A Mother’s Day

Every night, I collect too many glasses and set them in the sink. (I know what it’s like to be thirsty and not have a cup to fill, so I count each one a blessing.) There are more than enough cups and glasses for everyone here, in this place of refuge where thirst is quenched: Home.

And so this nightly ritual of cleaning the counters, so that I can experience the fullness of waking up with a clean slate (only made possible by a spirit of gratitude)-it has become a comfort to me outside of these moonlit…


You cannot unsee hate.

Though it’s an invisible concept,

It becomes an impenetrable shell

That visibly embodies us

The more its existence is denied,

Instead of being acknowledged

And released.

We are left alone with it,

Becoming fossilized impressions

Of lost potential.

These tangible missing links

Are the incomplete stories

Of how humanity devolved

To become something unrecognizable —

A lifeless seed,

Dormant with possibility.

You cannot blink away hate, like tears.

Tears are composed of what makes us human.

Hate doesn’t

Become one with the heavens

To rain down healing.

It pulls us deep into the dark, underground,

Sometimes we forget…

Remember when

You said I wasn’t good enough

Because I was born to an unwed mother

(The one you judged before hearing her story?)

Remember when you threw a stone

To destroy a woman who was already destroyed inside,

And I rescued her and you by rolling an even bigger stone away?

Remember when you turned my temple into a for-profit business

And I got angry, because I’m non-prophet Savior? I came to pay the debt of the broken, not profit from corruption.

Remember when I washed your feet with my own hands, before dining beside you…

In This Time of Substitute

Be still and know that I am God.


There are very few things we know. Most of the time, getting to the place of knowing or certainty requires taking a deep-dive of faith, first. We hold our breath, prepare for disappointment, maybe, as we go under and into the unknown, hoping to find something worth preserving. Truth beckons with a question, because it is the answer; it is a pilgrimage leading to a holy place, which is itself. You arrive there, but where do you begin? Where you are, where God meets you. He…

Our story is buried beneath the cover of our aging skin. We are in the process of becoming leather-bound; think of how our skin ages on its way to securing the storied pages of who we are. A cover is just a shell; we gild it in gold with our grooming, hoping others will give us enough time, to love and read us. But “nothing gold can stay”.

When was the last time you felt whole while glancing in the mirror? How much hope is there if you cannot look beyond a distorted reflection of what used to be?


Joining Winter

Behind passing storm clouds, the steadfast sun is shining

As Winter’s voice cries out, cold but inviting:

“Come in!” it beckons to those on the outside.

Wrapped up in fear, longing for safety, they hide.

The warmth of winter must be found

Inside a stillness that’s been crowned

Queen of hearts, within heavy souls.

There, among stones, it will glimmer like gold.

Winter’s journey is long and sparks a shiver.

It waits for a seeker to receive and deliver

A message that requires no translation,

Like a formula with a familiar equation.

The answers you seek on cold…

How To Thrive (As a Mother)

Back when I wanted to gobble up my youngest, because legs! These days were hard and the nights were sleepless, but I miss them and the baby mullet!

I really wanted to use a similie and expletive in the title, but I’m working on my language because that’s my weakness these days. I used to be a true-blue goody two- shoes. (And yes, I’ll admit that I struggle with cursing more now that I’m a parent! Not out loud, but in my head. Thankfully my kids can’t read my mind…yet!)

That said, parenting is…

It is in the shelter of each other that people live. -Irish Proverb

We are on a pendulum that swings to extremes. On one end, we believe we don’t need anyone, so we detach and swing so far the other way that we convince ourselves we are no longer needed.

Death takes this an an invitation. How quickly it moves depends on whether we choose to take our last breath, or spend the rest of our lives gasping for air (forgetting how to inhale and exhale in the rhythmic way that makes us more similar than different).

We believe that…

For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.

Cynthia Occelli

Somewhere in Colorado, my new home.

A seed requires optimal conditions for growth, doesn’t it?

Don’t the seeds of our soul require something similar?

I just moved from the Texas Hill Country, where groups of wildflowers seem to sing louder than the ones who stand alone. Their beauty is distracting, so it’s easy to lose site of the road while taking a bumpy ride along unpaved farm roads. Who…


I was me


I became what you wanted me to be.

You wanted to see You in me:

A few shades lighter.

An opinion that is quieter.

One that only speaks English louder.

“Speak clearly,” you said.

“Forget your native tongue and get ahead…”

“But not too far, don’t get ahead of me!”

“You don’t have the right to walk beside me.”

“Stay a step behind, in fact — make it a few.”

“And if you don’t then we will make you.”

“If you take a step too far

We will put you back so that you are…

Sophie Ancer

I didn’t like the book, so I kept the cover and changed the story.

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