Monthly Archives: August 2016

In Abba’s Hands

I am not what you need me to be.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am what my Heavenly Father made me to be,
And I have not yet become all He’s called me to be.

I am clay in His Hand,
But you cannot choose how He molds me.
My earthen vessel will bear His treasure.
It won’t matter if you see a trashy masquerade.

Sometimes I feel the pressure will break me,
But He knows how to make a wretch a jewel.
Even if you blind yourself to the sparkle,
I can still reflect His Light and Life.

Looks will fade.
My faithless heart can deceive.
May my Father’s praise inspire righteous fear.
May my works speak my Father’s name everywhere I go.


Waiting for Hope

We are waiting,
Marking time,
Waiting for the path
To be revealed.

Tension builds,
Tempers flare,
Words snap,
Stress must be relieved.

All tied up,
No way to move,
Watching for an opening,
Trying again to feel.


As the moon rises in the east,
As the dark begins to fall,
As the stars twinkle above the horizon,
Hope springs to life again, breathing faith anew.


Pain shrieks through blinding night–
Eyes too dry to cry,
Weary from too much life,
Heart too heavy to care,
Strained from too much hardship.

Mind shuts down in miry muck;
Breathing becomes labored;
As world cares become too many.

Love’s high price never seems to pay;
Pride refuses to yield the floor;
Frustration floods through every pore.

Why does light not stay bright?
Why does the bottom drop from the floor?

I need shelter;
I need peace;
But longing is unfulfilled.

It has to end;
It cannot continue.
The question is when?

What a Writer Wants

I don’t want to write a romance novel
That fills a hole for an afternoon
But leaves the reader starving for more.

I don’t want to write a prize-winning article
That informs the populace
But leaves no feelings that last.

I don’t want to write a scholarly essay
That holds all the deep mysteries of siloed expertise
But leaves the majority missing the point.

I hunger to share the thoughts
That write freedom for the outcast
But leave authority bound.

I thirst to craft the pieces
That build up and encourage women’s souls
Yet leave men better than before.

I yearn to explore the ideas
That frighten most people into darkness
But must be brought into light and love for survival and life.

Let my words tat a tapestry
That binds us,
That blinds us,
That builds us.

Let my sentences sell
What unites,
What verifies,
What works.

Let my body of work bespeak
Whatever is genuine,
Whatever is just,
Whatever is right.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer. — King David, Psalm 19:14

Knotty Stains of Jabez

Abuse ties the victim in knots.
Even when the abuse is over
And the victim turns survivor,
As one knot is undone,
Another bubbles up to take its place.

The stains on a victim’s heart
Never quite wash out.
Even when the vanquished becomes the victor
Through baptism in His crimson tide,
The scarlet stained prism still remains.

In weakness there is strength.
Not the powerlessness of being under a control freak’s thumb,
But the choice of humility
And the admission that God is God
Strengthen the weakest faint heart.

My heart cries out to the One who won’t break the bruised:
Bless me! Increase my strength, courage, wisdom, and trust.
Give me help and others to help.
Hide me in the hollow of Your Nail-Scarred Hand.
Keep me from inflicting my pain on others.

Cold Resonation

Author’s Note: There are hard places I’ve been that I never speak of, and yet something in them pushes through my waking moments at certain times of the year. I was blessed to get out; this is in memory of those who didn’t and don’t.

Fractured mosaic shards
Swirl in a kaleidoscope–
Year after year,
Fuzzy then clear,
Far and then near.
A flash of light around their heads,
The sound of a hammer cock from his hand–
No bang…
Yet year after year
The boom resonates.
A weary soul
Fell wilted and lifeless
Waiting for the right kiss.
The body presented
Week upon week
Spent and used,
Finally blowing away on a summer breeze.
The ghosts in the eyes
Of old acquaintances
Haunt my dreams
And stalk my waking memory.
Forgiven by His Grace,
But still a dead woman wandering
In my heart,
Yet I still live and move and breathe.
May the shards never become knives.
May I never again cause kith and kin fear of my death
And pain of my separation.

Thoughts on Brokenness

Broken people break others;
I know this to be true.
Some brokenness is more socially acceptable,
Yet it is brokenness just the same.

How broken is too broken
Before I walk away?
Where do all the broken people go?
Can they find a safe place to stay?

Some brokenness is challenged;
Some brokenness is ignored.
Where is the pattern of challenging true ignorance?

What happens to the broken
In a broken chain of authority?
What happens when authority itself is broken?

We live in a broken world
Full of broken people
Who turn and break others.

I was broken.
I broke others.

Brokenness is,
But it is not valid.
How can we defend against it?