“I never meant to be the villain in your story."

  I could say it as much as I liked.

It would still

Never fix

Anything.

A whisper in the leaves,
A plea on lips
Caught in a transitory
Moment.
“Make me more like You.”
Lord, make me Love.
Make me Joy, Peace.
Make me Compassion
And Grace.
All that You are—
All You made me to be,
Make me.

Lord, sift your comb
Through my thoughts;
Untangle them like
Unruly locks of hair.
Trace gentle circles
Along my back; sooth
All the worries that are
Groundless in Your love.

I felt the power
Of the disappointment,

And the resentment,
And the emptiness,
Slowly dissipate.
The Holy Spirit
Overshadowed it all
And took a deep breath
In my chest.

I would sit with the stubbornness of a child
Dragging down my face, a question on my lips,
“Who was Jesus? How did he save us?”

I only received scoffs in return,
Disbelief as busy adults said “What did he do?
Be serious.”
They never understood that I was.

Unaware of His presence and His love,
I curled into myself, wondering why I always
Failed at satisfying the standard I had
Carefully constructed in my head—
It turned out, I was only waiting
For God's perfect timing.

It was slow--a sluggish trial
Of Him holding out his hand, and mine
Hovering tentatively, not fully convinced.
But He spoke through those around me,
He filled the emptiness I had walked around with
Like a book with blank pages, chapters filled in
At the binding. He gave me a community,
Something that was completely unfamiliar
And alien considering the isolation I was so
Accustomed with. Gradually, I turned to face Him.
I talked to Him under rain-soaked trees and rooms
Infused with the fear of darkness, and He offered
The resolute peace of His love and guidance—

I will never forget the day of extended worship,
One voice flowing through the music, settling
Itself in my heart as I stood alcoved in a hallway,
A borrowed guitar clutched close & eyes full of tears
I was suddenly becoming unafraid of. That anxiety,
That defining phobia of never being enough,
He began to heal as I took His hand and let Him
Give me the strength to persevere through
Something
 I didn’t believe myself capable of.

In that moment, leading up to it, and even now,
When I know there is so much left for Him
To teach me, I feel the unburdening weight
Of his purpose for me—His sovereignty
Over the life I tried to control, year
After year, with my own understanding.

I will never know everything, but I finally

Comprehend what Jesus did for me--
And that knowledge continues
To motivate everything I am,
A daughter of God, into pursuing
An eternal relationship with Him,
Unhindered by my self-righteousness
And fear of failing to fulfill his plan.

Jesus truly is Everything.

The words lay flat on their faces,
Trembling in fear,
As if they saw the shiny granite
Of a bank floor,
Men in black ski masks yelling
Confused orders,
And wished their loved ones
Could hear them
As they chanted the words
So often shrouded
In petty arguments and

The illusion of
Several more years.

'It weighs so much,' my arms

Protest—in the moment, they

Cannot see anything outside

The pain, but they will forget,

They will grow stronger, and

The memory will be replaced

With longing as a burden much

Heavier adds to the stones

Already shaking in my hands,

On my shoulders, and knocking

Around in my head—the weight

Is momentary, yet permanent.

The brightest faces,
The most promising
Bodies of water—
Laughs that enchant
Like siren songs--
I remember
Coral is more beautiful
When dead inside.

A shipping container
Filled with traffic cones
and stifled murmurs;
How long would they
Have to wait
to be put on a field,
And play a role
in the game they didn't
know the rules of?

Iron on Iron—
Sparks of God’s glory
Flying from the interaction.
Seeds of growth
Burning holes in the curtains
Of the sins we justify.
Light on light,
Illuminating a dormant candle
To the glow of Jesus.
Iron on Iron,
Sharpening one another's
Swords of faith.

I was a chipped mosaic
Set into the worn sidewalk
Of a town who no longer
Celebrated its culture.

I was the old, dusty streetlamp
That disruped the orderly line
Of brightness along the road.

I was the floorboard
That buckled and sent
Children sprawling to
The floor.

I was the cabinet that never
Fully closed, its hinges forever
Remaining unoiled.

I was the rocking chair
That sat eerily still—
Old memories trapped
In the wood.

There were words in the lay

Of the wooden slats, whispers
From the rusted pennies, songs
In the crystalline spread of light
On the ceiling—
I saw words everywhere.
In everything.
But when I looked at your mouth,
Moving in shapes I’m sure I know,
I did not perceive anything.

He cries with us

Even when He

Knows our tears

Are unnecessary.

I do not feel alive.
I feel like a cardboard
Cutout that kids push
Their heads through,
Smiling brightly as
Their parents snap
A photo.

Anger—it is not exclusive,
But it is also not contagious,
And we are not disciples of
The hot, bitter emotion.

He lifted my chin
And made me
Look into His eyes.
“What do you see,
Child?
Is it the hatred
You imagine, or only
  Love?”

The only thing I can do today
is breathe.
--Feel the air move slowly, quietly,
begrudgingly through my chest.
The pressure of the world squeezes in,
and I try to walk, try to use my limbs.
But all of my energy is occupied
by the simple act
of breathing.

I set out to answer the question
Of how much weight simple words
Could hold—could they crush
Shoulders, evicerate hearts like
A falling anvil? Or were they more
Like acid rain, almost soft and gentle,
Unseeming until they sting more
Than water? There is always so much
Weight on my chest, and I suppose
It must be from the countless, heavy

Words left unsaid; but I don’t want
To be the hands to heave an anvil
On some unsuspecting bystander’s

Head--or the clouds sprinkling
Deadly tears onto unblemished skin. 

How much weight can words hold?
But I think the question is more
Accurately: how much weight are
We willing to transfer onto others?