An open poem to survivors: hope has a name

Above the fray.

Above the screaming.

Above the hurt, the fear, the unknown, the uncontrollable, the unattainable, the shame, the injustice, the loneliness, the brokenness, the pain, the shame, the voicelessness, the powerlessness, the rage and the outrage, the frustration, the desperation.

*HOPE*

has a name.

One name above all names.

It’s not a vote or a man.

Not a woman or a stand.

Not a charge.

Not a time.

*HOPE*

Has a name.

A name above all names.

A word.

THE word.

One that raises the dead and heals the wounds and salves the infections and opens the eyes and stops the bleeding and calms the seas.

*HOPE*

Has a name.

One name.

One.

Name.

JESUS.

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)