Posts Tagged With: writing


Once in a while I’m good for a poem, and it’s been a while since I last posted one, so here for good measure is my once in a while poem.


Words fill all the pages.
I finally closed the book…
End to a season brimming
With tragedy and hope.
Each page bears a story;
I can go back and look
The places that I’ve come from,
My past, and all that took
The pieces of my heart
And then ran away or died,
The people that I’ve loved,
The occasions that I’ve cried.
To me it’s sacred ground,
or rather, pages there inside.
Chapters of my journey…
Tell me, what is yet to come?
What will the final page say
When my life is gone and done?
One journal is complete now.
Another will soon begin.
I wonder, oh I wonder,
what stories will it hold within?

Categories: Poems | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Random Written Thoughts


I want to write. Really, I do. But it’s hard when none of the things I’ve been thinking fit well together into a cohesive post, and I have no time anyways. There are a hundred other responsibilities… But I need to write, really I do, I tell myself. I need to write for the same reasons I always have: To remember, or at least slow the forgetting; to decipher, work out, and understand life. I want to write, and I need to write. Thus this post. I don’t expect it to flow well, but if you’re brave enough to wade through my mess read on.

Thought one:

I am surrounded by crazy, lovable, needy fifth and sixth graders. Smiles, mischief, potential, naivety, energy.We talk about deep questions like “What if God doesn’t protect you in the way you think he should?” and “How were people before Jesus died saved?” We sing fast paced songs: “I can count on God for what I need.” We memorize. Yes, we memorize a lot, and I wonder how much of it sticks to impact their hearts. They work hard at it, lining up and reciting rapid fire at me. The great commission, fruit of the spirit,  twelve disciples, Lord’s prayer, the twenty-third Psalm… I said to one girl today “If this was a Tim McGraw song you would have had it down in two seconds flat.”

I can’t capture their faces, or their aurora here. Suffice it to say that it is beautiful and amazing and scary in the fullest meaning of all of those words to be with them. Beautiful because they are on the brink. They could go anywhere from here. Amazing because most love with their whole hearts because they’ve not been hurt deeply yet. Amazing because they are the epitome of childlikeness, yet they are trying so hard to be grown up. And scary. Scary because I see their bright innocent eyes looking to me more often than not. They watch me, and I don’t have all the answers; I don’t do everything right. I remember when I was the one looking up. I remember how cool the teenagers were then…

Thought two:

I love how the people have been coming to my house lately. Almost every day, old friends and new friends filter through. This is how I want my house to be someday. I love being the safe, fun, deep, crazy place for the people. I love making decisions impulsively. A twenty mile bike ride? Why not. Movie tonight? Sure. It’s like Audio Adrenaline’s Big House, only the planet earth version. At least, I like to think that our house is an echo of Heaven on earth. The safe, true place. A shelter from the storm, but not one where we pretend the problem of the storm doesn’t exist.  I want my house to be the Mira of the community “…if you come broken they’ll see that you mend.”  Only I can’t mend anyone, so I leave that up to Jesus. Nothing is allowed to get in the way of this dream. This is my ministry and my passion. If you can’t share that, I won’t hate you, but you can’t get too close. There is enough of me to spread around to all the people even if I love too deeply with my selfish heart.

Thought three:

I watched the wind bow the trees yesterday, whipping the leaves into submission, spinning their undersides to face the sky. I thought, in a rather cliche manner, that God is like the wind. You can’t see Him, but you can see his effects everywhere if you open your eyes. Later, I listened to the storm in awe, and wondered how something so fiercely beautiful could come from chance. Doesn’t it make more sense that it is the artwork of One who is fiercely beautiful Himself? The intricacies of the flowers, the fury of the sea, the steadiness of a mountain, the majesty of the stars…these all reflect His personality. It’s so hard for me to fathom how someone could say that there’s more proof against Him than for. I feel close-minded when I say that, but it’s true. I just can’t wrap my mind around how someone could believe that after having stepped outside in nature and seen the carefully balanced, perfectly designed system. Things like that don’t just happen.


