The Voice

Give in. Just jump. All I need is your hand for you to fall.

The voice is loud. The voice is strong. But the voice doesn’t know the one memory that pushes me forward every single day. I wasn’t very old, maybe 8 or so. Each summer my family would cram into our small station wagon and drive twelve hours in sweltering, humid, Midwest heat. The long-stretched agony was forgotten, as we drove over the final hill, Lake Superior spread out before us. Any argument, sweat, frustration, or hate built up from the entire ride would disappear in the collective sigh wafting through our tiny vehicle.

One of my favorite places to visit in Minnesota was Gooseberry Falls. There, Papa and I would become the lovers of nature, my mom and brother the tag-along complainers. There, Papa and I faced our demons and learned we were stronger than them. Gooseberry Falls. To a child of 8, the waterfalls were immense, never-ending, massive structures of power. One particular memory is seared in my brain.

Papa had coaxed our entire family to the top ledge leaning out over the highest falls. I remember watching Papa walk to the tiny, crumbling overhang that stretched cautiously over the top of the tumultuous water. Without realizing it, my tiny feet began to follow. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. My heart pounded in my ears and my palms sweat with anxiety. I could hear my fear of heights screaming in my head. No! Turn back! Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. As I inched closer, I began to crouch, then crawl. Closer. I could feel the mist spraying on my face, the wind tousling my hair, coaxing me forward.

Finally, my tiny shoes were even with Papa’s large ones, big shoes to fill. Silently, he took my hand and we both carefully stood, peering over the edge. I could hear the water. Give in. Just jump. All I need is your hand for you to fall. The few seconds Papa and I stood resisting the wild call of the water seemed like hours to me. Eventually, something broke the enchantment. Papa looked at me, eyes wild with power, lips curved in a defiant smile. I returned the gaze. We walked away.

That day, I beat the voice. Today, my look is the same. I can resist. I can walk away. I can live.

The Waltz of Life

She smiles and sings quietly to herself amid the clatter and din of the market. With a basket tucked under one arm and a child firmly in the other, she weaves elegantly through the crowd. Her gown is threadbare yet flowing. The pattern is faded yet bright. Her face is worn but her smile basks her wrinkled creases in youth.

She smiles and sings quietly to herself.

The waggling tongues bear judgment and the pursed faces secretly curse. Yet, the roar of the wind and the sharp taste of salt wipe clean any ill-sent word. The school bell rings, scattering birds into a protesting flurry. Children stream out the front door, freedom just a schoolyard away. Two children dash by her, the breeze swirling her skirts. Beaming faces and bare dirty feet, they glance back as she, with a nod, gives permission. Whooping and hollering, they race to the dock.

She smiles and sings quietly to herself.

As evening rushes over the day, she waits quietly in a rocking chair on an old, sagging front porch. The smell of supper lingers over the air mixing with the fresh, sea breeze. Her husband, worn from a long day of work, steps up behind her, bending down to softly caress her cheek with his weathered lips. A quiet passion exudes from their glance shared. 

The light dims down. The sun kisses the water in a parting embrace. The couple turns to go inside. Silence steals over the shore. The children’s giggles slowly fade into peace and the reassuring touch of the waves set the night to a smooth, waltz. The moon glides across the dark sky, as a lover draws near to long forgotten arms. 

The door to the cottage softly creaks open. She steps out into the crisp air, arms outstretched in a greeting embrace. She welcomes the night with a stolen sweetness. Wisps of hair dance across her face and her nightgown swirls around her pale legs. She smiles and sings quietly to herself.

On a Sea We Sail

If on a quiet sea we sail

And look on heav’nly light

May our soul rest and find due course

As a bird on wing take flight.

If on a stormy sea we sail

The tempests’ vicious land

May our eyes look upward heaven bound

And our fingers find His hand

If on a dancing sea we sail

The birds and beasts comply

May we set our dancing hearts above

And on Him freely rely

If on a righteous sea we sail

Upon a crimson hand

There is no land that calls us more

Than where my Jesus stands.

The Prescription

In a world of numerical data and such
Methods seem a logical way
Add a pinch of this and a dash of salt
And your experiment is well on its way

But puzzlement sits in the scientist’s mind
No theorem assigned to explain
The strange phenomenon of the righteous way
The formula for removing the stain

No system of works or steps could be found
No money could pave the road
Yet still the objective mind works on
Eager to relieve his own load

Confessions and tonics
Tears and clamps
Measurements and heartaches
Theories and cramps
Conclusions and trials
Subjects and pain
Microscopes and studies
And still no gain

I met this man who traveled through life
Weary, he told his story.
“No medicine, no method, no experiment have I
That will let me stand in His glory.”

“It’s funny”, said I in a moment’s pause,
“The object that is the key.
A pair of glasses will clear your eyes
The prescription is faith, you see.”

Defiant Puppet

Do not assign me a value
Do not give me a face
I will not stand for this country
As a quiet girl, so commonplace
My mind does not buy you clothes
My heart will not make you rich
But by God I will be worth far more
Than the economy claims to enrich
I am the daughter of a worthy King
So I refuse to humbly bow
Before this world and their brainless ideals
Not then, not ever, not now
Watch me closely for soon I will be gone
With my generation as we run past
We are sick of being pocket change
As puppets we cannot last
So wave goodbye to this triumphal march
Dip your head and curtsy
I march to the beat of a different drum
Knowing God will give us mercy

Why I am late...

