Some days it’s fine, And the trauma is only in the back of my mind Underlying the beauty and the goodness that is in front of me And other days, Everything triggers a memory of something I’ve lost irrevocably Or brings up the horror of all that I’ve seen And I taste the bitter more than the sweet That’s life, Anything else is a lie Mountains and valleys exist for a reason And there is a purpose for every season And we are not destined to strangle our lives Into one of them or the other And I think part of the problem is That we were taught that pain is not of Yahweh, That He is not to be found in the suffering and agony As much as He can be seen in the joy and glory, But oh how shortsighted! For Yahshua Himself went straight to Hell To show us that there is no such thing as captivity To be found there And every valley is exalted, every mountain brought low, Not because our lives magically become perfected After we achieve this point

Where the waves grow sweet, Doubt not Reepicheep… But even when the waves are bitter and deep, We must press on toward the Utter East For there is our passion, our reason for being So forward on ships laden with hearty fellows We progress through distractions and waters below Pressing onward and onward, though other men bellow Saying “turn back,” “that’s not true,” “you will be brought low” Great perils await us on this frightful journey, But also great vision and glory and life And our ship will be helmed with assiduous turning As we press on beyond what everyone else calls right The waters are brackish, are dark and disturbing, And every league filled with all things unknown, But what is the purpose of beginning a journey If we’re just going to turn back halfway and go home? Yet there at the end, a light in the tunnel, The waters turn clear and the salt is no more Here I must venture out into my coracle Leaving behind all I love on th

Life is a Tapestry, A beautiful creation woven together in love of various Threads— Expression, relationship, experiences— That depict a glory that can only be seen in totality, A glory that is the Love-relationship between an individual and Yahweh Some Threads are brightly colored depictions of joy and happiness, Others somber colors of confusion and chaos, But grief is the Golden Thread, For it is the one that costs the most—it costs a person , A relationship and way of being, It costs a life , An expression and way of living that is no longer available to you, It costs everything , And it changes the Tapestry forever The Tapestry with the Golden Thread Shines differently than any other Tapestry, And the Thread adds a bittersweet beauty that comes from the ashes— And can come from nowhere else In its place, the Golden Thread dazzles, It sparkles and shines a new glory that will never be found in any other Thread, And somehow it adds beaut

Most people agree That moving forward with Yahweh perpetually Is a wonderful goal and worthy of consideration, But there are places we think Yahweh isn’t, And so there are places we aren’t willing to go… Eternally growing with Yahweh our Father, A goal that is worthy of our lives and faith, But we will not see Him in any discomfort And so we refuse to know Him in all things But He says I am here in the midst of the struggle, He calls out our names on the wind and the waves And He doesn’t expect us to stay in the lifeboat He expects us to trust Him and the life that He gave So into the darkness and into the valley I venture, though I have to venture alone, For though most only see Him in light and on mountains, I’ve chosen that He be all I’ve ever known So hatred and anger, death, destruction and violence All of the things they said He’d never be, I welcome and embrace to weave into my garments, My life’s full expression and His Tapestr

How can we ever come to One When we only love those who look like, sound like, think like us When we group ourselves into categories Based on race, religion, culture, and beliefs How can we ever come to know The value in our human Love When we measure it out so sparingly To those who share parts of our identity We see someone different and we call them “other,” Unholy or privileged, not worthy of Loving We see someone out there as less than we are, We judge by the outside instead of the heart Or maybe we secretly judge others in fear Feeling less than adequate, like there’s something wrong here And we must tear “them” down to bring “ourselves” up, As if there were ever a ration on Love! And in our fear that they will us harm, We take up our swords and cry out “to arms!” We lobby with vitriol, anger, and hate And degrade other humans with whom we should relate Formerly men fought each other with weapons But now in the media, men find

I put all my eggs into one basket, And when that basket broke, All my eggs fell, Cracked and spilling on the floor, I am lost, alone, and without support The basket promised safety, Blessings without limitation, And love that would never end Slowly it began to fray, untwist, untwine, At first, I told myself it would be okay, That’s how baskets operate, And later I told myself it was my fault, I tore strips of my own skin from my very flesh And tried to use them to plug the hole, I went to those who built the basket over and over again and asked them What to do, How to fix it They said it wasn’t their job to fix it, They’d built the basket well the first time And if I need to fix the basket It’s because I did something wrong to create the hole, They ripped more flesh off of me and told me to keep plugging, Have more faith, Be more faithful Eventually I realized I could not keep tearing myself apart, I begged and begged for help

Walking through the forest and big brother knows the way We’re going to get to our appointed place But we don’t seem to be progressing, despite all that he says I begin to wonder what is this path he takes I look now to the side of me as Someone calls my name He beckons me to go in His direction But when I tell the others, they scoff and they exclaim We did not see, so you must be mistaken We continue on in circled path, dead end after dead end Again the Lion calls to me and beckons But no one else will listen to that which I contend: That there is something more than what we’d reckoned Now laying down to take a break, we rest before the morn, More futile, endless walking on the morrow I see the Lion in my dreams; He calls me to go on Whether or not the others stay or follow Now how can I move forward if I must leave some behind, How can I go to places no one else goes, But how long can I continue in the futility of mind And hide in my he