"I think God just.... Pooped on Me?"

This summer I've been working at the church that I typically attended throughout the school year. It wasn't my original plan for this summer. During the year, I had master plans of living abroad, loving those I couldn't verbally communicate with, fighting to make God known where His name was cursed, and then finally lying down to a warrior's rest each night under stars that beamed at my existence. Essentially, I was to be Indiana Jones with a Bible.

Funny how it didn't end up that way. Instead, I find myself in a rather tame situation. I live in a modest house with a basement. I make dinner for one each night. On occasion, I spend time with friends. More often that not, I spend time writing, reading, or watching romantic comedies.

Domesticated in cages framed by bills, flat tires, and unfinished dreams. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fear for my life more than saving accounts. If I'll ever find my way to the peak of a mountain, instead of referencing mall directories. If I'll ever carry a child for miles in the night so that she might receive medical attention and know the security in God's sovereignty.

But leave it to elementary kids to bring me back to reality. Last night, I felt loved and needed. I felt like I was being spread over the youth at church. Strawberry jam thinned over dried toast.

Snaggle-toothed snickers. Nodding affirmations. Tightly squeezed embraces. Yes, my God is alive. He's constantly reminding me of that. He is understanding of my fears, convicting in my disbelief, warm when I choose to sleep face-down in the snow. And sometimes, He makes me feel like Dr. Jones, himself.

To the Blog I've Abandoned

I'm sorry that I walked out on you months ago. It certainly wasn't fair to you. And I know we never talked about it.
But, you see, you were killing me.
I'm not ready to die. The thought scares me all too much. You scare me all too much. So, I left you and began hoarding all my poems, thoughts, and emotions to myself.
It was a wonderful time for me; I was free to write anything that I wanted and never had to worry of what you would think or how you would shudder to bear my mismatched words and phrases. I never had to worry about inconveniencing you at absurd hours, disrupting your dreamless rest with my unruly nightmares.
For it was in this new manner that I found life. Behind moleskinned covers, I made collages with my heart: knowing all too well that it was only myself that could ever make left from right in such a blotted mess. And I began to watch that scrapbooked heart of mine beat more and more with every additional stanza. Bread was broken and received with each new page. Wine was poured and consumed with every drop of ink.
Good gracious, blog, I felt loved!

But, as you can see, I've returned. I've returned for no other purpose than that I realized you were right. It's time to let you take this life from me.
Yes, there is a heart and a love thriving within my journal, but its pulse remains there, bound by thread and parchment. I lived in there for months and fostered this great life. However, the question slowly started creeping in. "If I'm growing this heart of mine, then certainly a harvest must be coming. So, who is it that's coming to pull me out of the dirt and rejoice for the fulfillment that I can help to provide?"
I realized I was my own farmer, and I was suddenly swept with despair. How frivolous would it be to uproot myself? Just another unwashed, unmissed, rotting carrot.
It was so clear. I needed a real farmer: someone to whom I can give myself and will tend to me even after the harvest comes.

So here I am blog. It's good to see you again.

(Genesis 2:8)

A Classroom Setting

I

He paints his words on the wall

In Sanskrit, of course

But the students,

They don't seem to mind

He asks,

Why don't you answer me?

And so we answer,

It's because we don't trust each other

He turns back

Gambling and rolling

With jokes and allusions

I do like him, I promise

II

Bangs,

Hiding her eyes from

Smeared remains of chalk and rights

I pray her name to be wisdom

But fear for the worst,

It's shaping out as Apostasy already

Should I learn too much

And find out that

The fluff and feathers from

My dreaming pillows

Can no more help me fly

Than hollow bones

I do like Wisdom, I promise

Dirty Dishes

Scrubbed plans

Sound like dirty dishes

Shattering on my grandfather's floor

With the whole world awry

I turn on deaf ears

And enjoy the view

So, this is how I find you

Perched away from Madness

Seeing you strikes my fancy

Dates, accompanied with facts, crash

Onto the shore of

Imagined passion and white urgency

I suddenly realize

Walks without you only hurt my feet

Growing without you only makes me taller

Loving anything but you only leaves me empty

In my head

You're a dream

In my heart

You're a pulse

But in reality

You're still a silent murmur

In the midst of

Clamorous dinnerware

Baptized in Gasoline

The other day

God came down

For a visit

And burned a whole

In the chair

Kept and Mannered

He tipped and toed around

To observe peoples' doings

Smiled and sniffed

And back up He went

To continue loving

He was too complete

To be contained

In a chair

A Merry Christmas To You

Like any poor college student, I've spent a fair amount of this holiday season just scrambling around for gifts that my loved ones might appreciate. I feel like I have so much that I wish to give to people that I love, but I lack the financial means to accomplish this goal. On every run, at every meal, I've been trying to figure out what I could get people.

And I finally realized that for so long I have not been giving myself to people lately. For so long, I've been off in my own world, and now I'm back home and faced with the realization that I've displaced myself from many relationships that I treasured with radiant pride. It kills me that I've left so much unsaid. I want to apologize for all the lost calls. For all the unsent letters. For the missed shows. For innumerable blank stares. For skipped meals. And especially for unspoken prayers.

I promise that it's not that I've lost emotion or heart towards you. It's just that I was so worried about finding myself that I knew I'd compromise who I was if I bent too heavily to other people during this imperative growing period. But I miss you now. I feel like I've found myself, and I wish to share it with you. I want to know your hidden mysteries with a stronger conviction and sense of wonder than ever before. I'm sorry for seeming so withdrawn, but it's just because I've been shaking the snow from my hair and warming by the fire. But now, I promise you, I desperately want to sit on our familiar couch and share life with you.

So I hope this finds you sitting in a circle of friends, watching old re-runs of A Christmas Story. Or maybe you're sitting at your worn, wooden desk checking up on the world while your dog lays her head comfortingly across your feet. I hope this Christmas season you see past the cartoons on T.V.and through the commercialized wrapping paper. And lastly, I hope you might be kind enough to receive me and my heart for Christmas. Albeit nothing impressive, it's all I have to give.

Not In Love With The Modern World

In my world

I'll draw people

As a collective branch

Clipping away any

Pluralistic, divided sects

I'll slip past

The waves breaking on my knees

And take the long way round

My sleeping Calypso

Because I've lost my straining need

For an enemy

My world, my globe

Formed by no other's fancy

Will blink and yawn

Scattering stardust on the

Restless dreamers in feathered beds

Of warm memories and distant futures

And here I leave you, world

Spinning and steady in my love

Stoically knowing you'll never love me in return

For I only meant to create

And watch as your heart

Tends to its people

How sweet is the smell of

Raindrops pattering on rolling harmonies