come

Let the little children come to me.
Let the little children shout and sing
to bring joy to their King.
Let the little children sit quietly
at His feet and listen.

To them belong the kingdom-
those I've woven in the womb
and called by name.
Those who hear my voice
and follow me-
my precious little lambs.

I am their Good Shepherd,
and I know them thoroughly.
I listen to them pray,
and I hear each Spirit-groaning.
I know how they will stray,
and there's no distance
I will not cover
to bring them back safe.

I will bring you back safe.

Nothing can snatch you
from my hands.
I have engraved you there
upon my palms.

Oh little child, look,
look at my hands.
See my scars
and doubt no more
that you can be saved.
Take my hand-
believe.
Open up the gift of faith
I give to you in love.

Come,
like a little child come unto me.
Come with all your sin
and be made clean.
Cast all of your anxiety
on the One who cares for you.
Bring all of your burdens
and believe I care for you.

bed of swords

Alive and active
is God's word-
sharper than any
double-edged sword.

I pull out the weapon
when the battle seems hopeless
from where it's hidden in my heart-
the sword of the Spirit.

Yes, tonight I will sleep
on a whole bed of swords,
and rest in peace
within God's wonderful words.



"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

torn

How do I let go
of my need for control?
How do I accept
that your actions
and your feelings
are not always my fault?
How can I forgive myself
for things that you have done?
I listen to the accuser's voice
and struggle to hang up the phone.
Broken, ugly, dirty, guilty,
never good enough-
undeserving of your pity,
your unrelenting love.
My mind is a prison tonight,
but I do not try to escape
or ask anyone else to help-
this is my rightful place.
How can I
make sense of grace
or comprehend
the pain in your face
when you see my scars?
I didn't mean
to break your heart.
I was only trying
to fix everything,
and in the process
I tore myself apart.

children singing

In heaven will we all be children singing,

unable to contain our joy or keep from dancing?

Will we gather around the throne of Jesus,

the little lost lambs He carried home with great rejoicing?

Will He welcome us in His arms

and look with love on His creation?

Will He answer our silly questions

with fatherly patience?

Will we miss the womb we came from

and the comforts of human love?

Will we remember them when eclipsed

by the far greater joys that await us?

Joys impossible to imagine,

like dazzling colors we've never seen-

Will we join into a painting,

a palette completely untouched by pain?

Each tear wiped tenderly away,

all thorns from flesh removed.

Will perfect love cast out all fear,

and every storm subdue?

Then on this stormy earth, shall we not bow

and trust the Artist's brush?

Weak and wounded sinners,

bent and broken by the curse?

As we groaning, wait and long

for Christ to come back for His bride,

we surround ourselves with children

to stay close to Jesus' side.

the bruise on my arm

The bruise on my arm
changes colors like a kaleidoscope.
Blue, then purple, then green,
my stained-glass skin.

I don't know how I got the toy-
perhaps it was a prize at a fair
or a clumsy bump
into a chair.

Maybe I am just a big fish
who has gone and swallowed too much ocean.
Maybe one night in a storm
I unknowingly scooped up a Jonah

who now sits just beneath my skin
and cries out to God to listen.
Over time the colors fade
and the voice grows dim.

The body heals itself with time,
for it was created quite clever,
but the soul cannot,
so I pray for the prophet's escape
from the bloody chamber.

madame librarian

The Friendship Series
Installment 8: Mom


laura lou,
on the mountain where he proposed to you
saying "marry me, or I'll drive off this cliff!"
did it ever cross your mind
that you could end up doing both?

the mirrors of heaven

The Friendship Series
Installment 7: Gladys



Grandpapa's spectacles cannot be found
He has searched all the rooms,
high and low, 'round and 'round.

I mastered this poem to recite in fourth grade-
the humorous tale
of an old man's mistake.

He gathered his grandchildren to scour the whole house,
unaware of the object
that perched on his nose.

Finally the youngest
looked up, smiled, and said:
There are the glasses, on Grandpapa’s head!

Now my grandmother's memories cannot be found.
We have searched all the rooms,
high and low, 'round and 'round.

I think of the poem and want to be the grandchild to shout
There they are, in your head!
and watch her shake them out.

But I'm met with a blank stare when I walk in the room,
and she asks me
if I've ever met my mom.

So turning over the house, the chambers of her mind,
we pick up the pieces
her life left behind.

Memories misplaced, our true selves temporarily hidden
until that glad day
when we look in the mirrors of heaven.