Reboloke's Ramblings

Why I Like Old Cemeteries

2011-12-30T20:30:00.000-05:00

If anybody else is there they can't really blame you for it or get upset if you're crying for no apparent reason - they'll just assume it's cause somebody died and you miss them.

Little to no traffic/car exhaust to gag on.

Fresh air and open, but not too open space.

Feeling connected - it's a place to rub up against history and imagine what peoples lives where like and how this and that person with the same name were related.

Reading gravestones is like people watching, only less chance of being caught.

It's a peaceful place to walk.

Feeling like a natural part of the cycle of life.

Being reminded life is finite and to make the most of it.

The Kiss That Wasn't

2011-06-10T14:21:00.000-04:00

I should have known

when he tried to kiss me,

before a first date,

when I didn't even want it.

I never should have gone,

on that awful date.

I never liked the guy,

with his flattery,

he only hurt me.

He only hurt me

with his flattery.

I never liked the guy,

on that awful date.

I never should have gone,

when I didn't even want it.

Before a first date,

when he tried to kiss me -

I should have know.

Flash Fiction Friday prompt: A Kiss to Remember

The Moon

2011-05-28T16:36:00.000-04:00

A distant friend,
who never laughs,
or sheds a tear.
Who never cries,
or truly smiles.
Her's is a lonely life,
but so simple,
without a care.

Church of the Unbelievers

2011-05-20T12:55:00.005-04:00

They kept telling us the rapture was coming. They said we needed to be saved, to join their church, to evangelize to all our non-believer friends. They called us non-believers and never took the time to listen to what we do believe, after all everybody believes something.

Then they had their “last chance” worship service. They said everyone was invited but fifteen minutes after the service started a dozen or more non-church members came back out of the church. They reported that the church members had told them if they weren't ready to join the church and testify their belief in the imminent rapture they were beyond saving and no longer needed to be there.

Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or just an excuse to party, but while the church members prayed their way to rapture the rest of us ate, drank, talked and laughed. It was ironic the way the tension of disagreement and arguing about beliefs dispelled that night. Everyone who knew they were going to be raptured was in church busy praying, and the rest of us were willing to accept each other as we were.

Some of us kept looking over at the door to the church to see if and when they were going to come out thumping their Bibles, but they never did. In fact some of us were out all night and nobody ever left the church. And nobody went in looking for them. They might have been right but it was much more peaceful without them.

This post was written for Flash Fiction Friday.

This is Not About...

2011-04-22T11:51:00.001-04:00

This is not about you. It's about me. It's about me and where I'm going, where I'm stuck, what I need, and what I want. It's about trying to find what fits into my life and what I want to do. It's about being me without catering to preconceived ideas about who I am and what I'm supposed to be like.

I'm not who you think I am. It's all a lie, except more like I've just outgrown who you see me as and haven't yet had the courage to tell you who I am now. I've changed and grown, and I feel good about who I am and what I believe, yet it feels like a lie to keep my thoughts to myself.

I wonder sometimes if I should be more blunt to come out and say what I believe and feel. Often it's not really anybody else's business - what I believe, what I feel, how I meet God, my thoughts on this or that, who I happen to think is cute, or what I see as meaningless ritual is all a matter of who I am and really have nothing to do with you. Yet I can't help wonder... Would you see me differently if you knew the truth about me? Would you be bothered that I'm no longer the kid you think I am? Or would you still accept me, grown up and changed as I may be?

Untitled Prayer (righteousness and justice)

2011-04-15T11:40:00.002-04:00

Let us live in righteousness,

not in belief we are right

and the other is wrong,

but in your grace,

doing what each of us is meant to do,

as best as we are able.

Let us seek justice,

not revenge.

Let us work towards wholeness,

fairness,

and authentically valuing

everyone's worth,

rather than fighting for recognition

of our own over-inflated "goodness."

Let you grace shine down and guide us,

when we fail to see the difference,

between righteousness and selfishness,

between justice and punishment,

between creating wholeness and creating division.

Holy Ground

2011-04-12T23:08:00.001-04:00

I walk a path unknown,

but really more familiar,

bare foot in the grass,

cold beneath my feet,

sneakers crunching over gravel,

in the heat of summer,

weathered paths,

pulling me,

away from the world,

and closer to God,

to holiness and wholeness.

Things I Saved

2011-04-07T12:34:00.005-04:00

Prompt: These are the things I saved.

Bits and projects,

stones and shells,

a stack of tee shirts,

I won't ever wear again,

a million papers,

my best artwork,

middle school essays,

my high school portfolio,

“important stuff”

that means nothing to me

- tax forms and pay stubs

from old jobs

snips of writing,

quotes from random places

- most I've forgotten why I saved,

but still make me smile,

relics of childhood,

and teenage years,

stuff in itself unimportant,

yet glued to precious memories.

Impatient

2011-04-05T09:45:00.001-04:00

Waiting...

is it done yet?

If only saying,

I is hungry,

put something yummy,

on the table,

right now.

Sexual Assault Awareness Month

2011-04-04T18:37:00.003-04:00

The poem below is written in honor of April begin sexual assault awareness month. Most people never talk about these things, but you probably know at least one person who has lived this. Women and men, young and old, all demographic of people are both directly and indirectly effected by sexual assault, but many will never tell their stories. Would you be willing to listen if they did?

trigger warning: this poem talks about sexual assault.

One touch

He wanted her

led to another

his hands across her skin

she didn't like it

he'd get what he wanted

pushing away

he liked her feisty

only encouraged him

he'd take what he wanted

to get what he wanted

despite her tears.

despite her pain.

Inner Beauty

2011-04-03T17:16:00.001-04:00

Mirror mirror,

on the wall,

tell me why,

my looks are yours?

Does it matter if I'm pretty,

if my face is perfect?

Don't look at me like that.

Close your eyes,

take a step back,

don't look so close,

and you'll see more.

Midnight Chatter

2011-04-02T16:35:00.001-04:00

Are you listening,

in the night,

as I whisper,

secret fears?

This is when,

I should be sleeping.

I can tell,

because I cry,

when I catch you,

closing eyes,

and drifting off,

to that elusive,

land of sleep.

White

2011-04-02T16:23:00.001-04:00

Falling spring flower petals,

blanket the ground with white,

soft reminds of sparkling snow,

cool and delicate in the warmth,

of spring times gentle breeze,

when ice has melted away.

Unexpecting

2011-03-26T10:44:00.004-04:00

Isaiah 54:1* Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song and shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are your children than the children of her who has given birth.

When this scripture was read at my prayer writing group I couldn't help seeing a little of myself and where I'm at in life in it.

I have no children of my own. While to describe a woman as barren would generally indicate a more permanent and less voluntary state than I would presume or wish for myself (or anyone), the fact remains that I've never given birth. I've never experienced labor or held a baby in my arms knowing it came from me.

I don't have a family of my own to raise (though I hope to someday), yet I spend my days raising children. I've cared for enough families I've lost track of how many. I've had countless kids capture pieces of my heart, and to myself I call them my kids. Especially recently, now that I'm working for a single family instead of a preschool with dozens of kids, I've caught myself saying “my __ year old” and adding “that I watch” or “that I babysit” before telling something they did, to prevent confussion over why I talk about “my” kids but never have them with me. And so I have both many kids and no kids.

*I adapted from the New International Version

Update

2011-03-23T23:34:00.006-04:00

It's been almost two weeks since I've posted anything, so here's a quick update. The time change has screwed with the kids' I watch schedule, so they haven't been napping regularly and I haven't been able to write as much while they sleep. I've actually a little bit been making up for that lost writing time in the evenings and weekends, but at those times I've been writing job applications since I only have my current position through the end of the school year. I've also been thinking a lot about life and career goals and what my long term plans (or perhaps lack of plans) are, but I need to sort all of that out more before I can post anything about it. In the mean time, if you know anyone in PA looking for childcare please let me know.

Flash Fiction - Hide and Seek

2011-03-10T18:05:00.001-05:00

I finally decided to write something for the flash fiction prompt a writing group I'm in sent out a few weeks ago: "That's when I realized I could control time and space"

Hide and Seek

I was only six. My brother had yelled at me for the millionth time that I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends. He said I wasn't old enough and I would cry when I wasn't any good at what they were playing. He'd only reluctantly agreed to let me join them when Max told him to just let me play so I wouldn't go crying to our mom.

I saw Max whisper something to him and him nodding before he told me “We're playing hide and go seek. You get to hunt first, but you have to find everyone in ten minutes or you're out of the game.”

One of his friends snickered “She'll never find us all.”

“Close your eyes for one minute so we can hide, and then you get ten minutes to hunt.” My brother issued his final instructions to me then turned to his friends “Come on.”

