace, but only in the moments
where I adopt gratitude over grieving
where I pick up song instead of sorrow

And in the moments where I fail to be in the light,
I am then given insurmountable grace
The defeat that once left me immobile
has been transposed into chance for
redemption and newness

So let my days be made up of
a continual act of letting go,
for everything I hold onto
shakes itself into solicitude

Let my heart be one of
gratitude, let grace be all that is left

Time is too quick to
be made up of anxious preparation,
to be solely an existing essence of regret,
sorrow and past experience

Let my heart know rest,
Let my heart know rest

Do not fret— it only causes harm. —Psalm 37.8

Fretting means getting ourselves “out of joint” mentally or spiritually. It is one thing to say, “Do not fret,” but something very different to have such a nature that you find yourself unable to fret. It’s easy to say, “Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him” (Psalm 37.7) until our own little world is turned upside down and we are forced to live in confusion and agony like so many other people. Is it possible to “rest in the Lord” then? If this “Do not” doesn’t work there, then it will not work anywhere. This “Do not” must work during our days of difficulty and uncertainty, as well as our peaceful days, or it will never work. And if it will not work in your particular case, it will not work for anyone else. Resting in the Lord is not dependent on your external circumstances at all, but on your relationship with God Himself.

Worrying always results in sin. We tend to think that a little anxiety and worry are simply an indication of how wise we really are, yet it is actually a much better indication of just how wicked we are. Fretting rises from our determination to have our own way. Our Lord never worried and was never anxious, because His purpose was never to accomplish His own plans but to fulfill God’s plans. Fretting is wickedness for a child of God.

Have you been propping up that foolish soul of yours with the idea that your circumstances are too much for God to handle? Set all your opinions and speculations aside and “abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 9.11). Deliberately tell God that you will not fret about whatever concerns you. All our fretting and worrying is caused by planning without God.

Oswald Chambers | My Utmost For His Highest

centuries-old

oh my, my head is spinning in circles
my sanity splitting at the seams
how is it that I am caught off guard
by horror stories from centuries
Ago, I am still in shock by the state
of this world

how do we believe
that there is any good in us
after hanging and killing and
humiliating and terrorizing
other existing people made up
of the same skin and bones
the same flesh and eyelashes,
fingernails, look at our individuality
only to say we are all the same

pigment and preference, and
uncertainties aside we are built up of
matter and doubt, of intricacies and
I will not ever allow my senses
to be numbed by the endless
noise, it’s so loud here!

Can’t get my mind right,
and on my drive home I started to think
of my heartbreak as a luxury,
a luxury that I once had –
to love and to be loved
And this exit from relations
is not intended to be my demise
I looked into the homeless man’s eyes
And I saw myself reflected
I can’t stand it
I can’t stand it

Oh god, how do I handle
the weight of this world and the
seemingly hopeless situations
looking back on our scars as a nation
and peering forward within the repetition
of history but I am so small within
the greatness of tragedies and
any peace that I’ve ever known
had to have been false or holy
there is no getting around it

I let these words shape my anxieties
into a solidified form
and although my ramblings will never
gather this disorder into
a frame, I can let the letters
slip through my misunderstandings
and let these notions go for
a moment, just to find my way
back above water

There is more that I have got to say,
there are more exclamations and
my lungs plead for a break although
I am sitting in silence
they feel the strain of the marrow
within me and they cry out
for an escape

Let me tell you it just keeps on going,
and the incidents aren’t ever revoked
or erased but only eradicated in the minds
that wander in the evening and will never
know rest while still breathing
I am alive and healing
all while being hurt and misconceiving
all while being broken to believing

lament II

I began to stretch out my lungs in a capacity
to scream at God
I was to write down every insecurity I have in this faith
and then in those declarations He was to respond with gracious
wisdom and insight, in a soft peace He was to bring comfort and
say “My child, I am with you”

He did not.

