August 31, 2013

i know my joy is incomplete
until i find it completely in You
so i approach, head bowed
heart burdened
not daring to look up
even when i reach
the top of the hill
and wait
eyes downcast
breath stilled
for a spark

“the cross is a blazing fire”

at Your feet
nail-pierced and eye-level
i wait, unsure,
i hear your tortured breathing
i feel something hit my shoulder
not fire, but red

my heart is dry these days
withered by desert wind,
little life left in
these bruised reeds,
yet You invite me closer
weary and heavy-laden as i am
you promise rest
and rest i need
but i also need fire

my loveless heart is a smoldering wick
and my burdened soul is bruised by
the weight you’ve taken off my back
though i still bend under the memory of it.

creeping in,
i stumble forward
believing despite my unbelief
toward the fire
hoping for Your spark to
bring life again.


“The cross is the blazing fire at which the flame of our love is kindled, but we have to get near enough to it for its sparks to fall on us.” –John Stott

two hands.

August 5, 2013

her hand
is surprisingly small and delicate
for the great strength it contains
stirring soup pots and wiping noses
painting plates and scratching behind dog-ears,
an encyclopedia of activity measured
in the motion of metacarpals.

her hand
feels natural, comfortable, when i hold it
as it is both an anchor to keep me grounded
and a life-vest to keep me above the waterline.
her hopeful hand holds on tightly, confidently,
squeezing gently when the tensions of my tired mind
make my fingers clench too hard,
a soft reminder that it’s okay
i’m okay
i just need to breathe.

Your hand
holds us both and hems us in
keeps us and guides us
protects us and sustains us
and into Your hands i commit my hopeful plans
because they are too beautifully terrifying
for me to try to hold up
on my own.