I closed my eyes and started counting silently before remembering the new watch I'd gotten for my birthday had a second hand on it, so instead of counting I quickly pulled my head and arms into my coat and stared at my watch. I willed the second hand to move faster as I waited for the big kids to hide, and it seemed to work. I burst my head and arms back out of my coat yelling “ready or not here I come!”

Silently I prayed for ten minutes to be long enough to find them. That minute had seemed to move so fast, I willed time to slow down. I knew the territory for our game spanned the space of six yards, but I tried to convince myself that wasn't half as big as it seemed. Looking up the houses seemed closer together, and even smaller then usual.

That's when I realized I could control time and space, and my brother and his friends didn't have a chance.

My New Queen Sized Bed

2011-03-08T21:26:00.006-05:00

Last night* I slept on a queen size bed in my own room for the first time in my life. I've always had a twin size bed and was never interested in trading it for a larger bed when I've been offered other beds in the past.

There's been a whole list of practical reasons for my attachment to my twin bed:

I already have twin size sheets and blankets I like and have to find new ones if I got a larger bed.
It takes up less space in my room.
It's what I'm used to.
Switching beds would take more work than keeping the one I had.
The bigger beds I've been offered have been water beds, which I'm not a big fan of.

Those practical reasons haven't changed and still kind of annoy me a little, but there's something else, and that has changed.

There's a song by Death Cab for Cutie (see lyrics below) that puts into words better than I could why I didn't want a queen size bed in my room until I “needed” it. I wasn't exactly afraid, but almost. I didn't want that much extra space to feel lonely going to bed by myself at night. I didn't want to make room in my bed for someone else only to have them never come, or to end up sharing it with the wrong person. I didn't want to wait forever for the right person to come fill that space beside me.

But now there's a different feel to all that. I'm not trapped waiting for someone, and I'm not trying to fill a space beside me with guys who aren't worth it. I've actually met someone I want to wake up next to because it feels so right being with him. I'm not adding an empty space beside me (even though it's physically still empty most nights), and I'm not adding space for someone just because having anyone beside me sounds better than another night alone.

I don't want to jump ahead of myself, but I can't help thinking that sharing space and my life with this man will continue to feel right for a very long time, and I hope that's true, cause this is a good feeling.

Your New Twin Sized Bed

You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed

with a single pillow underneath your single head

I guess you decided that that old queen was more space than you would need

and now it's in the allay behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free

and that I hope you have more luck with this than me

you used to think that someone would come along and lay beside you in the space that they belonged

but the other side of the mattress stayed like new...

*actually two nights ago cause I rarely get things posted the day I write them.

Stress and Writing... Or Not

2011-03-02T21:49:00.002-05:00

If you've ever tried to write I'm sure you've experienced writer's block at some point. It happens to all of us, and about the only way to completely avoid it is to just not write. Obviously just not writing isn't a satisfactory solution for me, so I've been thinking lately about what causes writer's block.

For about a month and a half I was spending fifteen minutes to an hour or more writing at least four days a week, then suddenly for the past week I couldn't really focus on writing any of those times. It's not that I suddenly stopped having anything important to say, or that my time available to write changed at all, I just hit a vague lack of focus and found myself unable to concentrate at any of the times I had been writing.

I'm realizing the biggest reason why – stress. The last time I stopped regularly writing for myself I was highly stressed over my school and work situation. Now I've spent the past week worrying over my finances. I realized my current income to expenses is not sustainable, so naturally I've been worrying. I've been hyper aware of how much money I'm spending, and thinking twice before putting anything I might some day want in the give away pile (I've been working on cleaning my room, but that a whole other subject) just because it might be more expensive than I can replace later, even if I don't need it now.

And my writing suffers. When I'm stressed or worried about something I can't fall into my writing like I do at other times. The stress holds me at the surface and ties me to reality when I would rather get lost in words. At best I do this, and ramble on paper about whatever is bothering me. At worst I can't focus, can't sit still, and find myself pacing the room, fidgeting anxiously, or sinking into depression. In any case I lose my creativity, and I hate that. If I don't have creative outlets I don't feel like myself.

Sea Glass

2011-02-20T09:13:00.003-05:00

Sea glass,

or river glass, if you will,

bits of broken bottles,

scattered on the gravel,

washed upon the shore,

from unknown origin,

green, pale blue,

white frosted clear,

and once in a while,

rich bright true blue,

if luck will let you find it.

Raising Jewish Kids

2011-02-18T14:41:00.002-05:00

Since January I've been nannying for a Jewish family four afternoons a week. I'm also on a less regular schedule watching the kids in another family where the mom is Jewish. I'm spending large chunks of my week helping to raise jewish kids. But I'm not Jewish.

Outside of how it has been retold into Christian traditions I know very little about Jewish culture, traditions, and history. I don't know where the lines are between Jewish beliefs that have been morphed into Christian faith and the beliefs that are “new” with Christianity. I don't know what traditions stem from Judaism, what traditions have their roots in the early Christian church, and what traditions come from other religions.

I don't know the Jewish language or words for talking about God and faith. If I tell someone a friend of mine is probably at synagogue on Friday night I catch myself having to make a conscientious effort not to say “church” instead of “synagogue.” I've never really believed in the very Jesus centered language of some churches – I believe in worshiping God above the son of God – but I do consider myself Christian and Christianity is the faith I'm most familiar with.

When I worked in a Christian daycare I knew there were certain things I had to be careful how I talked about. I tend to be more liberal than many of my coworkers and the families we cared for there, but I knew it would be ok if the kids heard me singing a Christian song or saw me wearing a shirt from church camp and asked what it said. It wouldn't create a conflict or leave me needing to explain something I didn't know how the parents would want addressed if I mentioned Jesus or a New Testament Bible story. It probably wouldn't even evoke questions from the kids I watched.

Now I wonder how much the kids I watch know about Christianity, and how much their parents would want them to know if they ever asked me questions. I've thought about wearing a church camp shirt to work and changed my mind because I wasn't sure what I should say if the three year old asked what my shirt said. If and when the kids ask me questions about God, faith, or holidays I want to answer honestly, but I also want to answer in a way that is consistent with what they already know and aligns with what their parents want them to be learning.

I feel like I should know a lot more about Judaism than I do, just so I could know what the kids I watch are being taught about God, and what they are talking about when they mention something related to a holiday or their faith.

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T22:06:00.004-05:00

Is it ok to be a sap and gush a little about my Valentine's date? Just because this year is the first I've officially had a Valentine's day date? Still no? Then go away, cause I feel like gushing over how sweet my weekend with my man was!

Friday night I had a family commitment, so my romantic weekend didn't start until Saturday. I waited all morning for the dance class I would see my boyfriend at, then flirted with him across the room as leads and follows were lined up on opposite sides of the room to learn their respective parts. When the leads and follows came together again we rotated partners, so every time I got to my man I gave him hugs and kisses before we fell into practicing the moves we were learning.

The dance lessons went great (we'll see how much we remember next week...), but after four hours we were both ready for a break. I walked with him to his car to see what the surprise he told me he had was - raspberry jelly filled chocolates (either he pays attention well, or I just yum over anything with raspberry and/or chocolate that much that it's obvious). Then we went out for dinner at a cool little burrito shop, before heading back to his place and calling it an early night.

Sunday I got lots of snuggles from my man, we went to Panera for lunch, ran a few errands, and watched a movie before supper. He was brave enough to let me try cooking something new, so I made us chicken marsala, which turned out amazingly well if I do say so myself. I think he was slightly scared by my cooking method - apparently not everyone automatically needs two recipes, and doesn't follow either, to make something new!

I stayed over until Monday/Valentine's Day, and he bought me breakfast at this awesome little cafe. It wasn't the kinda place you'd think of being romantic, but it was fun and really sweet. The food was good, and you could tell they knew all the regulars. I liked the feel of the place, and I liked that it wasn't like a cliche Valentine's date spot.

The only bad part of the weekend? We both had to work Monday afternoon, so we couldn't spend the rest of Valentine's day together.

Moon Song

2011-02-09T22:45:00.001-05:00

Pale silver moon,

in a purple sky,

like a money plant seed pod,

turned into a spotlight,

on clear rich blue sky.

written 10/22/10

Newness

2011-02-08T21:46:00.004-05:00

So apparently I've been slacking on the blog front...

I spent a large chunk of this past fall stressing over work, school, relationships, and my in ability to balance everything. I decided I needed to cut stress, so I planned to make some changes for the beginning of the new year. I also found some unexpected changes happening, which led to a whole lot of newness in my life.

Newness:

Unexpected: New Boyfriend - Ironically, or perhaps by fate, I met a really great guy the day after the guy I had been dating dumped me. He's cute, he's fun, he's silly, he's mature (well, at least in the important stuff :-p), he treats me well, he's a poet, he passes friends' approval, and is all around wonderful to have in my life.

