Beloved

Voices that seem a million miles removed ransack

My mind like hungry scavengers 

All the while seeming to be but a dream. 

Overwhelm rises but doesn’t quite reach the brink of my eyelids.

No tears can carry the sadness 

Or sharp words the anger swelling through my arms,

Causing an all-familiar ache and feeling of falling. 

Everything within wanting, waiting, writhing 

While my body sits frozen, my eyes fain brightness, my mouth forces a smile. 

The disassociation takes me back 

To days when I needed to convince everyone

–even me–

That I was a good big sister. 

The little girl can see her now, thirty-four and a professional

At the pretense of presence

The pretending people cannot push me too far. 

I wonder how long I can keep this up,

How long I’ll need to convince everyone

–even me–

That I’m a good leader. 

It’s not always like this.

Sometimes I thrive as I lead,

Grounded and growing, laughing and leading a song of joy.

But sometimes I catch my heart deep acting, 

My brain dysregulated by a slurry of lies about my identity. 

“Good leader, good leader, good leader” 

Something deep in my being yells at my heart,

And I succumb to the lies, convincing everyone

–even me–

That they are truth. 

My heart searches for escape but by grace

Finds resurrection. 

A message moored to the Rock of Ages

Whom waves woo me to kiss and hide,

Held and tempered from the storm of my past. 

The Most Resilient Leader looks at my frame

Soaked, cold, stiff, weeping. 

My eyes plead with Him to notice my accomplishments, 

To convinced everyone

–even me–

That I’m a good leader. 

He smiles and by one look at His face

I know He’s not going to say what I want.

My eyes are cast down on the waves again.

Disappointed and despairing of ever returning to joy,

I take a shuttering breath and reconsider quitting. 

Escaping by running from the pressure. 

But God. 

I feel Him lifting my chin, inviting me to look in His face again.

I’m not sure if I want to accept

His invitation to reorient. 

Then the wind catches His words,

Rushing through the storm and into my soul 

Warming and thawing me. 

“Beloved.” He says. “Beloved, beloved, beloved.

You don’t need to convince everyone 

–even Me–

That You are a good leader.

No longer do you simply do the actions to prove “good.” 

Your identity is secure and grounded

In My character and everlasting arms.

Whether you lead or follow, work or rest,

You are mine.

You can be.

You are loved.

Beloved forever.”

A Multitude

When the apostle looked and saw

A multitude

(A crowd from every nation, tribe, and tongue),

He saw the beauty of the gospel

Displayed in death-defying, barrier-breaking,

Culture-countering, God-glorifying ways.

A multitude

Of reasons exist in the worldly

As to why the apostle should have never seen

Such a foreshadowing. 

Clutching and clawing to create chaos 

Reasons whispered from the father of lies 

Wrap themselves in the disguise of 

Almost truths.

The kind of messages we attend our ear to 

When there is space.

A multitude

Of space left empty, void of the Spirit’s

Fruit and Presence. 

We are being formed by whatever we 

Wait on, wandering up ways that wilt our 

Will to follow His. 

A multitude

Of messages drive our minds to be made up 

About the other. 

Forsaking the example of the One we claim to follow

We chose tribe over multitude. 

Tribalism is a not merely poison or in-circling but 

A lack of discipleship. 

Where did the days disappear to when disciples discerned 

That Christ was bigger than a nation’s leader?

And that He, though a servant of all

Was the King of the third way? 

When did we start resisting His kingdom 

For party lines and personal gain? 

A multitude 

Of sorrows upon the Church of Christ

Who has turned her back on the goal, 

Shortsighted for the tribe of comfort and self-created identity. 

May we repent and weep

Crying out for the heart of Jesus Who gave His all.

Taking on the form of a servant, He birthed the possibility of

All nations, tribes, and tongues–

A multitude. 

Awe Over Calling

Mountains made, molded, and mossed,

And tickled by stream and scurry of squirrels.

Waterfalls dripping o’er rock face embossed

With lichen lush laden in billowing swirls

Of midst and splendor.

Glaciers that crack as slowly they’re sliding

And traveling down the valleys to sea.

They beckon me come and rest, still abiding,

While standing in awe of Your sheer majesty.

Yet You still called me. 

I love all the ways You have called me to share

And am shocked by the clarity of time and place

And yet none of this is as good to compare

To the awe that I want to have of Your grace. 

Without awe, my calling is fading and lost

In ideas and plans, schedules and days.

I begin to see darkly, like windows with frost

But I want to delight, to rejoice, and to praise. 

Help me, like when I am hiking Rainier,

To keep my eyes upward and trained on Your grace.

Give me faith to obey You and ears to hear

More important than doing is viewing Your face

And all of Your splendor. 

For My Neighbor

May I with mind and heart and hand

Seek good for others as I toil

While knowing all that God has planned

Heaps value on the human soul.

He once bestowed upon His own

The dignity of bearing grace–

The image of the God enthroned

On every man and woman placed.

Within creation, He ordained

A generosity as norm.

But in a self-exalting strain,

We fell to greed, our thoughts deformed.

Instead of work for others’ good

And for His glory and our joy

Of being with Him like we could

We found our thoughts on work destroyed.

For generations treating work

As though a part of Adam’s curse.

