She curled up in his lap
Buried her face in her hands
And ran
Imagined world without end amen
The lost were found
All fear removed
Like coring an apple
Making it safe
Fear extricated
The seeds no longer there
To choke or spoil.

She lay down on a bed with Hope
After praying real and loud and hard
Knelling  worn-out knees on a wooden floor
Wrote her modern Psalms,
Asking, no begging
For life void of fear, recalling
Floods of faithfulness
Hearing whispers
Forecasting peace
At last, peace at last.

She looked out at the silver moon
Imagined her torso cloaked in borrowed armor of  brave
Stepping on shadows then into the light
Pondering what to wear
Battles need armor
Just her size
Fit matters, it must be precise
No borrowing armor
Like worry

No ill-fitting suit of another
Bare skin for battle

Choose wise she heard
In the still of the night
To wear bold
And brave
By day
And by night
Look left and look right

All fear’s been
Removed from this place

I love you, I heard you
Go, run your race
Imagine the wings  I’ve
Sewn to your back
Unencumbered, fly fast, fly free
At last
Sweet dreams as
She lay curled up in his lap.


Joining my dear friend Sandra Heska King at Sandra Heska King dot com 

Oh Me Of Little Faith

She tells me this is where Faith comes in.

If God had limited patience instead of limiteless patience, I would have worn Him out yesterday.

It was a hand wringing day. And I know better.

I am surrounded by nativity scenes. Hemmed in by mangers. One to my left, one to my right and one behind my doubting Thomas head.

The Trinity symbolized I see now, by my three scenes of His birth. And  I still wring the hands though He wrought a life of pain and sacrifice for me.

And even with the physical reminders of my Savior I still need to be told….and this is where Faith comes in.

She knows my deep struggle. She is what I needed God to bring my way months ago as my struggle as a parent of a child who learns like we all do, uniquely. Who is wired like we all are, by Father God, individually, with strengths and gifts. Who is growing, as we all are on this journey, at his pace marked by his beautifully and wonderfully made intricacies.

But a mother wrings her hands and a heart has been know to skip a beat or double up on beats. And she has come along to hold my hand in the dark nights of the soul.

And there is another too. Who writes a beautiful letter. He is patient and strong and godly. And he tells me things that make me cry, too busy in my doubt and worry to see on my own. Too close and too doubled over in confusion to see or own or know, truly. Words of confidence and hope. Words of affirmation and decisiveness.

The two come along side and bolster my spirits and I know they are life savers wearing flesh and blood and bones to a mother of waning faith.

And at the end of the night, when the black curtain pulls over a day marked with fatigue and anxiety she speaks into my soul. Words I don’t read until His new mercy morning arrives.

And she write these words “He is a great kid…we just all need to help him learn how to access his strengths and use them…it will come with time, patience, and persistence! HAVE FAITH!

And like the perfect storms of life, she is talking and texting and emailing me with a diligence and committment to shoring up my child’s struggles with a tender and firm spirit. And the calm before the storm comes in fact after the storm has passed.

She knows the language which sounds like Greek to my ears of misunderstanding and misinterpretation.  I am learning daily the language of ADHD. And it is Russian and Chinese and Hebrew all rolled into one. I need a translator. I need help.

It comes in the form of co-pilgrims and co-laborers.

I wrote a letter yesterday to my church  which was hard to explain to a questioning child. She looks on me with doubt and lack of understanding. I tell her, if you read my letter you will understand why I feel lead to step back for a season from serving.Because I know in the letter I have said I feel like this is an act of obedience. And there is confusion and fatigue from schism and division and I need a season of quiet and contemplation and prayer and clarity.

A pause in my serving to steady a wobbly spirit.

But I can see I have let her down. She worries that it means we are leaving the church. We are not. I am taking a pause in my service in several different capacities.

And the quiet sets in. And the last thing I want to do is disappoint a child.

But she is questioning and maybe confused. And who can read a sixteen year old girl’s mind.

So I look at the managers that hem me in. There are three. Some days I need one hundred and  three. Days like my yesterday.

