Our church is planting a church in a nearby town. I decided to write about that: 
Open Bedford 

For the lepers

For the cast out

For the worn out 

For the downtrodden 

Asking “Where is God in this?”

For the seeking 

Those Pleading

People needing freeing 

To be a soft place

For all races

To open doors

For more and more

Of you God

People hurting

Hearts bursting


Where is God in this ?

So, we go

People know

Grace shown

Mind blown

Now known

Where God is in this 

He’s here

Been here

Never left

Paid the debt

No longer reprobate

Hands high

Raised high 

To arms spread wide

This is why

We come and we go

To Bedford

For the lepers 



Don’t get me

Don’t see

My empty

My need

Turned to another

A made up cover


Your pride

Plus my vain

Ended in pain

Broken by shame

For a time

Veil on

Damage done

But not again!

Smiling faces

Heart races

From staging

This pretend love

Went on too long

Too sick

Too tired

Man fired

And a liar

So done !

Veil off

Staying off

This me

May not see

But now free



Looking only

Back at me


What I see

Not another

No cover


For the first time


Waiting on one (or another)

One is waiting 

Not here for the taking 

But the asking 

The why me’s and the what ifs 

The who’s  who and the making sense

Of all of it 

Or none of it 


She doesn’t have an answer to any

So she still waits 

For just one 

Or another 

Or still another 

That has the answers 

To the why me’s and the what ifs

To the who’s who and the making sense 

Of all of it, really 

Life mirror 

I’m writing this for no one. 

Except that I guess I am writing this for myself and well, I am someone. 

But what I really mean is that this is me, real , raw and open. 

See, I realized today that life is almost like a mirror. As I am almost finished wiping down all the mirrors in the gym today, something inspires me to slow down. 

I start to look at the fingerprints , some smudged , others imprinting almost the entire hand. And I begin to notice, really notice, each mark on the mirror. 

Then I begin becoming more aware of my strokes with the towel and cleaner. My movements become intentional and slow. I become entranced in this almost Karate Kid dance where my hands make circles starting from the outside and then stemming from the inside. 

And that’s when I realize that life is like that mirror. 

There have been and will be so many prints impressed on my life. Some prints are smaller, maybe the result of a minor experience or an interaction with an acquaintance. But it nonetheless made an impression. 

Others, larger, are much more detailed. A big marking on this life mirror. One that distorted or absolutely shaped my life. One that takes intentionality, mental effort and physical presence to rid myself of. 

None of these prints were good to me, these ones that need wiping. They left small and large stains that distort the clarity of my life mirror, the one that reflects who I am and more importantly, who God sees me as. 

See, I have to fight these influential prints daily. I am exhausted by not seeing myself clearly. I am tired of having to look into this life mirror and still see the residue left from the fingers and hands that have touched me, that made their mark. 

I want to be able to look into the mirror and see myself. 

But all the prints mask it. I wipe and wipe and squint to see the outline. I can’t make out my face . All I see is the aftermath and it’s ugly . Man, it’s ugly. 

Instead of obtaining the physical picture of who I am, the prints resemble impatience, regret, guilt, shame, anger, insecurity . 

I need industrial cleaner to clear the blemishes. They have been there so long, they held on so tight.  

I would like to get rid of them for good but as soon as one blot vanishes from the seeing glass, another one appears. 

I would like to be able to look at who I know I am. But for now I have to resign. 

One at a time it is. It may take days or weeks or months to clear that space on the mirror. To put into full view that piece of me. So with Karate Kid focus and intentionality, I’ll work. 

It is essential to me to one day see myself. Despite the work it will take to get there, I’m not willing to any longer let these markings stick and hinder the true reflection of me. 

My first time

I’m 32. Just turned 32 in November.

And I’ve never been in a house filled with death. I’m grateful for that but at this moment, right now, I am not feeling lucky.

See, my husband’s grandmother is dying.

She is the only grandmother I have ever known. She has been my psuedo-Granny Boo for 13 years.

She has seen me graduate college, get married, and have children; her great granddaughters.

She has supported us financially when my husband was unemployed, she has told me stories of “the farm”, where her husband grew up and sold Shell gas from the “store” right beside their house.

She was so proud of her husband and the family she married into.

And she adores my husband. He was her first grandchild. And they are bonded like none other I’ve ever witnessed.

But these are all just words because I can’t seem to get to the nitty gritty of how hard this is.

“This” being progression from living to dying to passing into eternal life.

I sit rocking unintentionally back and forth while my mother in law speaks . My mind takes in the smells, sounds of this once strong woman moaning in sheer pain because of the pressure on her brain, the sights of the once homey kitchen and dining room turned into a hospital like setting with syringes, a wheelchair, insurmountable bottles of prescriptions and half eaten breakfast from this morning.

This is so hard.

Tears well up and I refuse to go back and see her. I refuse to see death face to face. I’m scared she may wake up and I won’t have the words to convey how I feel, how much she means to me but also how I am utterly scared that she won’t be in my life, my husband’s life and my daughters’ lives.

Because I have never done this before.

So I go back to rocking and talking about morphine as if this is normal conversation. And I am sad struck as I realize that it isn’t.

And I rock some more and cry. I look at a picture of myself, her and my youngest daughter at her first birthday party. I have never seen this picture. And I want to say, she looked alive.

I get the courage to go inside her room, to kneel down and pray as I rest my hand on top of hers. And I pray that there would no longer be pain, that she would be free from suffering .

Because Jesus, this is hard. I haven’t seen anything like this before.

I pray for a great crowd of angels to be waiting for her and that He would allow her body to give way to death. To let go and give in to eternal life.

And by this point I am weeping, shaking, sobbing.

And there isn’t a word I want to hear. There isn’t a catch phrase that makes it better. But I don’t want to be better.

I want the hard and the ugly and the painful. Because this is real.

I want to be free to cry even if it means I’m not strong. I want to grieve and to open the gate for my tears to rush out of. The heartbreak is so much to bear and it can’t stay inside.

I utterly love this woman. And it isn’t until death meets her this evening that I can truly articulate that.

I love her so much that I want her death to be over. I want the resting place(that doesn’t feel much like rest) between this life and life eternal to end. I want the moaning, mortal body to awaken to life renewed in Jesus. I want her to leave this cozy home her husband built and cross the threshold of the one God has been preparing for her. The one she deserves and that He built with love filled hands specifically for her.

It’s my first time doing death and I’m already ready for it to be over.

So ready.


Who are we really ? I mean, really ?

Who are we when no one is watching ?

I practiced yoga today, as I tend to do most Tuesdays. The instructor, Yogi G , is meditative and positive and spiritual and every positive attribute I would want in a yoga instructor.

Well what I love about today was his mention of mindfulness. Realizing who we really are, that our tomorrow is fully dependent on who we are today.

And now I am thinking, who am I?

What will my future be if I stay the same person I am right now ?

Scary thought.

A writer that I met at the local Y I work at, who is also a fellow yogi, inspires me and my writing .

She encouraged me through her blog to set a goal in my writing for the year 2015. To establish a word that I want to encompass my writing starting in the New Year.

And the word that keeps coming to mind is “vision”.

I want to write with vision.

To have vision as I write.

To know who I fully want to be and write with that purpose. To recognize the importance of my being present now so that my legacy is full and powerful and meaningful.

If I am present in this moment, if I am mindful of those that count on me and need me right now, then I feel like my vision is manifest. And will be.

Finding healing in the mess. Finding my voice after dark.