I can’t even say that those are my top three thoughts, but at least they are three. They are three that have been spinning in my mind lately, and it did feel good to wrap words around them…”Fate sealed, I guess this is how I feel.” , as Ariel sings. Or, if you prefer the classics, take Ernest Hemingway: “If he wrote it, he could get rid of it. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.” Now I have written these, gotten rid of them, and sealed my fate.

This is something I’ve been needing to do, and now it’s done. Now it’s time to move on, find new thoughts, live life,  face the music. Life never lets me sit still for long. But now I will remember. I can come back. I can re-read, re-process. I can re-visit this signpost that I’ve progressed from. I wanted to write; I needed to write, and now I have.



Categories: My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMinistry is such a multifaceted , mysterious word. Maybe it shouldn’t be. Because, when you’re doing it – when you’re over your head, surrounded by children who need to know Jesus – it doesn’t seem that complicated. Just love them like Jesus. To minister you don’t have to be perfect, you don’t have to have it all together, you don’t have to be thoroughly versed in the theology of Christianity. You just have to care. That’s what I learned last week. Vacation Bible School changed my perspective… again.

Every year it changes my perspective. Every year I learn and unlearn things during that one precious week of ministry. I learn that ministry is never one-sided; both sides grow and learn through it. I learn the diversity of the gifts of my church family. I never expected to see one of the elders in an eighties hair wig and fake mustache surrounded by five and six year olds pretending to be sheep. Never.

Vacation Bible School, ministry: two subjects too often put in boxes by me and (I suspect) the rest of the world. Two things that grow my faith. I fear that I have failed to capture them here. I fear that the things I’ve learned are even now, only a week after, beginning to fade from my mind. So I will leave you with  a  piece written in the thick of things. One day that I week I managed to steal a few moments and write…

Jesus loves the children. The children love innocently, wholeheartedly not yet fully corrupted by the world’s ways. They love simply, truly, and wholly. When they fall they fall hard.

I love the children too, but probably for more selfish reasons. I love to see them smile and say my name as they rush over for a hug. I love the big eyed “Can I sit with you?” and how sitting involves leaning in close for a constant side squeeze. I love the feel of little hands in mine, and I love the brief connections of smiles. There is that moment of success with the difficult ones that is worth more than words can say. There are giggles and beautiful grinning faces.

Jesus says to be like the children. Even when they throw a tantrum they return to equilibrium shortly.They trust wholly, and they don’t worry about their futures.

There are so many things I love about the children- many attributes to be mimicked and taken note of. There are many moments to be celebrated and many lessons to be learned. But the thing I love to do most with the children, and the thing that I’ve been blessed by most this week, that is to hear the children pray earnestly, honestly, and simply. They pray with young voices to their Creator and Savior Jesus Christ.

So there you have it. God is working in me and in the children. God works through imperfect people. God uses ministry to effect not just the children’s hearts and minds, but the teachers’  too. That is what I learned and experienced last week.

Categories: My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Winter Hope


Winter. Cold dreary days push back the sun without respite for months on end. Life is hidden. The battles’ result is set from the beginning, but that does not stop the one who shall be conquered from fighting hard: clinging to the branches; covering wellsprings, and cool blue depths with inches of ice. Winter. Not so much seen as felt deep within the soul. Old dreary days with no release from the chills steady hold. Winter- it is my favorite season. Alas, I don’t know why. Maybe it is the battle to see who can endure the longest, or those nights of happiness in the form of sledriding. Laughing in winter’s face. It is a long season, but it makes that which lies on the other side all the brighter, and for an instant makes us treasure that which is given.

