Tired faces, tired places. Her aching heart quietly losing the battle to her soul's sweet singing as her feet followed Dauntless' modest steps.

*—S.C., October 22, 2014

Yesterday tears cascaded and I whispered,
"This cross is too heavy."

Today He said "I know," and showed me His.

*—S.C., October 21, 2014

Gratification rooted in nobodies
walked out
while gentleness for the self
walked in.
The counting stopped, no longer blocked, passion
unlocked.

*—S.C., October 20, 2014

The devil does not come
draped in a red cape, or
flaunting pointy horns.
He comes as everything
you've always wished for.

Twisted satisfaction,
unfulfilled promises,
he leaves you wanting more.
Constantly searching,
endlessly seeking.

E m p t i n e s s .

Your lips speak of death
while your soul asks to be rescued
from the torment
of seeing everyone else breathing
while the rising waters hinders you from reaching.

You ask the world,
and they do not listen.
You ask God,
and you find outstretched hands.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (latest edit: March 13, 2014)

We were learning about World War I—
I think.
I didn't know.
And it showed
through the empty paper, unfilled fill-in-the-blanks, and the
"Come see me" at the top of the page.
His eyes screamed Poor girl! as he whispered
"One more time."
But one more time,
and nothing changes.
So instead of filling the white page with words,
she adorned it with tears.

She ran to the bathroom where the ***** walls reflected
her chaotic soul.
Hidden in the stalls, she revealed her shame,
and bounded by shame, she released her hurt.
But it hurt even still...
unable to flush the waterfall from her eyes.
So a stranger, a plumber, made her heart full
when she told her
"Don't cry."
Her eyes sang to her the million reasons why.

It seems as if the world had gotten it all wrong.
The girl who was normal was not—
and the girl with down-syndrome didn't have down-syndrome at all, but the
up-syndrome,
infecting all those who were sick
with her contagious smile that was the vaccine
to the world trodden with
down-syndrome.

*—S.C., March 12, 2014

It seems as if you come
at the right time
every Monday,
every Wednesday,
every Friday;
when the sun hits the windows perfectly
and the sunbeams cast spotlights
on the dust-mites dancing in the room.
Even the muddiness of my eyes
become filled with gold.

But maybe it isn't because of the sunlight.
Maybe it's because my eyes longed to imitate the light in yours.

*—S.C., March 12, 2014

The girl sitting all by herself no longer does so from fear or shame.
But from peace and wholesome satisfaction in her Maker,
w o n d e r - s t r u c k
                                  by God's language
                                                        ­      of  p e r f e c t
                                                               ­                     s i l e n c e .

*—S.C., February 5, 2014