November. A poem.


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.




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 


brokenness that makes me 

pinched and mean and more 

like the things that broke me 

than who God formed me to be,


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)

i remember. a poem.

i remember

the wonder of not knowing 

people see me,

 bike riding to the village without

a care, because everything 

then was good.

maybe that’s the hardest part of watching

my sons grow up. Now

they’ll realize they have to be

careful. because the world is


and it does not understand.