I thank Him for His new Mercies, for the rain and for tears.

My husband walked in from Fishermen men’s ministry, last night.

Our friend spoke. He has months to live. He has cancer.

And when you have been in the midst of one so full of faith and full of life you radiate the Glory and the Hope that come beaming from the face of a man at perfect peace. From our friend Pete.

You bring all that home with you from a night in the presence of living, breathing, Hope.

He tells me pieces of  stories that Pete told the men. Some of it I grabbed and some of it my weary hand wringing self let fall to the ground.

A weary soul doesn’t hold tight to Hope.

But you long  to brush up against Hope like this and pray that the remnants and particules like dust fall on you and stay. Fall on a weary dusty soul. Dirty with doubt.

And I pray my daughter can wrap understanding around my walking away for a season of pause. That I didn’t throw in the towel , its only in the wash for a season of renewal. And to gain clarity of mind and heart and spirit. That in obedience to Him He will give me a language of love to explain to her rightly my decision.

Just like the language of understanding I need to learn to speak with my son in his struggles that are uniquely his own.

Its raining outside, the day weeps as I weep.

And I think that today I will play as I did when I was a child. With the manager scene. Didn’t we all. Move the pieces around and marvel. Look on the Mary and Joseph and the animals and the moveable baby Jesus.

I think I’ll move in a little closer to the manager today and the baby who bears the weight of the world and the weight of my sin.

And today, the weight of a mother’s pain as she seeks an increase in faith.

This rainy December day, I know anew, His mercies are new everyday.

And that I can proclaim Alleluia Anyway.

ESM and Stella

Linking with Emily, Jennifer, and Duane today. Joining Joy at joy in this journey dot com for Life Unmasked.


How Sidewalk Chalk And Poetry Can Inspire

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.” –Pablo Picasso

Walk out into wonder.  Walk out expectant.

Get lost in a sea of color, be ushered into art by Joy.

Meet hunched over concrete artists, poets bent over in an ocean of chalky words painted in child style.

Authors of brilliant color, brilliant meaning.

Wisdom written, published immediately on rocky tablet, all Old Testament.

Simple, plain, proclamations from child heart, child truth.

Lips bitten, knuckles white, pressing hard, bracing wind and the elements.

For Art’s sake.

Because the Words need a voice and a place.

Because their hearts have a story to tell.

You zig and zag around theirs as you do yours, the stories.

Take care not to step on these yellow lines with pink prose and hard written lines on rough gritty.

Like ours, theirs want to spring out into April air and be told, to dodge the rain drops and lay there sundrenched long enough to be heard.

Find Joy in the sunlight, find Joy in the telling.

Sidewalk artists for the day, delight in the hope of eyes seeing creativity at their feet.

Careful to step big and step over the masterpiece after naming it “very good”.

Where is childlike wonder in your words?

How did childlike wonder go all black and white, shackled up and bound inside the lines.

When did the palete lose its chalky choices once full of pastel poetry and prose?

When did the mundane monochromatic get to be enough. When did we settle for the uninspiring. Stop looking for the beautiful.

Sidewalk poetry inspires. Calls to come write and play and tell a bumpy concete story.

Color it joyful, color it bright, color it sideways.

Color your story on the hard path, knelling and bent down with your dusty fingers and your windblown mane.

Lay down your story all gritty and real with your colored chalk. Write it bigger than big cause you’re all outdoors and free to be big sideways and be loud big.

Write like the child you are, the child of God.

Tell it poetic, tell it all chalky and dusty, all kneeled down child’s pose.

And let the sidewalk lower school poets inspire you to freely write it down, lay it down, smack down at the entrance and exit of the middle of the everything.

Let Joy in the Art blow words of sweet beauty, sweet blessing.

And let the sweet and the simple be Art for today.

Art that inspires all the growing-up people.

Words that halt the hearts, and the steps, and the pace of the too fast people.

Words that say stop, there’s a story that wants to be heard on the concrete path on the right in front of your big growing-up feet.

Stop and read and be inspired, before the rain washes them all away.