curator of (im)possibility.

30 05 2019

since a young girl, i have
commiserated with the rejected,
conspired with the abandoned, and
chosen the forsaken
as my own.

i am the forever
caretaker of the
(proverbial)
wounded bird.

this week i shopped for plants and
discovered a collection of
tomato plants that had been
relegated to the trash bin,
tossed aside as
unredeemable,
unprofitable,
unsalvageable.

yet, they and i are
alike.

as i restore and breathe new life into
these withered and dilapidated plants, so too
i believe in the possibility of
the ugly duckling, the
runt of the litter, the
wounded woman whom
the elite pass over with
irreconcilable differences.

i was once (and still am) the
black sheep, the
lost cause, the
abandoned impossibility,  in
my family, in
my church, in
my world, and yet…

i still believe that
jesus came to
save the
hopeless, the
impoverished, the
impossible life, the
unredeemable,
unprofitable,
unsalvageable soul.

so my pain and
abandonment has blossomed into a
belief and curator of
(im)possibility, she who
scoops up the downtrodden and
poor, the wilted and
overdrawn, the withered and
dehydrated soul to create something out of
nothing, because
she still believes that
you are
worth the
work.

tonight, as i plant the rejected tomatoes into
my gardens among the
sunflowers and lilies, with each plant, i
welcome them into our shared space, i
invite them to share their growth and fruit with the
hearty appetites of the children of this family, i
assure them that they
(that you, that I)
now belong.

welcome
home.

these dusky times in the
wildly organic and spiritual
spaces of outdoor growth call me back to
my own story of
rejection, abandonment and
impossibility…of
restoration, survival and
rugged humanity; herein, i am
invited to join the dance of grace, to
become one with salvation as
the healer of yesterday’s harms, the
gardener of tomorrow’s hopes, the
curator of today’s possibility.

you matter.

your story (and
your pain) matters.

what is redemption without
desperation?

if you need a
family, let me be
fertile (safe) soil for
you.

darling, you are
worth the
work.

welcome
home.





sea of lost things.

1 05 2019

i can feel the weight of
tears behind my eyes, the
truth behind the lies, the
storms across my skies.

the memories of these sorrows,
slipping through my fingers, for
these tears are too heavy for
these hands to bear, for
these fears are too much for
my heart to share.

so i drown in a sea of
lost things, these
promises and hopes and
dreams all lost in the pursuit of
happiness
the cost of belief in
magic-ness.

who am I but the
invisible shape of
time lost, the
irrepressible shame of
the soul cost, the
incorrigible shake of
that fucking land of
make believe.

i can feel the weight of
tears behind my eyes, and
i wish that they would let go, so
i can weep away
this sadness.

for this grief is too
much to
bear.





that distant shore.

22 03 2019

who said that
children could grow up?

nobody.

hold your little people close, because
one day you will blink and
they will be
up and
out and
away.

we drown in the long days and
late nights, and we dream of
taking an uninterrupted shower and
eating an undisturbed meal, and
cannot imagine that
someday our hearts will
long for simpler times when
(despite the long days and long nights)
they still reached
for us…

we get them safely to
the other shore where
successful and independent children
begin their journeys, and
as we row home alone, we
find that the chaos and clutter of
their childhoods has been
replaced by
an abrupt silence and stillness that
isn’t nearly as magical as
we once imagined
it would be.

tonight, i will come home to
a quiet house and light a candle and
send all my love across
the water, to
that distant shore of
autonomy, to those children that
God allowed me
(for a moment)
to call mine.

who said they could
grow up
and out
and away?

nobody.





i will be safe for you.

1 01 2019

battered woman,
defenses wild,
the fragile girl, the
wounded child,
let all your fears
be reconciled,
i will be safe for you.

in dead of night or
heat of day,
when hope and heart
were led astray,
when friend and faith have
looked away,
i will be safe for you.

when words fall short and
tears run dry,
when silence is
your only fight,
when darkness now
drowns out the light,
i will be safe for you.

take comfort in
the candle warm,
take solace in the
scars well-worn,
take courage, you
are not alone,
i will be safe for you.





this time of year.

25 12 2018

i know what it’s like to
carry an unexpected child and to
pray for redemption’s sacred song.

i know what it’s like to
be given an impossible life and to
pray for the courage to be strong.

i know what it’s like to
sleep under the midnight sky and to
pray for shelter from the storm.

i know what it’s like to
wander through the desert night and to
pray for a light to lead you home.

this time of year, we
all draw near to
celebrate the atonement child,
but in our pursuits, have we
lost simple truths of
heaven and earth reconciled?

for he isn’t in the manger and
he isn’t on the cross,
he is eating with the stranger and
he’s walking with the lost.

he’s sitting with the broken and
he’s bandaging their wounds,
he’s unraveling the tangled heart,
he’s guarding the abused.

this time of year, may
our holiday cheer reach more than
just family and friends,
let there be light in the dark, and
peace in our hearts, and
compassion for every man.





pendulum.

14 12 2018

tick
tick
tick

the clock isn’t stopping and
i feel the weights of
my heart dropping,
dropping,
dropping,

almost all the
way down now; but
the pendulum still swings, so
there must still be time to
recover the lost key and

wind
wind
wind
wind
wind

and begin again.

tick
tick
tick

for the clock is surely
not stopping.





these hands.

22 11 2018

adolescent love, new
wedding roses, pink
infant baby, soft
these things my hands remember.

turning the spring garden, earth
chasing the ocean waves, water
collecting the autumn leaves, fire
these things my hands know.

water-painted trees, flow
hand-written songs, strum
single-file words, rhyme
these things my hands make.

braids and bows and barbies, daughters
planes and trains and trucks, sons
songs and stories and celebration, children
these things my hands love.

sunshine and summer, freckles
laughter and together, wrinkles
productivity and proficiency, scars
these things my hands have earned.

kindness and patience, toddlers
resilience and respect, teenagers
compassion and courage, trauma
these things my hands have learned.

may i worry less about the 
marks and scars of age, and 
dance more for the beauty of
life that these hands have come to call mine