He swore he saw a fire in me* as he parked the car
along the side of the road, firmly grasped my
shoulder, and prayed to God that I would be able
to see in color again, while I was waging war
inside my head.  And I’d like to think that it’s true,
that if you look close enough, you can see the glow
of a roaring fire in the corners of my eyes,
that these eyes are two jewels of incense, a fragrant
offering of sweet, spiraling smoke.  And I like to think
that these eyes are two beacons, shining out into
the weighty darkness and calling weary travelers
home, storm-tossed ships, sailing
under a starless sky.

But there was a time when all I saw through these
eyes were the darkest shades of gray, day after day,
and though I can see my home at the very end
of the horizon, it is still countless miles away.
And it’s always winter, and I’m just resting here
for the night, I’m off again in the morning.
I’m chilled to the bone, but I’ve got to sleep
anyway, and I just want to make it home.
I’m looking ahead to the light in someone’s eyes,
because my flesh is so cold it feels like death,
and I need a fire to warm myself beside.
I’m looking ahead to that light, because I have
wandered alone for so long in this darkness,
and I need a place where I can finally put my anchor
down. I’m looking for home, and most days,
it’s the only thing that keeps me going.
*I’m recklessly
headed for
home.

We are all born gemstones, but fatally fractured, our skin bleeding rubies, brokenness and beauty and tension.  And I have heard it said that it is our decision, whether we see these cracks as channels for rivers of light to run through, or wounds to be bound and healed.  Well, if I tear off these bandages and stretch these arms wide enough, will it prove to you that these gashes cut all the way through, and that I’m willing to bleed my life and all its secrets out for you?

Ever since I was thirteen, thirteen, when that gold rush of blood chose my attractions for me, I’ve been hiding, because I’ve been afraid.  I used to tell myself it was a phase, and then it never ended, and so I told myself to never tell.  And these days I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking a tightrope, breathless, over glittering hell.  I tried my best to keep a straight face, but I wanted nothing more than to kiss the lips that cursed me, have those strong hands around my waist, holding me close.

And I took upon myself the burden of convincing everybody else that there was nothing wrong.  The rest of the world was singing something, something bold, and I tried to sing along, but I didn’t know the words.  And every name I was called, every kick when I was down was another blooming stain on a white wedding gown.  I made a promise that I would be buried in the ground before anyone knew, that this closet would become a mausoleum, but grace. broke. through.

After I had been trying to find my own voice, God drew close to me, singing the most beautiful melody.  And I realized that my highest purpose was to harmonize, to run headfirst after truth, finally free from these chains, these lies.  He looked me in the eyes, he kissed my forehead, took my hand in his own and whispered, “You are mine.”

A fellow poet once told me, “Tell your own story, or someone else will tell it for you.”  I’m sick of having my story broken into, broken in two because half my audience thinks that it’s only half true.  It’s been so long since I’ve been honest with you!   And so now I’m coming out with everything, my sexuality and the spirit that is my seal, because both have inhabited this treasured chest of mine.  I have been washed and I am waiting hand in hand with the Divine, and I believe that these wounds will be healed in time.

Every breath, God, you have brought us here,
every single heartbeat has been grace.
Our desire is that your kingdom would draw near;
would you let us see your face?
Would you overwhelm this place?

Fill our lives with desperate songs to sing,
of the redemption that we have but tasted,
so that when we come to the end of our days,
we will know that they have not been wasted.

Make holy our two feet that will bring good news
of the gospel of our salvation,
and make holy our two hands
that will be the instruments through
which you will reach those from
every tribe, every tongue, every nation.

And let love be our orientation.
Let your love be our orientation.

Your name will be forever on my lips,
careful and yet ceaseless, even grand.
I will dance to your compassion, kiss
the world’s forehead and hold its hand.

Grace will be the text my life produces,
your own handwritten transformation.
Your life and light will caress the bruises
of experiences, complete illumination,

enlightenment, from darkness to light.
My foolish self will plumb the depths of
power, take love’s lantern to the night,
to blindness.  I, restless one, will find rest

in the boundlessness of unearned favor,
his mighty wind filling my sails, a savior.

It’s gonna be a long, long road* / with too many minds / too straight and too narrow, / narrow.  / I know that together we are a big ship to turn, / and it happens slowly, one heart at a time, / but I am convinced / that we can either cut through these waves of change coming our way / to timeless truth and changeless grace / or be swept away by the currents.

I know that culture tells us we need to pick a side, / to claim the ground beneath our feet and fight, / but I refuse to believe that people are my enemies. / This is not a war of flesh and blood, / but of powers and principalities. / How long will we continue to point the finger / and fail to take our own hearts into account? / I believe we are being deceived / by this mess inside our chests.

I know that I am a prodigal son, / and I like to tell myself I’ve had my fill of filth / but the desires haven’t gone away. / I know the feeling of going to bed every night, / thinking “God above, no.  Amen,” / the name of Jesus too painful to speak, or / sobbing in the basement of a coffee shop, / praying, “All I want is one kiss!” / A kiss on the cheek, / a kiss on the lips.

But I know / that to this day I’m living with my Father / because he’s constantly convincing me to stay, / singing, “You are my son; / you are not my slave. / You are not my slave.” / And it’s uncomfortable, / but I’ve learned the secret of facing comfort and pain, / abundance and need; it’s Christ, / who makes a home out of me / when none of my homes feel right. / God, you are my hiding place and not this closet / or these secrets! / I’m resting underneath the shadow of your wings / and not the dark, looming clouds of fear!

I know that I want this word / tattooed in black ink on my heart: abide. / I in him, he in me, / because I desperately need it to be true. / It’s the thought that will be endlessly written  through my life like poetry. / Every rhythm of life, / every half or perfect rhyme, / every break / at the end of a line / is according to the purpose of a Master Poet.

I know that English only goes so far, / and so grace will be my second language; / every word pronounced by this flaming tongue / will be from divine vocabulary, / redemption and redefinition. / My eyes will be open, and yet my arms will be open; / my heart will be open, and this, / this will be my proclamation: / “Orientation / is a beautiful word, / it means not where you are, / but the way you’re facing.”

I know / it’s gonna be a long, long road, / and though I am weak / still I will follow, / follow.