How much do you love me?

How much do you love me?

Do you love me enough,

to hug away my tears,

to hold me when I cry,

to put me on my feet,

when everything feels wrong?

Do you love me enough,

to know who I am,

and still be there,

even when I cry,

for no reason at all?

Do you love me enough,

to stay by my side,

when I've lost track,

of who I am

and what I want?

Do you love me enough,

to catch me when I fall,

stop the out of control,

downward spiral

of my crashing mood?

Do you love me enough,

to be worthy of my trust,

to keep me safe

and not break my heart,

if I let you touch it?

Calling

Calling. I don't know what it means to me.

I was a teenager the first time I read Jeremiah 1 in church and it was overwhelming for me, as not much more than a child, to read Jeremiah's protests that he was only a child and therefore could not speak for a God. God called him anyway saying "I'll give you words" and that gave me the terrifying, fascinating sense that God has a purpose for me and I must find it.

To think there's a grand plan for me and yet I've been left out of the loop is scary. I want to be in control. I want to know what's going on and where I'm going. I know I've spent more than enough time praying to be shown the map, given the step by step directions, and allowed to read them backwards, so I don't have to guess at where I'm going, but really what I need is trust.

The people I trust are few and far between. I don't trust easily, but when I start to trust it's the turning point in my relationships with other people, and that is what I need with God far more than I need to see the end of the mystery before I open the cover.

Prompt: Write a prayer for discernment or call to action.

Memories Underfoot.

My feet remember walking.

Walking bare-foot through a labyrinth in the cold.

It was a chilly morning.

We'd gotten lost on the way there,

missed a road and had to turn around

after calling someone for directions,

but that was exactly the kind of adventure we needed.

We had a place to go,

and a deadline for getting back,

but the point was more about the wandering,

than the destination.

There was irony

in getting lost going to a labrynth,

a maze we could follow

to lose our own path and follow God's.

Eventually we arrived.

Despite shivering a little in the cold

I couldn't resist

taking off my shoes.

Something about bare feet

touching the ground

calls me to be present

in a way I can't be fully present

without feeling the ground beneath me.

The grass was cold and damp that day,

softly cushioning my feet,

a striking contrast from the crunch

of hot black sharp stones underfoot

at the last labyrinth I walked.

It was strange

not to hear the footsteps

of the person walking with me

and yet,

I could sense where she was

in the winding path around me.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about memories underfoot.

To the Tree of Life

God of the woods,

God of nature,

you are the tree of life.

Your roots sink deep into the earth,

spreading to support our feet

even as we avoid your shadow of comfort.

You are the bright green beauty

of new leaves that catch our eyes,

if only we look up from our over busied lives.

You are the rough bark

taking on the scars of the world,

offering a love more permanent

than anything represented

in hearts and initials,

carefully scratched,

by reckless flighty lovers.

You are the branches reaching out,

bigger than life,

holding us carefully

as we try to climb higher,

reaching for the sky

with our fragile dreams.

You are the infinite complexity

of roots and branches and twigs,

leaves and veins in leaves,

far more intricately complex

than anyone could see from the ground.

This is a map to where I live.

This is a map to where I live.

didn't I write that for school last semester?

or something like that...

I think I live in confusion.

If there was a map of my head,

it would make life easier.

I live on the edge of school,

where one step to the left

means my life depends on getting good grades,

but half a step to the right

means I could just not care,

because none of it is really, about real life anyway.

At the crossroad of work,

where I love my job,

and I love my kids,

and I have fun with my coworkers,

but I hate the values,

and can't believe the lack of parenting

some of my kids get,

and I want so bad to do what I feel is right,

but have to fit the system,

and hate it when I can't

even speak my mind to coworkers

because to really speak out

could cost me my job

or at best cost me,

any respect I've earned there.

I can't afford to lose that respect,

not when I need it to continue

to advance my career,

but sometimes I wonder,

if even that is worth it.

I live across the street from the ideal social life,

from some sort of popular in crowd,

that invites me into their circle,

and welcomes me as I am.

I live on the edge of town,

within earshot of the church bells ringing

with calls to tradition and conformity,

and within sight of the woods

calling new songs,

and even older songs,

a different winding path to faith.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: This is a map to where I live.

You are my sanctuary.

God you are my sanctuary,

my safe place,

my space to rest,

the arms I long to hold me,

the voice of love

in a friend reaching out to me.

You are my sanctuary.

You make me a sanctuary.

You hold me close,

when I feel alone.

You are everything I long for

even when I don't know it.

You are my comfort and teacher.

You are the hand that guides me,

the friend that comforts me,

and the spirit in me

when it's my turn to be a comfort.

You prepare me to be a sanctuary

and you are my sanctuary.

You are my voice and guide in the silence.

You are my strength.

You lift me up when I fall

and hold my hand

when I feel like I'm floating away.

Forgive

Forgive them.

Forgive me.

Forgive us.

Forgive until it hurts.

Forgive them, the companies, nations, politics and powers, that rape the world, create policies of hurt, and take until they get ahead.

Forgive me, for ignoring the hurt, not crying out at the pain, for letting my wants get in the way of others needs

Forgive us, every time we cast lots and argue for things we don't need, while robbing the ones with nothing worth stealing.

Forgive until the hurt is washed away.

True Friend

wrapping me with love

drying tears of pain and hurt

tight hugs holding me

prompt: write a haiku about someone important to you.