I. It's one a.m. on Good Friday as I'm writing this and in about nineteen hours I'm singing worship songs in front of a couple hundred people, but to be honest, sometimes I don't feel like I recognize Who I'm singing to anymore. I think I'm in the middle of a faith transition. Not a… Continue reading Enfolded/unfolding.
First, you start with some easy words, sounded out by clumsy lips and tongue only a few short years after you're born, meanings consumed and discarded as quickly as chewing gum A is for apple. B is for baseball. C is for carrot. D is for dog. And then, when you're a little older, there are… Continue reading Some words.
for the giant bookstore at the corner of church where I am content to listen to other people's morning french lessons from my green velvet armchair and survey the awakening city from behind the windows that lock away grey january dread for my favorite café just off the fullerton stop where chai tea lattes are sipped in blissful anonymity and sandwiches… Continue reading Quiet places.
I took a hike yesterday, Mud on boot soles, wind on my face And as I reached that first landing, And looked around me, Down the wide valley, Up to the Wasatch peaks, I could see God And hear His voice. He said, I created this mountain, And so have I created you. I created… Continue reading Mountain hymn.
the one true story rained down upon the planet's cracking skin its chapters muddying the dust soaking old and arid rumors of bygone riverbeds over time the words sank resolutely into their sedimentary plots and as they decomposed into letters the long-forgotten stones were drenched with meaning and one day they grew and collided mighty steeples rending desert plains discovering their unsilenced voices singing the new-remembered hymns echo unto echo
I. I've been living out of suitcases for the past four years, a few months here, a couple weeks there, in six different states, staying in hotels, apartments, houses, cabins, inns-- but it's only one day until I get my gown and cap, I'm sitting in the middle of my stuff, and somehow I've forgotten how to pack. It used… Continue reading The suitcase poems.
Wanderers. The fact that nothing is coincidence--that every event, every soul, every offhand word we speak has meaning and significance--is as beautiful to me as it is strange. The idea should make more sense to me than it does, especially since I am a writer. Good writers don't like coincidence--they create symbols and foreshadowing and patterns in… Continue reading Tapestry.
Hello, Wanderers. So, for those of you who don't know already, here are some major life updates--I quit student teaching. I temporarily withdrew from Northwestern. And on Sunday, I moved back home for the rest of winter quarter. All of this has been a pretty big shock to my system, and I've been trying to… Continue reading Finding words. (A series of poems.)
You are all things. All grace. All holy wrath, all fire. All lovely, all pure, expanding into the infinite, the roaring waters that flood and feed my soul. You are the Maker of clay pots, broken vessels, mute and thoughtless. You are the answer. You are treasure poured out into my spirit, with Your Spirit… Continue reading Yahweh.