Today my umbrella had an emotional breakdown
And while I was walking down the hall,
The swinging door had a violent attack
And I found myself kissing the wall.

Today my pencil had a mild seizure
And my paper ran away with a rock.
My light fixture had a very severe twitch
And my poor laptop went into shock.

Today my blow dryer got a little love struck
And blew my hair into a tizzy.
My alarm clock slept in till half past ten
And I was late to my date with History.

Today you say my paper was due
And my test was less than great,
But I can say to you with all serious honesty
It’s not my fault I’m late.

Going to War

A warrior can come in many shapes and sizes.
The one commonality; a warrior makes no compromises.
When met with the enemy full of darkness and hate,
There is no pause. A warrior does not wait.
Battle is done with a vengeance and a heart,
But bearing a sword is only the start.
A sword is cut from the Holy Word.
Yet, from the warrior’s mouth praises will be heard.
We journey on not knowing our worldly path.
We journey on full of righteous wrath.
We take a step certain of the final score.
A battle for the Kingdom of God is what we fight for.

Broken Record

All has a reason, a time for every place,
A point to every season, a fate for every face
Human nature distorts, diverts from God's great plan
Evil so deep contorts, inside of every man.
The divine purpose to fulfill, in a manner as meek as a child.
Follow and do God's holy will, not sitting still and idle.
As long as breath still warms your lips, speak and do as your told.
The living water of which we sip, the story is true though old.
This being our path, quite twisted and small, hard to follow it is.
Very few can pass through at all, the door is easy to miss.
It is said for a rich man to follow this road, to give his belongings away,
Much easier a camel through a needle is pulled than a man passing by this way.
Society, therefore, tracking wealth and pleasure, leads down a different path.
Dragging the soul deeper than we can measure, teasing, taunting God's wrath.
Philosophies made to enlighten a fable, to give a purpose, a hope, to all.
Man tries to explain the unexplainable, trying to achieve this but resulting in a fall.
Never can you find the answer you seek, never in society's ways.
But sometimes in nature in what seems so weak, a glimmer of this reply is displayed.
To be an individual, what God made us to be, this is put at the utmost concern.
But in the fall of Rome you can clearly see, the human race just doesn't learn.
Many following this road, the ruined course, of which has been so clearly laid.
Screaming and shouting until our voices are hoarse, disastrous history is made.
Divine beings we were first created, to live with a purpose and plan.
But the perfection achieved is now thoroughly tainted, we do as the Roman man.
The garden in which mankind first sinned is fallen and turned to dust.
Lost sheets of music forgotten in the wind. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Fisherman's Wife

I wish to be a fisherman's wife
And live near the sea
Poor to others but rich in love
Happy and content to be

I suppose that is a foolish wish
That only the wealthy make
Fully blessed, obesely full
Still wanting to take, take

I'd wish my children running barefoot
So they could love summer days
We'd barely scrape by, on God's full grace
Survival not due to our ways

I want to adventure, yet always be home
But stuck in cultured life
Sometimes I see freedom to be
In the love of a fisherman's wife

The Adventurer's Heart

Hush! Her creased, angry lips say
Pursed in a puckered, knowledgeable way
You grin and delve deep inside
The adventure of reading that helps you hide

The real world fades as the story proceeds
To fill your deep, insatiable needs
A sick delight swells up so strong
You are a pirate who can do no wrong

Pillage and ravage, claiming what's lost
Climb the ropes with no care of cost
Traverse on seas so wide and fair
Revel in the beauty awaiting you there

Then shut the book ending the song
A library closing seems so wrong
But tomorrow you will wake in a purposeful start
Roaming until a book mirrors your heart

Secret Room

I live beneath a creaky floor
In the dark confinement below
And hear the creaking back and forth
When you move to and fro

Your moves are secret from above
Your stealth is beyond compare
But your moves are revealed in my secret room
You're moving here, then there

So softly step and avoid the boards
Quiet though you seem
For underneath I know your ruse
And you ruin my peaceful dream

Belovéd

Whispered countenance, quietly restrained
Longing soul ties repressed and refrained
Beveling around the blatant stares
Fearfully caught unawares

Curvéd spirit, devilishly dancing
Bashfully bold and swiftly prancing
Sweeping through the open door
To the meadow floor

Sacred moment, held to pause
Loosened chains and broken laws
She lifts a smile to the sky
Freedom drawing nigh

Alas! Alas! No one hears
The releasing of forgotten fears
Ancient demons cursed to roam
Belovéd coming home

Ode to a Kindred Spirit

A kindred spirit is one in life
Who can touch your soul in a breath
With just a glance erase all strife
And remove all fear of death

A kindred spirit needs no words
She speaks within her eyes
You flock to her as feathered birds
Against any who might despise

A kindred spirit is rare to find
She hides beneath a delicate ruse
Yet, those who see remain blind
Except the friend she may choose

A kindred spirit can come and go
But in spirit she will remain
In the deepest of hearts, one can know
Like song, she returns in the refrain

A kindred spirit, a truest friend.
A delicate repose, the perfect end.