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November. A poem.

November.

The bare-ing trees sigh and sway with the weight of 

.

winter coming. Stripped clean of life,

.

they seem to know in their spindly bones

.

a far greater glory awaits them, if

.

they hunker down and weather the blessing

.

of cold, clean rest.

.

November.

.

Winter is coming, and it is a welcome reprieve

.

from the world.

.

🍂


 

Sunday puddles. A poem.

*******

I parked in the middle of the giant puddle 
on purpose. There would be

no way of getting away from it, no way

to avoid the slosh and splatter. 

But I didn’t care.

I Just wanted to remember what it felt like to be 

careless. Not in the sense of neglect, 

but in the sense of casting aside the baggage 

of 

brokenness that makes me 

pinched and mean and more 

like the things that broke me 

than who God formed me to be,

before.

Before the pain bent me.

I parked in the puddle, dressed 

in my Sunday best, so I could 

remember the joy and stand straight

in His sanctuary.

********

“For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace…” Romans 6:14 (ESV)

Pray for abuse survivors.

I can’t watch the news or follow social media right now. Times like these are too much for a survivor. Times like these are too much for a lot of people. 

And so I retreat, to the old, godly way. 

Not because I’ve surrendered. 

No. 

Never. 

I am stronger than that. 

But because I know that on the Lord’s path I am free. 

—–

Join me in praying for abuse survivors? So many are triggered and hurting right now. But as I hoped to portray in my novel, How Sweet the Sound, we can trade hurt for hope. 

Our God is an Isaiah 61 God who creates beauty from ashes and redeems and restores. 

Pray survivors rise above these days to know this truth! 

——