Not Just With Words

Jesus is all I need
He satisfies every longing
Not just with His word and promises
He often shows His nearness
By sending people into my life
Very special people
People who encourage me to be vulnerable
To not stay locked up inside
Pretending perfection
People who text to see how I’m doing
Who wrap arms around to comfort
Who stay and play boardgames
And watch Jane Austen because I like it
People whose picture I print out
Because I never want to forget their smile
This is how He touches the aching in my heart
This is how He kisses me on the forehead
This is how He let’s me see
though a glass dimly, the beauty
Of His perfect friendship
This is how Jesus loves me well.

We Are Not Owned

Today I was flipping through one of my old notebooks (circa 2009-2010). It was one I used for Bible studies, taking notes in Church, and various other Bible-related things. As I was thumbing through the pages,  I found this little monologue I wrote way back when, that I’d thought I’d share with all of you:

{We Are Not Owned}

We are not owned by storms.
We are not owned by trials.
We are not owned by tribulations.
We are not owned by sorrow.
We are not owned by suffering.
We are not owned by pain.
We are not owned by trouble.
We are not owned by darkness.
We are not owned by temptation.
We are not owned by sin.
We are not owned by the curse.
We are not owned by shame.
We are not owned by guilt.
We are not owned by fear.
We are not owned death.
We are owned by Christ.
We are owned life.
We are owned by Truth.
We are owned by freedom.
We are owned by grace.
We are owned by light.
We are owned by righteousness.
We are owned by joy.
We are owned by courage.
We are owned by peace.


The thunder crashes and lightning flashes.
The billows sweep across the dusty ground, sucking substance into its clouds.
Fire flames. Turning life into coal, and then to ash.
The earth trembles and groans, seeking refuge. But it can not hide from the turmoil.
The noise continues to sound.
Colors try to stay erect. But everything has turned to nothing more than the look of muck.

Can peace be found in this storm?
Does any rest linger in the air?
Pulses beat, lungs creak, eyes will not close for the fear.
The heart cries out for a message.
Surely it is here somewhere.
Surely this drama could only mean that the Voice is speaking.

But alas!
It is not until the wild winds are gone.
The lighting is ignored.
The tremors stilled.
When the quaking is calmed.
And life is awash with the silence,
It is then.
It is then we hear it.
The mighty Voice.
A Whisper.

Spoken to the deepest place of longing.
This intensity could at a second’s command be unleashed,
But it is controlled. Gentle.
Displaying the greatest strength of all.

God’s Grandeur

God’s Grandeur

by Gerald Manley Hopkins


The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck His rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

All is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bear now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black west went

Oh, morning, at and the brown brink eastward, springs –

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! Bright wings.