I poured out my laments and rose up a banner of doubt, I pointed out the greatest questions of why and how;

I demanded immediate release of pressure that
is working up through my guts into my memory impressed
mind that has failed me time and time again
when loss is pinned up into the blue skies

I wrote down the way I felt when I would imagine her casket slithering into the ground
as they would project their well-intended sympathies declaring an ever good god

“how dare you belittle my wounds with band-aids,
how dare you glaze over my emotional destitution with clichés”

Those who have lost and lose feel they can relate to one another,
bitterness is predominant in these relations, but I would be lying
to say that God has failed me
To say that His hand has not saved, although at the time it very much did not,
His hand has rescued and continues to pull my heart out of the mire and muck
of my insolent sorrow

IF we believe there is a god who sees the beginning and the end
we are forced to accept that he is all knowing
IF this god is all knowing then why would he be absent
in our deepest pleas, why would he allow tragedy that speaks to no redemption, why
would he not answer

I cannot begin to describe why He allows immense suffering.
I have recognized that it is through hardship that Christ is most near,
I have experienced that in brokenness we are made full, but my mortal cries
rudely impose on my proclaimed hope:

What a selfish god..
That he would use my pain just so I would see Him better!
How egotistical, that he longs for me to be more like him so
because of this, I endure suffering

There is no existing being that could remedy my anxieties!
No, my soul cannot find rest in a deity or theology
My anger not satisfied by a man’s excuse for brokenness.

It is in this human truth where my voice is overwhelmed by an Almighty truth,
my doubts insignificant in the overarching grace of a true God,
who is not scheming, who is not manipulating my circumstances,
but who is RESCUING my already condemned heart from its current state

It is in this that every soul is asked to consider Christ as his redemption, and his portion.

I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”

Lamentations 3.19-24

I have established this:
With Christ I have everything | With out Christ I have nothing

this means that loss, in its immensity,
is actually quite small and powerless although it reigns
heavy and dominant over our souls.
loss does not take us further from God,
it brings us nearer.
In actuality, the more we have,
the more that separates us from Him.

but loss, if not handed over to Him, can begin to build
a home in our lives. It will gather up every situation, good and bad,
and hold it captive – becoming not a ‘loss’ at all but a
selfish burden gained within our souls that is living off of despondency

I intended to call out to God,
to state my poetic laments and in return
find a solution – comfort and peace – but it is all too soon
to be taken from desperation to joy so I will
say to myself:

the Lord is my portion, I will wait for him,
Though he brings grief, he will show compassion

So as my heart breaks with those who are experiencing their own loss,
and as it breaks at the reminder of loss itself,
I will lift my eyes to a God who is not proven to be distrait
but all knowing and sovereign still

falling people

unintentionally adjourned my own sorrow,
dove into a tragedy that could never be forgotten, not today nor tomorrow
and it was covered in smoke and billowing clouds
dressed up in people, the colors of ours

i did not mean to open this door,
would have closed it but now i know more
this is where god becomes real to me
in the falling people and catastrophe

i play mind games all day long
my heart tugs at these filtering thoughts
fall into obsession with image and possession
of a history so plastered with loss

and this is when god becomes real to me
in the echoes of despair and despondency
in the trapped mysteries and wanderings
how can He not be true,
what else would there be
keeping me a part from death and the dark
from spilling out of my own skin

it takes heaviness to feel a difference,
and this difference I am desperate to know
i travel through numbness and awe,
passion and i am stripped now, i am raw

but this is where my god becomes true to me,
inescapable and unfaltering
stack me up against falling buildings and ideology
my god has never been so real to me

tangible and whole,
i am incomplete and alone
merciful and strong,
i am bitter and wrong

stack me up against falling buildings and falling people
up against stealing sadness and sores
up against ache and mystery
His love is enough for me

i can no longer hold,
all of these weights in my hands
dragging around me, are my burning stars and
bottled up sand
can no longer break,
or become more broken
stack me up against heat and rising trials
cut off relationships and empty miles
nothing will cause me to believe
that my god is inadequate,
that He is not enough for me.

child

in the face of a child
i find myself helpless
confronted by innocence, and she shows me how tainted
i have let me life become
tainted by selfishness and anxiety
by heartbreak and relationship,
i find myself complex and irritated
but in the face of a child
i am shown that this life still has something to offer
and by the grace of god that all of the grown have somehow forgotten
we are free.
i am hurt by disbelief
i am broken by sorrow
i am twisted by change,
she tells me a secret
and i will never forget it,
knowing that every whisper holds a truth,
and that in the face of a child
i can find purpose,
confronted by innocence
i will shake this stain and bitterness