Planned: New Job - working in the daycare center was becoming to much stress, so I decided to look for a job as a nanny and leave the daycare center. The change of pace has been just what I needed, and also left me with more time and energy for thinking and writing.

Planned by Default: No Classes - When it came time to register for spring semester classes I was running short on mental energy to plan what classes I wanted to take. I also wasn't sure what my work schedule would look like, so by default my lack of energy to plan for classes led to me not taking any classes this semester. While it's slightly disappointing that I can't do everything well all at once, I feel good about taking a break from school to settle into other new things.

Added Bonus: New Writing Time and Goals - While I'm nannying I can use the time the kids are napping for writing and such. Since I'm not taking classes I can also use the time I would have set aside for homework to do creative writing. I'm hoping this post will kick my blog back into gear (I even have some other stuff written I intend to post, I just haven't gotten around to it yet). I also have some other writing goals I'm working on, but actually getting stuff posted here again is what is relevant here.

Prayer for Healing

2010-09-19T19:32:00.005-04:00

Dear God,

Be with her in her pain,

help her know she is not alone,

grant her the wisdom to see,

more pain of another sort

is not the solution.

Wrap your arms around her,

hold her close,

when physical distance,

prevents a hug from a friend

Be with her when I can't,

when I don't know what to say,

or she pushes me away,

or I'm just not the person she needs.

Help the world to see,

her pain is not her making,

that the scars she gives herself,

are not the reason she hurts.

Surround her with the patience,

of listening ears,

and grant them the understanding,

to know talking about pain,

is better than ignoring it,

that shushing away,

her honest words of hurt,

only leads to scars,

that run far deeper,

than the marks we wince at.

The prayer prompt from this weeks Praying Through My Pen is: Read Numbers 12:13 and "write a prayer for healing for someone specific." Rather than write about a specific person I found myself writing about a specific need for healing which many people I've talked to or heard stories of have faced (and "her" can just as much be "his").

The Dust I Know

2010-06-15T20:53:00.004-04:00

When the dust settles,

what will be left?

Will we still remember,

the clash of sticks,

scratching at ground,

the fascinating ability,

to find the fun in anything,

or will we be wired,

inseparably tied,

to electronic beep,

and flashing light?

When the dust settles,

will we still know how,

to play in the dirt,

make mud pies,

make cookies from scratch,

and laugh at a poof of flour?

Or will we forget,

what it means to get dirty,

how to sustain ourselves,

the taste of homemade bread,

and the thrill of waiting,

as it's smell fills the house?

When my kids are grown,

will dust mean the same thing,

or will the only dust they know,

be stirred up by power,

outside of themselves,

a race car's wake,

or the danger filled cloud,

whisked up by the buzz,

of a rotary saw,

big boys toys,

to be carefully guarded?

When the dust settles,

will we still be human?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.

Letter to Myself

2010-05-20T16:16:00.004-04:00

Dear Self,

One day you will see how important you are. One day you will believe it when someone says “I love you” or “you're beautiful” or “you're worth it.”

I know you mean it when you say those things, but sometimes it's so hard to believe. I want to be the smart, strong, beautiful woman you say I am. I want to be confident in myself. But...

I know it's hard to believe now, but one day you will see. You're already starting to. You know you want to believe it, to understand yourself that way, and that's the first step to getting there. One day you'll realize you don't just want to believe it; you'll know it's true.

You are strong. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You might not believe it, but it's true. And, if you look deep enough, you're confident too. You know you are all these things and more. You deny it, but you know it.

I can be... but...

I don't feel worth it. I want to be. I want to be worth it. I want to love myself as much as you say I deserve to be loved. I want to be happy with myself. I want to celebrate who I am, but so often I can't until someone tells me to.

But you are worth it. You know you are. Right now you need someone to tell you you are important, but one day you'll know it and believe it all on your own. One day you will tell yourself that and it will be true. One day you will stop doubting yourself, and then you will be truly free, truly alive, and whole.

I like the sound of “one day.” I want to tell it to come faster, but some how I think that would slow it down.

So smile and enjoy the journey. You're worth it, and I'm here if you need me.

Love,

This post was inspired by the daily prompt "One day, . . . " and a suggestion to write a letter about why writing is important to you/a letter of encouragement to yourself (both from A Writer's Book of Days). I thought it was just an odd reflection on myself and no one else would really relate to it, but after a couple of my writing buddies told me they could relate to it I decided I should post it.

I Can't Remember

2010-05-12T19:10:00.003-04:00

I can't remember,

ironically,

I remember,

and I laugh,

cause she remembers,

and yet we write,

I can't remember.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: I can't remember

Praying Through My Pen

2010-04-03T11:55:00.000-04:00

Through out Lent I participated in a small group called "Praying Through My Pen." The group was led by Rachel Hackenberg, author of Faith and Water, and focused on using creative writing as a form of prayer. Below are the creative writing and prayer prompts used in that group and links to most of what I wrote in the group.

February 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

Scripture: Mark 1:11-13

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for the wilderness.

February 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about fireworks.

Scripture: Psalm 148

Prayer prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

March 6, 2010

Warm-up: Write a haiku about someone important to you.

Creative writing prompt: Write about someone who left.

Scripture: Luke 23:34

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for forgiveness.

March 13, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about a longing.

Scripture: Psalm 114

Prayer prompt: You are my sanctuary.

March 20, 2010

Creative writing prompt: This is a map to where I live.

Scripture: Isaiah (I didn't get the chapter or verse written down) and Numbers 11

Prayer prompt: Think about images of God as mother or another non-traditional image of God, and write a prayer to God in that image.

March 27, 2010

Creative writing prompt: Write about memories underfoot.

Scripture: Jeremiah 32: 38-41

Prayer prompt: Write a prayer for discernment or call to action.

The creative writing prompts used were borrowed from A Writer's Book of Days. The prayer prompts were created to be used in this group.

How much do you love me?

2010-03-31T21:33:00.004-04:00

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

2010-03-31T00:28:00.003-04:00

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.

2010-03-27T00:27:00.003-04:00

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

2010-03-20T18:08:00.005-04:00

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.

2010-03-20T00:11:00.004-04:00

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.

2010-03-13T23:58:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-06T23:44:00.003-05:00

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

2010-03-06T23:19:00.000-05:00

wrapping me with love

drying tears of pain and hurt

tight hugs holding me

prompt: write a haiku about someone important to you.

Fireworks

2010-02-27T23:24:00.004-05:00

I cannot think of fireworks without remembering long afternoons with family waiting for the fireworks at Long's Park. Going to the fireworks is always a family affair. When we go it looks like we're packing for a week. We pack a cooler or two full of drinks, and dips, and cheese spread and chicken kabobs, bags of chips and crackers, stacks of blankets, dice games, trains, and perhaps a board game, always a deck of cards and of course books. We bring a huge canopy and stake out our claim on the hill with a tarp and blankets, but the best thing is the twenty foot bamboo pole. Every year we strap a bamboo pole to the roof of our car and then carry it into the park to mark our spot with a kite or a flag or a windsock. Then we chuckle to ourselves as we hear people saying on their cell phones "yeah, I'm by the big pole, where are you?" Course then there was the year we sat beside the sofa....

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

God of the Rainbow

2010-02-27T22:51:00.000-05:00

How can I write about God in a single color?

God is the deep murky blue green

of the Chesapeake Bay.

The refreshing wholeness

of living, dirty, fish and algae filled water.

The movement of different pieces of life crossing.

The clear breath

of wind across your skin

and the crystal clear water

where the zebra muscles live.

God is the red brown and gray pebbles

under twenty feet of clear water.

God is the dancing red spark

of a campfire.

I imagine God laughs

at being described

as hot like a spark.

God is the orange glow

of the setting sun.

The pale white shimmer

of the full moon.

God's smile is a rainbow

arching gracefully across the sky.

God lives in the pinks and purples and yellows

of flowers and butterflies on a summer day.

God is the lush green

of soft grass in the spring time

and the dry brown

of dust under foot.

Prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

Close Your Eyes

2010-02-20T23:12:00.002-05:00

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

It's hard to write with your eyes closed.

When I close my eyes I see faces. I see my kids begging me to play, and the little girl I held in Africa. I see friends, I see the guy I like, and I see the person I pretend to be, when nobody is looking.

When I close my eyes I see some place warm and comforting. I see the comforting pale brown of warm milky tea. I see the bustle of busy people, oblivious to me, moving about their day. I see a market place, with people working, the smell of exotic foods and familiar comforts, at lunch hour.

