Suffocate Death

person in black long sleeve shirt
Photo by Maisa Borges on Pexels.com

Lord, it’s too much
Too much evil
Too much death
Too much weight
Weight my chest can’t bear

I know you say, “Bring it here”
But when I try
I can’t lift it
I can’t speak it
It can’t stay this way

I don’t know how to
Open my mouth and say
All the pain we’re bearing
All the loss
Loss of heart

We’re tired, Lord
I know, my strength is small
Where can I go?
Out here?
Here in my backyard?

The air is still hot out here
Still hot from the fire in the sky
Still thick and heavy
Like a weighted blanket, smothering
Smothering me and my friends

I can’t…
Oh God don’t let us go crazy
Don’t let death win
Don’t let our love grow cold
Cold and hard and numb

It feels like death is winning
It feels like evil’s foot is pressing
Power is crushing
our necks and we can’t…
Can’t breathe

Where are you?
Are you here?
Are you a bystander?
Are you here on the ground?
Ground down fine like dust?

You are with us?
Us dust
Will you raise us up?
Up with you to heaven?
Heaven here, your kingdom

Rise up, Lord!
Raise us up!
Crush evil’s head!
Suffocate death!

Nine

shallow focus photo of moon
Photo by Matt Hardy on Pexels.com

I have the ability to detach
let the fog roll in and relax
into oblivion.

But the flowers on my table
and the crisp, cool morning air
draw me back to beauty.

I have the ability to check-out
and act like everything is fine.
I can move and watch myself
carry on.
Pressing on.
Walking on.
No one knows its me.

I want to run away.
Drive away.
Get away.
Flee like a bird to
that mountain in the Psalms.

Rescue me.
Don’t let me sink.
Don’t let me grow numb.
Don’t let me lie down and sleep
my life away.

I have the ability to seek peace
and pursue it.
I have the ability to stand in the war
and fight for you.
I have the ability to help you hear
and believe.

 

It stings

old wooden boards
Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

I once had a splinter of wood deep
in the tip of my thumb.

I thought it healed.
But pain continued
where the conniving shard had been.

Red, tender flesh pushed up like play-dough
pressed through a hole in a toy.

This wart-looking-thing festered
bled and hurt so bad,
I sought a doctor.

The doctor diagnosed it: granuloma.
“It’s probably some foreign body
that got under your skin.
It may be a thorn, that caused this.”

I thought the thorn was gone.
Healed.
But it rises, raw and tender
and makes it hard to hug.

Betrayal may be the thorn that never stops festering.
It may be the scar
spontaneously
emerging
painful
and sensitive.
It stings.

New birth memorial

man kneeling in front of cross
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I don’t ever want to forget tonight
when you told me
“Someone else is King,
not me”
and you bent your knee to He.

I don’t ever want this memory to fade
I want it as bright as the new day
that will dawn tomorrow

I want to tattoo it to my arm
and yours too
I don’t ever want to forget you
telling me,
“When I confessed I felt
relief and happiness.”

A Man You Shall Be

5C1E92D5-8DE8-4762-99F8-0B51186CE842

Son tomorrow you turn thirteen

Lemuel’s mother’s words sting

I know ways that destroy kings

And the man that I’m raising

 

Hot tears in my eyes

Lump in my throat

I plead with the Lord

Another story be wrote

 

I know there’s no keeping you from sin

While still in my womb sin was within

 

But I am your mother

God gave you to me

To raise not a boy

But a man you shall be

 

I am His daughter

Saved by his grace

Granted faith in our Savior

Charged to show you His way

 

So when you’re tempted

And enticed by these three

Flesh’s cravings, Eye’s lusts, Pride’s possessions

I pray you’ll remember your mother’s decree

 

“You are a sinner, you need a Savior, and Jesus is he!”

 

Remember Whose you are!

You’re not your mother’s

Nor your father’s

And you’re not your own

 

You bear the Imago Dei

You were created for him

Not for yourself, your dad or me

 

It is God’s plan

That I raise you to be a man

Fully aware of the dangers ahead

I look to the God of Abraham

 

Though his body was good as dead

He believed God

Who always does what He says

He who was able to produce life out of old Sarah

Is able to produce fruit out of his daughter’s labor

 

He is faithful to generations of those who love Him

He who made you my son

Is able to keep

You, who He has entrusted to me

 

Seek him while you are young son

And don’t waste your life

Remember your mom’s faith

And put your hope in Christ!

He’s holding you

selective focus photography cement
Photo by Rodolfo Quirós on Pexels.com

You work so hard
as if the hours you spend
sweating
and digging
planning
arguing
and solving
will make everything right.

Then it rains on your freshly poured concrete
and a sudden wind bends the trees you just planted
and the test is positive- you’re going to have a baby
and your cursing
and anger
and withdrawal
can’t make anything right.

The grass grew though you swore it would never
The trees stood tall after the storm
The concrete dried
The child was born
and you figured out how to hold him.

And one day, I pray
You’ll figure out
He’s holding you.

Sojourning

view of a man on city street
Photo by Tranmautritam on Pexels.com

I don’t speak the language
I don’t know their signs
But I understand their reasons
and I know what it feels like
to eat, sleep and breathe
pursuit of happiness.

I remember and still feel the draw of
that cancer, not yet fully
eradicated in me.
Something beats deeper
something I can’t explain
because there are no words
just a man.

I heard him say,
“Come to me, all you weary
and heavy burdened and I will give you
rest”
and I understood.

That language, that tongue
that love
I know it
somehow
somewhere before I was here-
I know it’s my native tongue.

He speaks my language
He is my kin
I know this man
even though I’ve never met him.

I know his words
I understand
even though I still can’t manage
to do what I know he says.

But he speaks my tongue
He gave me this voice
He is home and I am
sojourning.

Hope against hope

nature forest trees park
Photo by veeterzy on Pexels.com

How long till I see the fruit
of what I cannot see?

How many season? How many years?
What if it takes my whole life and then
I’m buried six feet under dirt and worms
and grass and
more seasons pass and…

I cannot see the future days
when there are no more weeds
no more thorns
no more seeds dead in the ground
just oaks of righteousness
plantings of the Lord
seas given way to forests
of branches clapping their hands
waving in the presence
of the scarred King
who once bore a crown
that pierced his brow and left
him dead upon a tree
and left him broken among
the rotting things
but could not keep him there.

I cannot see the future days when
this dying will bring life.
But I am putting all my hope
in his rising.