There is a winter of the soul too. Days without joy, or pain, just continual rebellion against the bitter cold that tries to steal, and pillage our hearts. There are long days, and longer nights filled with little but the battle for life. Physical life doesn’t mean much when the spirit is dead (or at least appears dead, all symbols of life tucked away like the jagged trees), but it means there is hope. There is a chance for a better tomorrow. Hope…if there were a theme for this season of my life that would be it. Clinging to hope in glimmers and snippets;

Today there is an indian summer. The weatherman said that it could get up to sixty degrees; the snow has melted off to mud. There is a smell of new life in the air. Today I found a dandelion- a tidbit of hope stubbornly fighting its way through the chaos. A dandelion in January. There are indian summers in the soul’s winter too. Days where the end is in sight, and inklings of the hope of rebirth (messy, but welcomed after the endless torment) appear. Here’s to surviving the long days yet to come, and one day walking into the glorious sunlight which we will never experience in full until the New Kingdom. Here’s to clinging to hope with white knuckled fists during the long nights, and rejoicing in the joy that comes with the morning. We must never forget that there is hope; for the battle is already won.

*Dedicated to my dear friend Nastya as she fights her way through this season of her life.*

Categories: Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 3 Comments

Old Souls

“Gonna let the tide, and the time, and the tears wash my body clean.”

~La Conchinta

Old soul crying by the ocean. If I could make myself look how I feel…what then? I’d be old, yet reborn; I would be mysterious.  Right now trust is meeting the struggle, and I’m finally OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAcontent again. For the moment. I love the old souls; the fighting ones. It’s hard for me to let go of the few that I’ve found.

The strong of will, body, and heart attract me. Let me be strong too, but be stronger. Be weathered, and splintered beach wood, and I will embrace the art. The old and time-worn ones have been cut to the core. Only their truth remains. They’ll climb a mountain, laugh at the sea, and fight for what they believe in. Right or not they are strong, though not always honest-hiding under tough exteriors.

I sing of, long for, and love their kind. There’s the challenge to see if they’ll let me in; There’s camaraderie as we wonder together at the merciless souls, and the beautiful wilderness. We look at our generation, and don’t know weather to laugh or cry at their youth and stupidity. We may be youths, but what we’ve found goes deeper. 

Old soul crying by the ocean. I am like you. Let me be your friend.

(Something I wrote the other day.)

Categories: My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 7 Comments


And I wonder why they haunt me. Vulnerability hurts. I give away pieces of myself, and I don’t get them back. They go away with it- the people- whether they know it or not. I never forget them. It would be different if they stole my heart, but they didn’t: I gave it freely, on purpose, aware that it would hurt, though with no idea of how much.

So I lay awake thinking, and praying, and writing of them. I wonder if they ever do the same, or if they have forgotten. Did my contribution make a difference for him; is it still at work now, a year later? Is it still significant to that person after five months? Do they remember and treasure those moments of vulnerability? Him, and her, and him…others. I can never forget. It hurts, yes, they have taken something, but I dare say they have given something too. I think the pain is worth it. Do you? No pain no gain.

If you refuse to give away your soul, to gain your soul by losing it you are left like Peter Pan: forever restless staring in at the window. Longing for something you have refused to allow yourself. He was somewhat whole, yet in so many ways he was not. I don’t want that to be me. So I keep giving more, and more. Honestly sometimes I don’t know what will be left at the end but I trust the Father that it will be good. That He will rejuvenate me so that I have more to give.

Investing yourself reaps forever rewards
and forever tortured memories.
It’s worth it, I know, but I miss them so much.
Do they remember, or have they forgotten
The short girl who loved them so much?
On cold dark grey nights do they lay awake thinking
Of me, and of others who’ve touched
that place in the heart that’s hidden so deep?
The real ones, the true ones, the hurt ones,
moved on but not nearly forgotten.