I see a confusing crowd with everybody knowing where their they're going, except for me. I see business and colors. I see red. I see energy. I see noisy.

I hear a million voices at once. I'm torn in a billion directions, and find myself grasping desperately for a single idea to chase down or simply a moment of peace. I see nothing in particular and every thing at once, and find myself wanting the blissful peace of nothing on my mind.

It's like at night when I try to sleep but my mind won't let me. As soon as I close my eyes my mind is racing, showing off its speed, dancing from thought to thought as if I could forget how quick it is, as if I really want to race the million threads of color darting through my head.

A prayer for the wilderness

2010-02-20T22:26:00.000-05:00

My god lives in the wilderness.

I meet God under the stars,

sitting by a campfire,

or rocking on a boat

with the rythmic clanking of a line

bumped against the mast,

by the breath of God.

To me the wilderness

is not devoid of God

but intimately tied to God.

It's where God hugs me in the arms

of damp woodsy air

and takes my breath away

with red and purple painted sky.

It's where the still and quiet

meets my busy mind

and calls me to slow down.

It's where no matter how big my worries are

they shrink against the back drop

of trees and sky and clouds and stars,

The God of the wilderness comforts me

when the walls of a church feel claustrophobic.

The piece of God in the trees

and the rocks

and the moonlight

invite me to be

who I am

when no one else

has the patients to wait

for the real me

to come out

of hiding.

Ladybug

2010-02-13T15:45:00.003-05:00

Forgotten signs,

of past lives,

scratched into walls,

and swept into corners,

reminder these walls,

hold unknown stories,

someone who played,

with a spotted red bug,

in the ladybug house,

before it was mine.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

Sepia

2010-02-04T21:09:00.006-05:00

A black and white photo,

shades of sepia, really,

capturing memories,

of nervous giggles,

childishly sophisticated,

declaring myself grown-up,

sharing intimate giggles,

loosened up by drinks,

blurred shades creating,

false closeness among strangers,

and yet it feels just right.

Does it count if it's late?

2010-01-24T21:47:00.003-05:00

It's been almost exactly a month since I started working on my writing goal for the year. So far I've been pretty successful. I missed one prompt completely (January 9: Write about a ceremony.), but I had other writing I was working on that day.

Some of my writing has really sucked, but it's been SOMETHING on paper (or computer as the case maybe). I'm also pleased to say I'm really proud of some of the things I've written.

Though initially my goal included posting what I wrote I quickly realized I limited my writing when I wrote with the intention of sharing, so having nixed that part of the goal I'm finding I'm writing a surprising amount of stuff I can't even share with my writing buddies.

Earlier this week I was disappointed when there was a day I didn't find inspiration for the prompt, or any other writing, and couldn't "catch up" for the prompt I missed in the next few days either, but a conversation this afternoon inspired an answer to that prompt.

My belated response to that prompt:

Outside my window,
lightning flashes,
streaking blazes,
as thunder rolls,
gray clouds grumbling,
across purple sky,
to the pounding pulse,
of torrential rain.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Look out your window; write what you see. (Jan. 20)

Dancing Shoes

2010-01-21T22:32:00.002-05:00

Imagine stepping,
onto sleek wood floor,
in suede soled shoes,
made for dancing.
The swoosh of fabric,
as you twirl in your skirt,
paired with the shoes,
ordered by mail,
to make you feel pretty,
sophisticated and sexy,
as you twirl the night away.
Dance your best,
cheeks flushing,
as you move to each touch,
intimately connected,
despite just meeting.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about something you bought mail order.

Acceptable Losses

2010-01-12T20:56:00.002-05:00

What loss is ok?

Perhaps you'll say,
the loss of time,
as you laugh for hours,
living in the moment,
with that kid who adores you,
or your best friend,
who you never see enough.

Maybe you'll say,
the loss of a guy,
who is a loser,
just playing you,
trying to get laid.

Maybe the best loss,
is the lost sleep,
when a friend says,
“I need you,”
and you sit up for hours,
holding them,
until they're ok,
or as ok as they'll be,
and the next day you smile,
unfazed by the tired,
because friends are worth,
more than sleep.

Maybe the only,
acceptable loss,
is losing the shield,
the thing that divides,
whatever separates you,
from God,
and from people,
the ones you could love,
if only you lost that wall.

Perhaps an acceptable loss,
isn't really a loss,
but a gain,
hidden in,
the taking away,
of that security blanket,
that keeps out the world.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about acceptable losses.

The Moon's Smile

2010-01-05T10:18:00.004-05:00

Look,
it's the moon,
like the shadow of,
a Cheshire Cat,
she comes to watch,
on perfect days,
a warm day in winter,
or cool summer day,
with clear blue sky,
and soft sun shine,
she comes and smiles,
she's happy to see us,
happy to be,
part of a beautiful day,
and I wonder,
why she hides,
when the day could use a smile.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about a day moon.

P.S. I didn't miss yesterday's prompt; I just haven't decided whether I'm posting any of it. The prompt was: "A year after your death,..." (after Czeslaw Milosz)

Wonderful Weekend Craziness

2010-01-03T19:25:00.003-05:00

This weekend was fabulous. I spent the whole weekend at a Leadership Now Justice Summit and reunion with some of my favorite people. It was awesome - great conversations, great workshops, great people, and just the right mix of meaningful and funny moments. It kept me busy and gave me a lot to think about, but I'm happy to say I some how managed to keep up with my writing in between everything else.

I won't subject anybody to my in-cohesive rambling in response to Friday's prompt (Write about Sunday afternoon). I've also decided my writing from Saturday (Write about a time someone said no) is too personal to share. Today's writing is also really random, rambling and in-cohesive, but I'm going to share it anyway since it's vaguely related to this weekend..

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're standing in a doorway.

I'm standing in the doorway. Waiting for something. A push to move forward. An invitation in. it's like I'm on the edge of living. Not confident enough to step into the room, but wanting to enjoy the party. Like there's an invisible wall, a bubble keeping me out. I can look through the doorway, but I don't know how to step through, or maybe I'm not sure which way I'm goin, which side of the door I want to be on, I could step to one side or the other, but I don't know which to go to, or maybe I'm at the end of the hall where I'm surround by doors and I don't know which to take. I could stand up boldly for justice and sacrifice everything, if I could be brave enough. Or I could wonder along on the edge of things, subtlely hinting I believe there could be better for the world but never loud enough or brave enough to scream it from the roof tops. I could say the world is more important than me, or I could put myself, my education, my learning first for now, and hope someday I can pay it forward and more. I could step through the door and declare my faith, announce what I believe and try to impact the world, but maybe I like it in the hall, listening in to six conversations, pulling what I need from each. Maybe my place is in the hall, reaching a hand into each room, connecting people who would never step out of their four sided box rooms. Maybe if I stand in the hall and talk to the children as they're funneled towards their parents closed off rooms they'll see what I see from the hall and maybe some day the walls will fall. Maybe the doorway is the place to be.

Melancholy New Year

2009-12-31T12:12:00.001-05:00

I want this night to be special,
to anticipate the night,
to eagerly await,
the ringing in,
of a brand new year,
and yet,
it doesn't feel right,
with melancholy shadows,
I wait,
for nothing,
what's a new year,
but another day,
another excuse,
to “celebrate,”
when I'm not in the mood,
to throw parties,
when I'd rather just chill,
and chat with some friends.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: In anticipation of the night.

A Random Light

2009-12-30T15:45:00.003-05:00

My writing for yesterday's prompt came late and is too personal to share, but for any one interested the prompt was: These are the delicacies of a ruined evening.

Today's prompt from A Writer's Book of Days is: A random light.

And that brings you a poem. I don't know what it means. It just kind of fell out of my head, so here you go:

A random light,
a star in the night,
a drop of sun,
upon a stone,
that hidden bit,
of light inside,
the special glow,
of newborn smile.

Smudges

2009-12-28T18:36:00.002-05:00

If I tell you the truth...
Will you believe me?
Will you understand?
Or will I have to hide?
Will it be ok,
this part of me is me?
Will you see the need,
or write me off,
say it's wrong,
disallow this part of me?
Will you still respect me?
Will you still believe in me?
Will you still love me,
if you know,
I'm not all white and pure,
there's smudges on my innocent act,
and I kinda,
like them there?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: If I tell you the truth...

Day 3

2009-12-27T23:25:00.002-05:00

After a long day I finally wrote. I can't share what I wrote, but I'll tell you the prompt for today was "Write about a time someone told you a secret."

"A Writer's Book" Day Two

2009-12-26T10:02:00.003-05:00

The prompt:
Write about something sacred.

