Lent — day thrity-seven

A star sat,
watchful and humble,
just a few inches above
where I was suspended.
Far below me, a dark ocean
lie, with cities of lights
to break up its quiet.
Between the star
and the bright cities
rested a cloud, like a veil.
Such a small thing
when you’re inches from
the stars. I wondered mostly,
as I took in the wide world
in inches and gulps:
how do we sleep at night
with all those lights –
keeping us from the stars?


Lent — day thrity-six

My stomach burns and the words I have are stumbling at best.
This feels like the kind of day where writing is most important.
Today it is an act of defiance against the voice of tired.
Today it takes digging deeper, but today, I’m seeking silence.
And maybe, you should too. So, I’ll stop my words for now and rest.

Lent — day thrity-four

I find myself always reaching
to turn the next page.
These words in front of me
were meant to be taken in
with small breaths. They
were meant to be savored
and held. And I do hold them,
but I continually read on;
they make me hungry
and tell me who I am,
but they tell me
with a general feeling in my gut
and a waving golden thing
somewhere just around the bend
somewhere just at the top of that hill.
I’m left chasing the illusive.
It’s never enough.
God himself is never enough –
as soon as he is, he is more,
the hunger is more.
the chase goes on,
I cannot stop,
because he cannot stop.
runs at me,
runs to me
runs to find
runs to hide
someday, we’ll be caught.
still, he never let me go.

Lent — day thirty-three

Being a human,
I get hungry.
Rarely can I put my finger
on what I truly want,
so I sift everything
through, until I cannot eat
anymore. Then, I wallow
and hold my stomach
and ache for whatever
I truly wanted.
Being a human,
I get tired.
So tired my ears buzz
and my eyes cross
and my hands and lips move,
but they move as a mechanism,
an echo.
This is a confession,
that I can barely stand
on my own.
Further – to fall into Strength
that promises, longs, to
uphold all I cannot,
is a struggle.
Grace is a gift:
a cool breeze,
new, bright, downy life
on trees and in the ground,
a torrent when we need it.
I don’t know that grace
is always gentle.
I think sometimes it’s a wind storm,
charging with all it is to sweep
my stubborn, weary feet up,
and down at last into
the resting place, where I know
it’s okay to be a human.
and to feed every ache
with everything in sight.
It’s okay.
And yet, there is ever more.
With every breath, a new creature
is taking deeper form. Every step
is learning to walk again.