Categories: My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 6 Comments

It’s Time

It’s been a while since I last posted poetry. It’s time. The first two, I assure you are not about me, although I’m sure they show sides of me. The last one is a kind of Psalm that randomly popped into my head one day. Enjoy, as always! Let me know what you think

The Writer
Their problems were bigger than her;
All she did was write words.
She didn’t really solve mysteries.
Answers, they demanded, but she had only ink.
Crumpled papers marked her journey,
Difficulty: her sole plot.
She was no heroine, she never overcame;
stepping back was easier.
So she retreated into herself
Never to be seen again. 
Brutal honesty.
Words splatter everywhere, hiding what lies beneath.
Blessed silence.
Her brain never stops for fear of collapse.
Vulnerable love.
She hides her real self-the unlovable.
Burning hope.
Desperate pleas echo unanswered.
Undoubting faith.
She flees faith’s responsibility.
Who she is, and who she wants to be.
Take my worry, take my fears;
Take my heartache, take my tears.
Take them on thy shoulders God-
Take them as I onward plod.
That I may freely rest in You,
in all I say; in all I do.
Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 3 Comments

Late summer nights

I don’t have much to say that would add to this. It speaks to a lot of things that have been going on in my journey lately.

Late summer nights pondering the questions of life are worthwhile. The answers don’t always come, but the strength is there: the strength in my head.Strength fails-migraines interrupt mental capacity. The soul longs for an oasis.

Late summer nights spent with the embodiment of strength are more than worthwhile. Deep conversations: pleading, being known, adoring. Strength is made perfect in weakness, and late summer nights.

Categories: My Life, Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

To See Beyond

I haven’t done a random writing post in a while, so here you go. There’s a poemish thing (that’ll go first), and then a little anecdote type deal. I gave this the title I did because both of these, despite their differences, are me seeing beyond the surface; for good or bad I don’t know. The second one I was  also working on description. Feel free to comment and critique.



The minnow-like emittance squirms it’s way into into a virgin sky. Upon reaching it’s zenith explodes: birth, life, and death occur within moments ‘it’ is forgotten, replaced quickly by another, only again to be overshadowed by the next, and the next.

Some greater, some smaller,  few unique, lasting beyond seconds. Life is simple, life is short, life is glorious. Beginning with only a spark soon to fizzle into oblivion each after the other continuing until the grand finale in the dark night sky.
Untold Story
She sat in an ancient tan truck, feet out the window, Pepsi can moving to the beat. The song blared the words “And that’s what makes you beautiful.” repeatedly over the parking lot. Perhaps she was the only one enjoying it. She- with the dirty blond shoulder length hair; with the piercings. Two or three lip rings, metal in her nose, innumerable earrings. She couldn’t have been that old… fourteen? her black pink-laced shoes in front of the truck’s mirror were not large, the arms beneath her elbow high bracelets were in no way thick. Did she cut? What was her story? She had a story, but I will never know. Driving off, leaving the question mark, the beautiful broken girl
Categories: Poems, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , | 7 Comments


I know I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve slowed down lately. I’ll be back. I’ve been working through some things, and when I go to write them down nothing is coherent. There are a thousand ideas bouncing around in my head right now, eventually I’ll pick one, and be satisfied with the results. But for now I thought I’d share a couple of writing experiments I have tried lately. A story poem, and something called flash fiction (which is a story in very few words where you leave your reader to interpret). I’ll warn you ahead of time that they’re both rather depressing. I had a conversation once about why it’s easier to write sad poetry that effects people than happy poetry. We never really decided. Anyways I’m rambling (see), but with no further ado I’ll give you my experiments; let me know what you think. Poem first:

White stones they call from deep to deep
With whispers rarely heard.
The bones they fall: awake, asleep
Restless as it were.
Troubles above, and troubles below
For lives cut off too soon.
A lover above, that fatal blow;
She weeps within her room.
The sands of time, of triumph rare
Are sifting once again.
So none over the choppy blue
Recall these ill-fated men.
She led and lived a weary life
Now lying in a grave.
No longer is in tear filled strife
For bones that now decay.
Grain by grain they lie on land,
They find a resting place.
No longer at the ocean’s hand
Among the pirate’s race.
She is indiscriminant in her taste for jewelry. Bones, chains, bottle caps. Everything is fair game. Black clothing overshadowed by adornments; metal swinging with the dreadlocks as her guitar wails. Raven, our worship leader. Not all that glitters is gold.
Categories: Poems | Tags: , , , , , | 7 Comments

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