The random rambling:
The earth is sacred, the ground we walk the stars above, the pen in my hand, writing itself. Life is sacred. I could write about anything and it would be sacred, but what does sacred mean. To me it means valued, loved by God, necessary for wholeness. Anything life giving is sacred, but so are the things that take life, because without those things we couldn't see the value of the things that give life. Love is sacred. Loving is living in the sacred way of God. The sacred is both invincible and as fragile as a glass ornament. The stuff of life is sacred. Life is sacred. Books and words and feelings. Relationships. Touching the soul of another. Perhaps that touching is the most sacred of all things. When you touch somebody so deeply their very soul moves inside them. Connections are sacred. We live in a web, tied to the earth and the sky, each other, all creatures and all creation by invisible threads, and everyone of those threads is sacred. Ubuntu.

The poetry:
Sacred Threads

I
am
not
alone.

I'm tied to you,
to creation,
to the earth,
to the sky.

Connected,
bound up,
by God's love,
the sacred threads.

The ties of love,
the give and take,
the push and pull,
the stuff of life,
that makes us whole.

The sacred is knowing,
I am because you are.
Ubuntu.

Going Far

2009-12-25T23:50:00.000-05:00

I remember eating Chinese with the Leadership Now crew. We always had good food, but that day we ate Chinese, and the fortune in my cookie was perfect. I remember reading it, and thinking it was so appropriate, so perfect, so fitting to the group I was with. I wanted to keep it forever. To always remember it and to always hold on tight to the friends I was with. It was something about friends. And something about going far. I nearly forgot it. Until a moment ago I thought I had forgot, but I think it said something like “with good friends you'll go far.” We giggled and laughed; go far we would. As we ate we were preparing for the biggest trip of my life so far. In a few months time we were in Africa. Good friends going far.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: “We ate Chinese.”

P.S. I'm so excited I got that book for Christmas :-D My (highly ambitious) goal is to write something for every one of the prompts this year.

Tasting the Bread

2009-12-25T12:11:00.006-05:00

Last night my church had one child attend the Christmas Eve late service. This little girl was absolutely adorable. She looked about four, had a head full of curly hair, and spent half the service whispering to what appeared to be her mom and grandmother.

When it came time for communion everyone was invited to circle around the altar table to share the bread and juice. The little girl was antsy waiting, then didn't want to take any. When everyone returned to their seats I could hear her asking her mom "why did you taste the bread?"

Though the whispers of a four year old changed the mood of what is generally the "adult" service, I found it both adorable and thought provoking listening to her. Nearly every Christian church serves communion at least occasionally, but how many adults even don't really understand why they take communion?

So this little girls question got me thinking. Why DO we "taste the bread" at communion? If a child asked me that could I even begin to answer? Do I even have a reason for it when I take communion, or am I doing it just because that's part of what we do? If it's hard for adults to understand, how can we possibly explain communion as anything more than a snack to a child?

I can't answer all the questions. In fact I'm not sure I have any good answers, but it did make me think about what communion means to me. And I realize... sometimes I'm just going through the motions. Sometimes I take communion because that's what you're supposed to do, and it really doesn't mean anything to me. Perhaps I should be ashamed to say that is probably the case more often then not.

As often as it doesn't mean anything though there are times it does. Sometimes it is exactly what I need. Sometimes I need to be told I'm loved. I need to be told God loves me enough that it doesn't matter how much I screw up or how stupid I am God is there with open arms and a precious gift. Sometimes that simple reminder of love - love directly from God in Christ and love through all the people who hold my hand even when I doubt God is there - is exactly what I need.

So I think if I were asked "why did you taste the bread?" I would have to answer that it's a reminder of God's love. That it's a reminder God loves me and you enough to give us the most precious gift that could be given, and that there is nothing more important than sharing the love God has given to all of us.

And there's my sappy Christmas post that was surprisingly difficult to write...

Untitled

2009-12-09T23:00:00.003-05:00

A cluster here,
a group there,
circles of friends,
cozy up inside,
against the winter chill,
they group together,
to paint a picture,
of who they are,
creating one image,
like constellations of stars,
but I'm alone,
blue as the moon.

Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "Write about winter constellations."

Ash

2009-12-01T22:17:00.001-05:00

I hate,
how fast,
my mood,
can crash,
like snips of paper,
consumed by flames,
shadows of joy,
whither away,
leaving me empty,
dust drifting aimlessly.

Invitation

2009-12-01T19:51:00.004-05:00

an invitation,
rejected,
stinging,
salt in a cut,
me left refused,
wishing,
I wasn't alone...

Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "Write about an invitation refused."

Succumbing

2009-12-01T19:02:00.001-05:00

Old habits,
die hard.
I've tried to forget,
and never return.

Just one night,
stay away,
a wiser friend pleas.

He knows how I'm hurting,
it's for my own good.
One night and one more,
now repeat that again.

I've been a good girl,
stayed out of trouble,
but the lonely night taunts me.

Just this once...
Just so your not alone...
Just for a friend,
since no ones around.

I nearly succumb,
I think I want to,
until I find,
a better friend,
in just my pen.

Nean's Challenge, or Ten Things I Like About Me

2009-11-06T23:46:00.003-05:00

Tonight I was talking with my crazy, annoying, favoritest cousin, and she gave me a challenge. She told me to list as many POSITIVE things about myself as I could, and that she wanted me to list at least ten things. So I'm making my list...

I can write
I'm a poet
I'm an artist
I'm a dreamer
I'm a visionary
I'm passionate about my kids
I believe in justice for the oppressed
I'm smart
I can laugh at myself
I'm trustworthy
I'm working towards my goal of getting a college degree
I like being challenged
I'm compassionate
I can sing
I'm a good listener
When I speak up in a group I can say things people value
I'm beautiful
I'm part of God's creation
I'm honest
I can hike
When I'm in nature I feel alive and unstoppable
I know when to talk and when to listen
I'm creative
I'm good at making things
I'm patient with my kids
I'm resourceful
I'm a thinker
I'm modest
I'm brave
I'm me.

I know not all of these things are ALWAYS true, but at least sometimes they are, and I'm proud I can say they're part of who I am.

Unwinding

2009-10-26T11:30:00.004-04:00

Come to the center,
distractions fade,
sitting in,
the shadow of God,
walked a path,
closer to you,
now it's time,
to unwind,
retrace the steps,
away from the center,
and yet remain,
centered with God.

Walking the Labyrinth

2009-10-26T11:24:00.004-04:00

Faded paint,
soft echoes,
of stories told,
memories caught,
upon cold stone.

Quiet voices,
whispers on the wind,
creating anew,
todays stories.

Worn soft,
threads of time,
holding us together,
tying past to present.

Handprints left,
to mark this place,
a space to be,
alive with God.

Pajamas

2009-10-16T20:22:00.004-04:00

Soft warm flannel,
hugging with warmth,
wrapping close,
the comfort of,
a hundred peaceful,
winter nights,
fabric worn soft,
a simple comfort,
for chilly nights.

Another prompt from Nean: "describe the perfect pair of pajamas."

Rain

2009-10-15T19:20:00.004-04:00

Cold drizzle creeps,
into bones,
sinking in,
chilling,
heart,
and mind,
and body.

My blankets call out,
stay in bed,
snuggle in,
drink some tea,
and write a bit,
block out the cold,
with warming ritual,
tea and books,
writing by fire light.

Icy grip,
of downcast weather,
slows me down,
but children are immune,
bouncing and giggling,
begging for escape,
confining space,
too tight,
trapping busy bodies,
who resist the call,
of rainy rest,
with boundless,
overflowing,
energy.

Writing prompt (courtesy of my cousin): "a poem... about... rain and obnoxious children"

2009-10-04T13:06:00.004-04:00

Giving in,
and giving up,
relinquishing control.

Unclenching fists,
to take a hand,
offered in love,
with words of wisdom.

Surrender not ending,
internal conflict,
help myself,
or fight for control?

Heart racing in fear,
have I done the right thing,
fought the right battle,
given in where I should?

I nervously swallow,
ironically fearing,
the very thing said to help,
chase away worry.

The Night Won't Save You

2009-09-29T21:28:00.005-04:00

Crisp air blows,
stirring the darkness,
bright moon glows,
a beckoning call,
crickets chirp,
their incessant song,
promising not,
to leave you alone,
if only you'll follow,
into the night,
escape from the light,
but the night won't save you,
illusion of company,
in a lonely world,
promising safety,
but offering only,
a melancholy home,
for a broken heart,
the night won't save anyone.

Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "The night won't save anyone."

Trustworthy

2009-09-23T22:20:00.005-04:00

This foreign word,
you say is me?
It's not that I'm,
unworthy, per-say,
but... why me?
Why trust me when,
I'm so untrusting,
hiding behind a screen,
lost in tight-lipped silence?
Why not tell,
a better friend,
someone you've known,
more than I'll talk?
I wouldn't tell a secret,
but surely there's,
more worthy keepers,
of these things,
you trust me with?

