Early Morning Feedings

You're sucking on your little fingers, all but two of them are curled under. Your tiny and quiet breath is my alarm clock--my heart has grown its own pair of ears, it seems. Nothing and no one else in the room stirs.

No cries just yet. You're bundled up comfortably in a pink blanket, my little caterpillar.

The streetlight creeps in, gently shedding light on the baby powder scented strands of fine hair that are starting to curl up on their own.

At my bedside, I can reach for you now. Before, you were a prayer away and I only saw you with my eyes closed.

It's 4 AM. My eyes feel tired and dry, almost sore (they open for you, anyway). They used to feel this way for other reasons.

I know joy now.

The Beggar

I'm usually the beggar instead of the giver; asking God for more with an ungrateful heart instead of offering what I already have, the little that can be used. I'm still learning that it's when I've given myself over to him, weaknesses and all, that I can receive the greatest blessing.

What good of me is there to give?
A failed attempt to change or
the change, in my pocket?
A few quarters and pennies?
I have more than that.

My head knows what it means to bow
but, truly, only in fear;
reverence is a place I have not arrived at.
Trust is weakened with my plans.

I
look up only to ask
and other times
I
forget WHO is there.
(I
don't always say thank you
because
I
Usually ask why?

...I, I, I instead of
You.)

You will give
When I have given
More than I have offered or sacrificed.

I've lived my life in alphabetical order:
Me comes before You.
But You ask me to break the rules of convention,
Open my heart to only you and
an intervention

where

holiness replaces all the holes
and fills me with
You,
Then I will have enough
because
It will be your
love
I'm
giving.

Peace

Building is

tearing down a foundation

made of the uneven ideas we've collected

to hold ourselves

up.

Falling down

to our knees, that is moving

forward.

Walking confidently, we trip.

I've walked so far, there are blisters on my soles.

A blister on my soul

growing smaller in the sun, my goal.

Permanent scars on my palms, not nails.

I arrived at the major crossroads

When I abandoned myself at the fork in the road,

Giving up the heaviest load.

The other day I was thinking about how much I used to like writing poetry. I still enjoy it, but now I only write a handful of poems a year. Writing used to be more of a cathartic experience for me, but I think I focused too much on the negative. These days I write when I feel thankful or grateful for the way things are, and the way I've been blessed.

Though it might not sound like it, this is a "happy" poem. I don't usually break down my poems, but feel it's a good idea to do it sometimes, so I'll do it now :).

To put it simply, this is a poem about God and growth. So many times we think we have all the answers. We get caught up in ideas and theories that don't offer us very much hope, when we really think about them. As a result, we develop a blind confidence that doesn't become evident to us until we're hurting. But it's when we cry out for help that we're strengthened. This is what the first stanza suggests.

I've done this many times, like the second stanza says. Scars? I definitely have those, I am human after all -- no godly nails on these palms (last line). The blister on my soul represents my weaknesses. The sun? The light, God. The only one who can strengthen even the weakest of souls.

The major crossroads? The cross and everything it represents. That's where I rest my heaviest burdens.