And I know that He promised me.
He promised when He told me
whether I walk to the right or to the left,
my foot would fall in the light.
He promised me wholeness and beauty
and He promised me adventure,
whether it was scripted in the Good Book or not –
between the lines, I know there was an adventure there.
He wouldn’t have made the promises otherwise.

We needed those promises.
I needed them –
Right or left, I would find the Light.
He knew it would be hard for me to trust.
Because I am in a bright room now,
and the lights here are predictable:
On for twelve hours,
off for twelve hours.
Like a clock and like the sunshine –
I can predict this, I know where I am at, I can

So now the bulbs here in this space are dying out
And I must go searching for new ones
And that is terrifying
And that is exhilarating
And that is

He promised me that I would be in the Light.
Stumble into the Light
Run into the Light
Fall into the Light
Hurtle into the Light
Blaze into the Light
Melt into the Light
Jump into the Light
Back into the Light
Creep into the Light

into the Light.

He promised me Light.



Waiting.                                                                                      Waiting.
We sit waiting for phone calls to be made                   We sit waiting for candles to be lit
and medicines to be brought.                                            and songs to be sung.
Waiting:                                                                                       Waiting:
for answers                                                                                for the Answer
or solutions                                                                                and the Solution
or a definitive statement                                                      the Definitive Statement
about how many answers we can expect.                     the Answer we didn’t expect.
Waiting:                                                                                       Waiting:
dying is strange.                                                                       dying is strange.
Stretched flat,                                                                            Stretched out,
broken and asleep but listening,                                        broken, beaten and listening,
because hearing is the last to go.                                       because hearing us is all He can do.
From far off,                                                                               From far off,
it looks like something difficult.                                        the manger and the cross were disconnected.
But from this close,                                                                 But waiting for one means waiting for both,
it is simple,                                                                                   and it is far from simple.
and it makes sense.                                                                  Love like this does not make sense.
Waiting.                                                                                        Waiting.
That’s what makes it hurt.                                                    The joy is building.
Tired eyes from premature grief                                       Widening eyes from the victory we already know
and twisting hearts from untold stories.                         and twisting hearts from the pain until then.
We hurt for ourselves, too.                                                  We hurt for ourselves.
It’s a selfishness that makes sense.                                    It’s selfish. But it hurts.
Waiting:                                                                                         Waiting:
breathing in, out, in.                                                                 breathing in, out, in.
Clasped hands.                                                                            Clasped hands.
Waiting.                                                                                          Waiting.

waiting for some One
to stop the waiting.


This.  You should read this first.


It was a crawling, creeping darkness,
gathered up in miniscule blue bottles,
stoppered with stifled feelings of
not enough
not known
not right.
Bottles hidden in the crevices of a
soul held captive.
And under the weights of
inadequacy, there was a bleeding heart,
alive and beating
as if nothing else in the world mattered.
A deception of life.
But stones do not have a pulse
and that meant nothing made sense.
Without learning to swim,
the whirlpool was a trap,
and spinning
we discovered that it didn’t have a bottom.
Our insides defy the laws of
those truths we’ve been fed:
that the ground always stops gravity
whatever pushes us can be pushed back.
But our eyesight never failed us –
even when we wished it would –
and the distant light
was always visible.
It mocked but
it healed,
promising a hope we couldn’t accept
but had always clung to.
into the
not worthy
not blessed
not wanted –
that light remained.

And then there was a day.
We smashed the blue bottles
and stared at the shards.
Because feeling something
is better than being a stone.
We wish, now,
that we could’ve seen one another then.
That day when we wondered.
When the wondering terrified us
and thrilled us
more than anything else had in a while.
Maybe if we could’ve wondered together,
the ones who were brave
and the ones who were too afraid
could’ve held on to each other.
Because pain and shame
are very similar.
Both create marks.
Visibility doesn’t matter.
The darkness has a special light of it’s own:
perverting the definition of bravery.
But also,
perhaps the bravery could go both ways.
into the
be better
be stronger
let someone else fight this –
a truer light remained.

Because then there was a day.
The first day when waking was
not a burden,
hey, how are you?
could be answered with
fine, you?
and the smile wasn’t a lie.
They say the sun is expanding
and will one day consume this
dying earth.
Light becoming fire,
eating away at the dried-out darkness.
It is like that.
And when the flames engulf one home,
they engulf them all.
It is like that,

The stones in us
are in us all.
As the spinning
goes on
it only becomes clearer
that first we are cursed
but second we are cursed together.
Even the worst that could happen
enveloped that one blessing.
Not alone
not forgotten
not passed by.
And maybe there isn’t an escape.
Maybe there is only running –
from the black fog,
to the flaming sun.

I don’t know about you,
but don’t mind the sprint.
It is the closest I’ve been
to freedom.








Shall I shudder or shy away from that which I have made? Or am I not the One who told the dark how dark to be, that My great light might shine more gloriously in comparison? I hold all this together. Alone.
Tallahassee, by Abraham the Poor