Finally!

2009-09-22T19:12:00.003-04:00

My cousin and I wrote this story about a month ago, and have been waiting for the entire thing to be published a sentence at a time by Gloaming Gap before posting it elsewhere. I hope you enjoy :-)

“Sleep Tight: A Gloaming Gap Story” by Beth Dombach and Jeannine Burkholder

Dr. Frederick von Bedstein squirmed between the storage boxes and a few stray shoes under Emmi’s bed. It was too neat, and she no longer kept fun things under her bed. The only thing the least bit amusing he found was an old bell with bits of string tied to it, and the cat had already informed him that was NOT for him to play with, nor was it Emmi’s to share.

Em’s eyes shot open and she blinked for a moment into the pitch blackness. “What time is it?” she groaned nearly inaudibly and shifted to see the LED display read 12:47 AM. “Oh my God, SERIOUSLY? That STUPID CAT!” Em froze at the sight of a long-since-forgotten tail slithering under the edge of her bed, the only thing she would possibly be able to see in this darkness. “Ugh, now I’m seeing things too!”

Frederick froze as he felt the bed shifting above him. He hadn’t meant to disturb her sleep. He didn’t even know how he would tell her. It had been years since he’d even stopped by – over ten since he officially retired from being her bed monster – and here he was trying to give her a message. He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t know how he’d make her understand, but her daughter’s safety depended on it. He stretched his hands and examined the sharp claws he’d carefully hid from her as she grew up. Reaching one clawed hand out from under her bed, he scratched noisily at the floor beside her bed.

Em could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms. Her logical grown-up mind told her that she was, of course, still imagining things. It had been a rather stressful day. Several people in her department had been laid off today, including Andrew, the guy on the other side of her cubicle wall. He had seemed nice enough, but he was, like all the other men, more interested in Rachel in marketing… Em saw the claws and her rambling mind stopped mid-thought.

Frederick slowly pulled his hand back under her bed. Even if she was all grown up, he didn’t like scaring his girl, but he had to warn her. He took the oath he’d made so many years ago seriously, but some of the younger bed monsters were less concerned with keeping promises and more concerned about getting attention. His Emmi’s little girl was unfortunate enough to be paired with a rebellious young monster that made no qualms about breaking the lesser of the rules in the oath, and now he heard rumors that her monster would even break the most sacred of laws. Frederick wasn’t one to get in the middle of things, but he knew it would hurt his girl if her daughter were injured, and even after all these year’s he couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

That claw was not the cat — real or imagined! Em had a sudden urge to walk the 20 feet down the hall and check on Cassie. She felt suddenly uneasy, with the sudden reappearance of her long-forgotten imaginary best friend, Mumble… Mubboo… what did she call him? He hadn’t had claws though… at least, not that she’d ever seen. What did this “mutant version” of her strange friend from her past mean? Cautiously, she inched her head to the edge of the bed to look down, feeling silly and a bit like her seven-year-old self. Not sure what she was doing, she whispered, “Mum… Mumbly-Boo?”

Frederick flicked his tail out from under her bed. It had been a long time since they’d played these games, but he hoped to catch a glimpse of the delight she always showed when he flicked his tail. Remembering what he came for he let out a low grumble. He hummed a few lines of her mother’s lullaby – the one he used to try to copy, and then in a low growl he changed to a tune he’d heard make her daughter cry when it came on the tv earlier that evening.

Em was filled with a mixture of pleasant nostalgia and irrational fear. She still wasn’t sure if this whole exchange was real or just a nightmare, but there was something strangely familiar in this. As terrified as her friend made her from time to time as a child, she knew he always had a reason. And she’d learned decades ago to trust him implicitly.

Frederick hooked a sharp claw on the edge of her blanket and gave a little tug. He needed her to get up, needed her to realize her daughter was in danger. If he let Cassie’s bed monster inform her of his existence it could be too late. He growled the scary tune a little louder, willing her to go check under her daughters bed, not that she would see anything there….

The blanket fell to the floor, and Em jumped out of the bed, no longer even wondering whether it was only a dream, and barreled down the hall. She flung the door open in time to see Cassie gasping for air, her face a pale bluish-white. Em reached her side as Cassie’s little eyes fluttered open and she coughed. “Mama…” she whimpered. “C-can I sleep with you? ….I don’t want it to come back….” Em brushed her hair back from Cassie’s forehead. “Of course, sweetheart,” she murmured.

Relief flooded Frederick as he watched a small set of bare feet patter into the room next to his grown-up Emmi’s feet. He heard Cassie’s small voice, so much like his little girl’s, asking if it would ever come back, and felt the bed shift above him. He stretched, readjusting himself to get comfortable under the unfamiliar bed, and quickly pulled the tip of his tail back into the dark.

Em glanced over at Cassie and pulled her closer as the little girl’s eyes widened. Cassie had obviously seen the flicking tail too. “It’s ok, sweetie, it’s just Mumbly-Boo. He’ll keep us safe tonight.”

Untitled

2009-09-16T19:57:00.003-04:00

warm and fuzzy,
bold red sweatshirt,
looking cheerful,
bright and happy,
to hide the pain,
tied up inside.

Cold

2009-09-12T14:04:00.003-04:00

Cold and hollow,
left untied,
falling,
apart.
Am I,
really,
all alone,
stuck inside,
this hollow empty,
broken space?
My heart,
forgets,
how to,
be loved,
Wanting to,
remember how,
to love myself
broken and,
fragile as
I am.
Blindly,
reaching,
for escape,
from self-made,
traps and walls,
confining
weights,
hold,
my,
heart.

Hidden Beauty

2009-09-09T23:32:00.003-04:00

liquid fills,
eyes not green,
not brown,
or maybe both...
drops of feeling,
melt through hazel,
words of truth,
cut straight to heart,
burns like salt,
tears upon a cut,
echos of romance,
clouding,
hollow heart,
confused by love,
hidden beauty,
embraced,
a glow of warmth,
confounding,
what is this thing,
this hidden beauty,
lost within,
and yet you see

I love you

2009-09-05T18:47:00.003-04:00

little words,
said with simple,
sincerity,
every pint-sized hug,
proclaiming,
the truth of words,
not heard enough.

The Bicycle

2009-08-22T20:23:00.003-04:00

a humble trip,
through rain and sleet,
propelled by feet,
a course uncharted,
or forgotten,
a simple pair of wheels,
scavenging for meals,
her statement made,
an act of courage,
choosing to forage,
defying form,
redefining norm,
denying expectation,
an act of meditation,
on the worthiness of life.

This poem was inspired by the prompt "Create a character sketch based on the type of car the character owns. Select the car, ie: Buick, El Camino, Limo, or use the lack of a vehicle, as your starting point." which immediately brought to mind stories from "Carrot" who blogged about biking through all weather and living off of things other people threw away because she intentionally chose to minimize the impact she made on the earth.

What Good is a Day?

2009-08-19T13:06:00.003-04:00

What good is a day,
if nothing gets done,
if nothing's accomplished,
to say I'm proud of this?

What good is a day,
that's not being lived,
that's simply passed through,
without celebrating life?

What good is a day,
lived in a fog,
forgetting the meaning,
of living life to the full?

What good is a day,
wasted on worry,
filled with fear,
and marked by despair?

What good is a day,
when I feel this way?

Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using the following start: "What good is a day..."

Color Blind Tree

2009-08-17T22:11:00.004-04:00

Proud and majestic it stands,
reaching arms to the sky,
stretching toes deep into rich earth,
wrapped in rough callused skin,
clothed with soft velvety moss,
fluttering fingers in the air,
tickling sky,
catching the sun,
dripping shadows of cool,
to the grass below.

Free Writing Prompt - Without using color names, describe a tree.

What language are your tears?*

2009-08-17T20:14:00.006-04:00

If a picture's worth,
a thousand words,
a tear drop must be,
worth a thousand feelings,
a thousand stories,
of pain and joy.

If a tear drop tells,
a thousand stories,
it must be in,
the language of love,
love for the broken,
love for the living,
love for the hurting,
love for the celebrating,
love for the one,
who forgets that they're loved,
and love for the one,
who's wrapped tight in love.

*Title and inspiration came from the song "Is Love Enough?" by Michael Franti

Writer's Anonymous

2009-08-15T14:22:00.004-04:00

Simple words,
spilt on paper,
but they're more,
addicting habit,
spreading ink,
like drops of feeling,
laughing as,
once unknown thrill,
becomes compulsory,
an insatiable need,
the inner poet,
once denied,
demands to be,
the only one,
who speaks,
the true.

Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using "Writers Anonymous" as your title. (Or, "Hi My Name Is")

Reading in Bed

2009-08-14T21:34:00.005-04:00

With eyes scrunched shut,
breath held tight,
a too still body,
listens...

To the creak of the door,
carefully opened,
to take a peak
at a child's sleep.

Wiser eyes know,
the scrunched ones aren't sleeping.
With silent smile,
they turn off the light.

After the door shuts,
and the footsteps die,
small eyes pop open,
as if spring loaded.

Little hands search,
for their lost page of adventure,
to silently read,
by the light of the moon.

Inspired by the prompt "After the door shuts and the footsteps die..." which my cousin shared with me.

Who told you that?

2009-08-14T18:59:00.004-04:00

That's an electric fence,
to shock you if,
you try to break in.

Who told you that?

It's true,
they turn it on at night,
and then,
it shocks people.

Who told you that?

My mom.
A child's eyes declare,
it must be true,
My mom said so.

It's not,
but how can I say,
Mom lied to you?

What Do You Do?

2009-07-15T22:59:00.005-04:00

What do you do?

When you know too much.

When you're bound in trust,
to keep a confidence,
that's none of your business,
but's told freely,
spilled honestly,
at your ear,
never to cross,
your lips.

What do you do?

When your gift is listening,
but what you hear,
is less a gift,
and more confounding,
troubling mind,
confusing heart.

Silence and secrets,
mingling uneasily,
with love and trust.

Respect denying,
it could be as bad,
as the words sounds,
but misdeeds burdening,
more than one love.

What do you do?

Keeping Watch

2009-07-07T19:55:00.001-04:00

I am waiting,
watching,
seeking answers.

I see God's face,
but cannot read it.

The spirit whispers,
on the wind,
tugs at my heart,
calls to me in the night,
but what does it say?

How can God know me best,
when his face is shrouded in mystery,
when her voice is but a whisper,
both comfortingly familiar,
and foriegn to my ear?

How can I write,
God's vision on a tablet,
when I doubt my eyes to see it?

How can I speak for God,
when I question what I hear?

Breaking Through

2009-07-04T15:38:00.002-04:00

I spent the past week as a volunteer counselor at church camp. There's nothing quite like going to camp - the great outdoors, the sunshine, the rain, the campfires, wearing the same muddy jeans all week, and *gasp* no computer!

Those of you that know me well know that leaving my computer for a whole week is a little traumatic for me. I'm used to spending every night online. I check facebook several times a day, frequently read friends blogs as soon as they post, and share more over IM than I ever say aloud.

I joke with my online friends about being addicted to the computer, but really it's not about having a screen in front of me. As easy as it is to get into the habit of sitting in front of the computer screen, the real addiction is to the instant connection with other people. Simply by logging online I make myself instantly available to anybody who might need me, and, perhaps more importantly, I have friends instantly at my fingertips almost any time I need them.

I realized this week as I took up the challenge of leaving my computer, that I depend on my online friends for instant affirmations. When I lack confidence in myself I count on my friends to tell me I'm worth while. If I don't think my writing is "good enough" I demand one of my writing buddies reads it as soon as possible, because I know they'll tell me it's better than I think it is. If I'm not sure about something, or am upset, or feeling down about something, I can usually find somebody online who understands what I'm going through, or at least can tell me it will be alright. And as long as I have online friends giving me confidence I don't need to find my own confidence.

As I spent the week camping I couldn't rely on the friends I usually chat with to give me confidence, so I was on my own. Some how I made it through the week without my computer, and I realized I was ok. I could find enough confidence in myself to get through the week, and to climb mountains, be a role model, get called a good counselor, find God in the silence, be comfort in the storm, learn from my campers, and connect with people I'll never totally forget while I was at it.

One Year Later: Claiming a Rainbow Umbrella

2009-06-21T19:48:00.003-04:00

Nearly a year ago I wrote this blog post about attending the local Pridefest. It was the first Pridefest in my town and the first Pride event I attended. The festival itself wasn't all that different from any other festival, but, watching the scene at the gate, I was both appalled by the need for, and fascinated by the work of the Silent Witnesses, who were providing a human barrier against the verbal attacks being made by protesters. Listening to the festival goers, and Silent Witnesses, being verbally attacked, I promised myself that next year I would be there holding a rainbow umbrella (one of the identifying marks of a Silent Witness).

As I wrote about that day, I promised my readers I would work as a Silent Witness this year. Friends and strangers alike expressed encouragement and gratitude on my post, and told me how much they appreciated what I wrote. I had been afraid I would get negative feedback when I posted it, but the overwhelming positive response made me all the more determined to follow through with my promise.

After waiting all year to be a Silent Witness for the local Pridefest, I attended their training session. During the training their nonviolent, non confrontational, philosophy of peacekeeping was explained. They talked about what roles they need people to fill during events, and the importance of NOT visibly reacting to the protesters. Though any form of communication with the protesters is strictly off limits, the trainers explained that it's ok, and even encouraged, to talk to anyone else. I remembered many of the things they talked about from watching the Silent Witnesses at last years event.

Since the training I attended was only a few days before the local Pridefest, it included some discussion of what to expect at this specific event. When they showed a map of the park it was in, they pointed out the main gate and the secondary gate, explaining that the protesters didn't discover the back gate until late afternoon last year, but now that they knew about it they would likely be there earlier this year. As they pointed out the back gate I felt year-old negative emotions boiling up in me. I remembered walking to the back gate with the first Silent Witness assigned there after the protesters found it last year, and wondered if I could really do this.

The morning of the Pridefest I listened to my favorite politically minded music, and tried to prepare myself for the work I was about to do. Listening to the Michael Franti lyrics “They say you got to choose your side and when it's done, nobody right, nobody wrong.... ...tryin' to make a point or have the last word, but most the time people just tryin' to be heard....” I thought about the fact that as Silent Witnesses we're NOT to try to stop or silence the protesters. It's not our job to keep them quiet, it's our job to keep the peace, and protect everyone's rights, including the rights of the protesters, as distasteful as we might find the way they choose to use their right to free speech.

Though I was slightly nervous, I was mostly pumped up and excited to help. When I arrived at the check in station I proudly claimed my rainbow umbrella, and put on the bright orange safety vest with Silent Witness logos that would be my uniform as I worked. The rain in the morning had done more to scare away the protesters than it did to scare away the vendors, so things were quiet at the gate when I first went on duty. The Silent Witnesses stationed themselves around the gate, welcoming everyone with their colorful umbrellas and friendly greetings. When protesters began showing up we continued our job as welcomer, carefully positioning ourselves between the protesters and the path to the festival gates.

Before I knew it, I had been on duty for an hour and a half. I took a break to explore the festival, and when I returned there were a few protesters preaching to anyone in ear shot, and even more Silent Witnesses stationed around the entrance. I took up my umbrella and found a corner without as many Silent Witnesses to stand at. Word was casually being passed around that the rain would strike in about fifteen minutes, but we were already prepared with our umbrellas. For the next couple of hours I stood, umbrella in hand, with the other Silent Witnesses. We chuckled to ourselves over the illogical arguments made by the protesters, and grinned as the sudden downpours drowned out the protesters words, and made us glad to have our umbrellas.

As I stood there I felt hurt for the people being insulted by the protesters, but even more so I felt sad for the protesters. I believe God and Love are two forces that cannot be limited, and yet the protesters were trying to limit both, and truly believed what they were saying. Hearing the protesters ranting I couldn't help but wonder what version of the bible they read that says it's ok to judge, but the more frustrating thing was wishing I could convince them of how much bigger than their narrow definition God's love is, and knowing they wouldn't, perhaps couldn't even, believe it if I told them.

This entry is also posted on my political/social justice blog.

Witnessing Love

2009-06-21T13:59:00.004-04:00

Fingering the purple band,
wound around my wrist,
I think of yesterdays events,
holding a rainbow,
in the pouring rain,
an umbrella of hope,
in the storm of hate,
love abused.

I'm sad for the insulted,
sadder for the insulter,
who's forgotten the music,
the tune of God's love.

This poem was inspired by my experience working as a Silent Witness at a local Pridefest.

Silence

2009-06-03T20:12:00.002-04:00

Silence pounds in my head,
tearing me apart,
not because there is no noise,
but because I feel unloved.

Noise and busyness and chaos,
swirl about around me,
trying to break in,
but not the noise I want to hear.

I stumble into loneliness,
the friends I want to hear,
silent.

Just a few words,
I plead in my mind,
would help lift my mood,
when idle chatter,
leaves me lonely,
longing for more,
needing true friends.

Tipsy

2009-06-02T18:02:00.003-04:00

First nervous sips,
taken shyly,
between glimpses stolen,
by the cameras eye.