We self-inflicted; others hurt

While work became a sign of worth.

The other side of this divide

Between what we and God had made

Spread vast the tide of greed-based lies

That work ethic could be repaid. 

Through prosperity gospel’s call

That says Your favor manifests

To those who truly give their all,

That those with weak faith fail the test.

In yet another failed attempt

To twist our minds about good deeds, 

We think ourselves from rest exempt, 

That we’re the answer to earth’s needs. 

Adjustment, please.

May I with mind and heart and hand

Seek good for others as I toil.

While knowing all that God has planned

Heaps value on the human soul.

May I submit to works of grace

And time spend near He Who creates. 

"And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” (Colossians 3:17) 

“Let all that you do be done in love.” 1 Corinthians 16:14

“Choose those employments that have the greatest benefit to thy neighbor.”-- Martin Luther

White-Washed Leaders

Every Southern-born girl

(whose family reunions included collards, catfish, and cobblers)

carries the secrets of good fried chicken in her gizzard.

The wizardry requires egg whites 

(and only egg whites)

to gain crisp bites

and approval from a crowd. 

Include the yolks and you might be deemed

city folk

or at least a youngin.’

Tongue-in-cheek ‘perfection’

Of soft batter and sad hearts. 

Smiling at the sizzle

I find my mind tickled by thoughts

of leadership and knowledge

of leadership and wisdom. 

While knowledge can puff up from 

Within,

Wisdom that perfects is found

Without.

The secret of fried chicken lies

in the absence of the fatty yolk.

In the knowing that

excess fat

will not allow for the oil’s 

crisp and crackle.

How often have we met a leader

whose inner fat

of self-righteous information

resisted and ruined,

 leaving a bad taste and sad hearts.

We must start to find a new way.

No longer must leaders lead

because they know it all within–

Egg-washed in yolky sin

Of arrogance. 

No. 

Instead we must follow those bathed in whites-washed wonder

who seek all the riches of His anointing oil

from without

not doubting that the sufficiency is from Him. 

He makes us a Christ-like fragrance, 

The radiance of His glory,

Leaving good news and glad hearts. 

Active Waiting

 Rolling the bulbs between my palms
        as I hum Psalm 40.
I marvel at their seeming weightlessness,
        wondering what blooms are wound within
            waiting with their Maker. 

He Who calmed the chaos and called
        the corollary creation "good"
            keeps secrets spun, 
                nourished by sun and rain and time
                    inside their papery tunics. 

While often appearing that their maturing 
        will never come. 
They wait with anticipation for the seasons set
        by the One Who causes the sun 

            to rise and warm their bed.

He said, 
        "Actively wait.
Anticipate but establish your roots in the time between.
Incline to Me,

        encountering Me already inclined

            to your candid cries." 

Nestling the papery globes in the ground,
        I wrestle with my will's way of seeking control,  
            wanting to know
                and skip the the growing in grace
                    as if harvest is an overnight occurrence. 

Trying to greedily grasp Your place 
        of knowing the end from the beginning. 
Must I always be pursuing 
        or can I rest in being pursued,
            yielding to the pace of Your choosing? 
Grace upon grace. 

Like ranunculus roots curling through fertile soil
        let me coil and interlace my will to Yours,
              finding satisfaction for a wanting soul
                  no matter Your provisions. 

"I waited patiently for the LORD; he inclined to me and heard my cry...I delight to do Your will, O my God; Your law is within my heart." (Psalm 40:1, 8)

"See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient." (James 5:7b-8a) 

Sliced

Ripened amber waves of grain

Bread of Life sliced by this pain

Few to reap

Under-shepherdless sheep

Eighteen million students wait

To hear Good News, grow in faith

Plentiful

Lamentable

To follow our Good Shepherd’s lead

Earnest prayer we need

More to reap

But Spirit weeps

Leaders don’t seek more laborers, rather

They wrongfully lay off those who gather

They wrongfully judge another’s call

And do not care for sheep at all

Treating ministry like a business deal

Their lack of Christ-like prayer reveal

He would additional workers send

Instead poor stewards is the trend

Few to reap

Under-shepherdless sheep

To The Cascades

When my soul's song is sighs,
Weary wells drain my eyes,
And disappointment dies to despair,
Still I know I can fall
At the feet of Him Who fills all
And receive His intentional care.

So run away, oh my soul, to the cascades!
Let the waters wash over your fear.
Limping soul make your choice
Hear the echos of His voice
In the rushing waters; know He is here.
Hide away, oh my soul, in the Goodness
Of the Spring that will never run dry.
Though parched and drained, enter rest.
Soak in peaceful hope expressed
Through the waterfalls, and be satisfied.

When my heart hates and halts,
And I salve my sores with salt,
And isolation drives me to doubt,
Still I know I can fling
My whole being on the One Who sings
A deliverance song, a victory shout

So run away, oh my soul, to the cascades!
Let the waters wash over your fear.
Limping soul make your choice
Hear the echos of His voice
In the rushing waters; know He is here.
Hide away, oh my soul, in the Goodness
Of the Spring that will never run dry.
Though parched and drained, enter rest.
Soak in peaceful hope expressed
Through the waterfalls, and be satisfied.