A Tired Mom

God’s not dead,
She’s just tired
Of all this Hell
We put ourselves through.
It was never meant
To be like this,
The hurt.
But like so many new parents,
She’s still learning.
She’s still growing up,
So be gentle,
Because this
Is new for all of us.
We are all
Making this up.
So, please,
Let go of the guilt
Held hostage
Over your hearts,
Because someone
Has to teach God
How to let go of a grudge.

A God to be Pitied

Ought God be feared?
Or pitied?
To have formed us
In divine likeness,
She sought to love herself.
She tired of being alone.
So from the dust we arose.
And we
Could not make her happy.

So what then is God
If not abdication
And abandonment?
A damning silence
From beyond the stars
Watching our suffering
With such knowing.
Listen,
She is begging
For our forgiveness.

Steady Hands

Dividing flesh from spirit
Requires precise incisions.
Quick and defined strokes
Setting souls free,
Though—
More often than not,
Most, I admit,
Go quite unwillingly.

A Good Night’s Rest

Knocking, Tapping
Against the wall,
Skittering, creeping
Down the hall.

Scratching, scraping
Beneath the bed,
Laughing, screaming
They woke up dead.

The House of God is in the Hands of Thieves

You told me,
To love my neighbor.
You told me,
To live like Jesus.
You told me,
To see with compassion,
To love without prejudice,
To look upon the least of these,
And do for them
What I’d want done for me.
But—
When I did these things,
You told me,
I was no longer your son.

To Make Oneself Known

Maybe that’s the story-

The one we make.
The one we craft
Out of the meaning
We thread together
From utterances
Gathered on the wind.

What magic we carry!
The power to name
The complexity inside ourselves
So that, in some small way,
We might be known.