Carefully tasting,
grown-up versions,
of mint chocolate chip,
in a martini glass.

Giggling,
hiding,
shyly avoiding,
pictures taken,
to celebrate the day.

Slowly sipping,
raspberry ice cream,
in a glass,
but more fun.

Softly she croons,
come closer and share,
this sweet release,
raspberry laced unleash.

A small red drink,
tasting like cranberry,
lit on fire,
beckons giggles of glee,
to our merry table,
melting away,
lingering shyness.

Rise with a giggle,
like stepping ashore,
stumbling,
swaying,
and giggling more.

IHATU

2009-06-02T16:51:00.003-04:00

for my Pre-Ker, who's only beginning to find the power of writing

"IHATU",
carefully drawn,
in big pencil lines,
angry words,
in a lined paper book.

A cruel face bares teeth,
upon page two,
all because he couldn't place,
the carrot seeds,
that he wanted to.

Shattered

2009-05-27T18:38:00.004-04:00

for my sis, in memory of Lohti

Lives shattered,
broken,
torn,
punching holes,
in the cloth,
of humanity.

A mind destroyed,
by war and gore,
plucks away hearts,
with life left to live.

Death spreads,
it's gloomy cloud,
smeared by love,
across earthly bounds.

Like a spider,
sensing it's pray,
on distant threads,
I feel the ripples,
of painful tearing,
as another thread,
in this human web,
is pulled,
too hard.

Of Age

2009-05-25T20:10:00.001-04:00

First legal sip,
slips,
bubbling down my throat,
ice cold bottle,
pouring warmth into me,
a taste of beer,
ironically taken,
not from my own bottle,
but offered by mom,
a simple taste,
same as past,
but legal now.

Falling in Love

2009-05-25T11:00:00.002-04:00

I wrote this recently for a challenge in a poetry group I'm in.

Falling in Love

Sitting alone in the pouring rain,
a simple hi is all it takes,
to call my attention to,
a man who shares my quiet,
I feel myself slide,
falling in love,
wanting you,
romance,
mine

Falling

2009-05-23T10:07:00.005-04:00

Lonely,

tired,

hungry,

aching.

Needy,

demanding,

expectant,

uncertain.

Falling apart.

Spiraling down.

Losing my grip,

beginning to slip.

I slide into uncertainty,

wondering who really cares,

as soon as no ones there,

to raise a hand,

and say I'm here.

My mind begins to doubt,

that anyone should care.

In loneliness I fall.

Tears

2009-05-18T12:14:00.003-04:00

Tears pour down my face, for hurt not mine,
I cry in pain with face unseen,
her hurt now his, his hurt mine,
one girls hurt, hurting all,
her pain cutting deep,
wishing to die,
needing love,
spilling,
tears.

Itching to Write

2009-05-17T18:18:00.004-04:00

Itching to write,
my fingers twitch,

Eager to feel,
the pen in my grasp,

Slide over smooth paper,
spilling out words,

Unleashing a story,
capturing remnants,

Stray thoughts to challenge,
complacent minds.

Unleashed

2009-04-21T21:23:00.002-04:00

Minute by minute,
the clock ticks later.

Knowing my body,
needs to rest,
I say good night,
and try my best,
to fight the urge,
to stay and chat.

With teasing grin,
my friend suggests,
Let's stay up all night,
it'll be great!

Pushing aside,
the nagging reminder,
that working my job,
sucks when I'm tired,
I giggle and think,
it would be fun.

Unleashed from my worries,
by sleep deprived madness,
I'm suddenly hyper,
grinning and crazy

Easter Poem

2009-04-13T10:19:00.004-04:00

I'm lost.

Caught in a web of lies,
things I only half believe,
I struggle to be me.

Some where I cross a line,
trying to design,
a lie that's true enough to live,
but "right" enough to give,
a sense that I belong,
in the only world I've known.

I'm tired of the game,
I must be breaking rules,
but once the game's in motion,
it engulfs you like an ocean.
Quiting's not an option,
but playing on is a dungeon.

I lie awake at night,
trying to uncover the fake,
face it and make it,
more true to me.

Truth is relative.
Mine,
yours,
ours,
as different as we.

I want to be me,
but I'm glued to a lie,
afraid your love for me will die,
if I stop the lie,
that you'll worry for my soul,
if I tell you my truth in whole.

Maybe it's just a phase,
maybe I'm in a daze,
but I can't comprehend,
this Easter craze.

Love and blood and sacrifice,
clashing.

How can my God of love,
demand a sacrifice?
How can my God above,
give his own sons blood?
How can a God of Earth,
give his own life,
and call it a birth?

I don't want the "love,"

of a God of death,

filled with wrath.

I don't want to worship with bloody crown,

thorns grown to torture,

an innocent head.

I don't love a God of the dead,

giving death before life,

and demanding a price.

I believe in a loving God,

a spirit of compassion,

loving without ceasing,

giving life without a price.
A God of all,

who weeps for the broken,

who carries the hurt,

gives another chance,

til we get love right.
Who sits with us in the night,

and leads us in her light.

Crying Out

2009-04-10T00:19:00.002-04:00

Desperate for something,
my heart cries aloud,
...searching,
.....seeking,
........wanting,
..........needing,
a hand to hold,
a place to cling.

Tears burn my eyes,
as I try to face,
the lonely ache,
the empty space,
need I cannot comprehend,
hole I cannot mend.

My heart cries out in pain,
but my tortured mind,
steals my tongue,
...refusing,
......denying,
........resisting,
..........silencing,
holding me captive,
stifling my cries,
drying my eyes,
to hide the pain.

Playing games to resist,
the ones who insist,
I'm,
...beautiful,
.....loved,
known in their hearts,
and destined to be,
used by God.

Jail

2009-04-07T21:14:00.004-04:00

"Jail.
Jail.
You're in jail"
They tell me I'm glued,
...taped,
...stapled,
to the fence,
and yet I feel freer,
than when alone.

When jailed by a preschooler,
it's easily to escape,
to run and be free,
til little hands catch me,
giggling "jail."

If only the prison,
inside my head,
were as easy to escape,
as energizing to run from,
but locked in my mind,
is a vacuum for courage,
a dark tangled web of fears and despair,
holding me captive,
draining my energy,
stealing all motivation,
to take care of myself.

My kids tie hungry tigers,
round the jail they make,
say the tigers guard it,
will eat me if I run.
They let the tigers eat me,
and yet I feel more whole,
than any other time.

My own imaginary tigers,
gnawing at my mind,
eating me alive,
from the inside out,
are far worse a threat,
than any my kids set,
to guard my playground jail.

Alone

2009-04-03T21:46:00.004-04:00

Please don't leave me,
all alone,
to think,
and be,
left to my own devises,
alone in the night,
with my own thoughts,
wishing to be loved,
wanting to be held,
lacking the company,
of sweet romance,
all the more lonely,
for knowing you've gone,
to hold another,
in the kind of love,
I only wish for.

Every Morning

2009-04-02T22:13:00.002-04:00

Every morning is a new day.
Some days begin like a happy dance,
with sunlight streaming in my window,
to kiss my face good morning.
Some days begin like a sorrowful storm,
with gray clouds creeping in,
to say "just stay in bed."

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin.
Some begin with happy song,
bright birds singing,
their morning praises.
Some begin on a sadder note,
discordant buzz of alarm clock,
met by dreary drizzle.

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin,
to live in the moment.
The smell of coffee brewing,
promises a family day,
but ordinary smells,
herald in a work day.

Every morning is a new day,
a chance to begin,
to live in the moment,
a chance to sing,
whatever song you're given,
a chance to connect,
with the world a new.

Be with me each new day.

Pray to the Ends of the Earth

2009-04-02T21:26:00.005-04:00

God of all people,
Let me live your love,
to the ends of the earth.
Shine your light,
in the darkest corners of despair.
Touch your most broken people,
with your healing love.
Shine your light through me.
Fill every heart with compassion,
from here to the ends of the earth.
Touch each being you've created,
with desire to live,
not just for themselves,
but for for all the Earth,
that they may live in you,
and you in them.

Writing to God

2009-04-01T23:24:00.001-04:00

Dear God,
Walk with me.

Help me see your footprints,

beside me as I struggle.

Hold my hands,

so I can't beat myself up,

when I make mistakes.

Give me patience,

to wait for you.

Reveal your path for me,

like the moonlight.

Call me away,

from worldly distractions.

Keep my heart pure,

to serve you.

Hold me tight,

when no one else can offer,

the kind of love I crave.

Give me strength to face,

the challenges you set before me.
Pour out the love,
you've put in my heart for others.
Heal my scars of brokenness,
but don't let me forget,
how it feels to be hurt.
Help me to see,
your desires for me,
and live in your will,
not the will of this world.