Photo from Matt Braithwaite

Morning stillness brings the

Voice I need to hear,

which is God’s,

which is the Voice of genuine

assurance

hope

peace.

The Voice I can trust.

Must trust.

Christ calls out freedom,

and most of the time,

I don’t accept the invitation.

Why?

Will I listen for Christ’s voice today?

Will the Voice in morning stillness

still come to me at noon

and at night?

It is there.

Listen….

Today, I offer up this poem I wrote as a prayer from the heart….

The Rock

I climbed the high rock

where rising waters

licked my feet

and the whip of the wind pulled

taut skin toward

hell and heaven.

My needy,

wide and wild-eyed soul

clung to the crag

and cried out,

SAVE ME

And the Voice answered

Climb down

and I’ll help you swim.

Photo by Lori Archer Raible

As this year comes to a close, perhaps your heart feels a mixture of things, just as mine does. With the start of a new year, I’m often praying God will help me live more authentically, selflessly, and courageously. I offer up this poem, hoping 2016 will be a year in which you let your life speak (thank you, Parker Palmer) the unique, God-given voice within.

Finding Voice

A poem for the new year…

I went looking for my voice today

and took the new journal –

the one I’d thought too fancy to use –

from its safe,

hidden

spot on the shelf.

With light touch of expectant fingers

I fanned pages

waiting to drink in words,

and pressed my nose inside to learn

what possibility smells like.

What I’d thought was blank

and empty

overflowed with hope, an invitation

to unfurl my wings

and catch the wind.

“Madonna and Child” in the Stella Maris Chapel, Collegeville, MN

I have missed writing weekly prayers. With many heavy things going on in life, as well as some other writing projects to which I’m tending, the blog’s received less attention. But I want to share a short piece of poetry as we continue our Advent journey. Jesus is coming with hope, promise, peace, and guidance. Into your life. Into the world. Oh, Praise Him. 

“Mary”

A Poem for Advent

Waiting time is pregnant time.

Hold,

Hope,

Trust.

Possibilities and promise push

my soul to its outer-rim,

making haven in the uncomfortable.

What lies beyond beckons

to what grows within.

“Come…”

Creaking, groaning, stretching,

the womb grows and Hands shape my soul.

I cannot expand any further,

it hurts too much.

This rim.

It’s the limit.

Then pain and grace interlock fingers,

holding me fast in perfect embrace.

I breathe into birth

and cry my

raw, new melody.