How strong the gentle hands that shaped the world and lift me up.
What strange relief to weep thanks at the feet of the one who robbed you.
In this quiet season, there is a small voice whispering.
It is not Him who is slow; it’s me.
A permission slip from Father to world on behalf of a very foolish daughter.
Celebrate Jesus’ death with as much joy as his birth!
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
It’s tough to feel anything but dried up these days. Poetry helps. So does reading the Word. (One more than the other.)
A poem about how Jesus isn’t surprised by your failure in the face of racism–and still calls you to love.
You don’t fit on my lap anymore.I can barely carry you.Not that you’re ever still enough for either. You are a giant.Taller than your older friends,mountainous in your anger,a cathedral of words and laughter. You walk on tiptoe everywhere,Your dance more irritated bumblebee than prima ballerina. You have a favorite version of the Bible,But you …
Having faith doesn’t mean you have no doubts. Having peace doesn’t mean you have no struggle. Having Jesus means your doubts and struggles are firmly underfoot, pinned and conquered, squirming in the captivity of their submission. “With me, faith means perpetual unbeliefKept quiet like the snake ’neath Michael’s footWho stands calm just because he feels …
Even folks who aren’t Christian know the story of the Nativity: baby Jesus born in a barn, surrounded by critters, visited by wealthy strangers. It’s repeated so often by rote that it starts to lose its wonder, like a word you repeat until you can’t remember what it means. (What is a “dog” anyway?!) Let’s …