In Your Eyes

Photo by John Palmer Gregg

I have searched for poetry in every corner of the light.
I have searched it out in the shadows of evening
and in the silver reflections of moonlight.
I have orchestrated and waited for its’ arrival
Often sitting for hours, by candlelight,
Waiting for poetry to grace me with its’ voice.

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Behind the Black Curtain

Original Photo by clickykbd, Creative Commons Usage

I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for the rain to stop. The sound was soothing so I sat there for close to an hour. No one noticed.

I looked at the building, arms crossed. Deciding. It had been a long time since I’d walked through those doors. Could I still call it “my church” if I hadn’t been inside in months?

Church is inside you, I thought. When the rain finally stopped, I went in.

The lights were off in the hallway and the clonkclonkclonk of my heels bounced off the painted concrete floors and thirty-foot ceilings. I almost expected eerie organ music to start playing. It felt like a scene in a horror movie. Probably not the emotion the elders hoped to evoke.

It’s cold. I thought. Cold, big, modern, church. Unfeeling. I’d always felt a bit of that in these hallways or in the classrooms; somehow all alone even when it was full of people. The only place I didn’t feel that way was backstage for the children’s theatre production.

There in the dark, behind the black curtain waiting on my cue, I had seen God. While I peeked through the thick, velvety folds at the faces of the children, he was there. In those sacred seconds stranded between my times onstage I had talked to him. Felt him.

Maybe he was here again today?

Someone had to be working or else the front door wouldn’t have been unlocked, but the building felt empty. I thought of going into the tiny closet of a prayer room, but worried about people leaving and being locked inside the church, setting off the alarm as I left. Really, really, officer, I came here to pray!” I’d say when cops swarmed the building. Would they believe me?

I opted for the “sanctuary.” Our pastor made fun of that word. We’re a rock-n-roll kind of church, not a sanctuary kind of church, but that day it felt like one to me. I sat in one of the chairs in the second row and leaned my head against the chair in front of me and started to pray. It was barely audible. My lips moved, but less than a whisper escaped them.

I remember praying, “God. Please. Please heal Molly. You can. Why haven’t you? Why haven’t you? Have you quit doing miracles? I don’t’ believe you have! Please Lord, I believe, help my unbelief. I need my sister!

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Rooted

Original Photo by Wonderlane, Cropped, Creative Commons Usage

I have largely forgotten the houses I have lived in during my nearly five decades. When I try to recall them, I can usually conjure an image of the home’s exterior: the brick facade, the entryway, the front door. Then I picture the windows and try to imagine the rooms beyond the panes. In the far right window of my parents’ house, my bedroom light shines. Through the large window to the left of the front door, guests gather for conversation in my first “married” home. And beyond the second-story window of my last house, the baby naps in his nursery.

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Knox Writes

Photo from Pixabay

The preferred meeting space for our writer’s group was not available last Saturday night, so we moved Knox Writes to Panera in Fountain City. I texted Adam when I found out about the change of venue on Thursday. “Are you actually going to darken the door of a Panera?” I teased him. “What’s happening with the world?”

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Too Ill to Title

Picture by Leonid Mamchenkov, Creative Commons License

Lord, I’ve been in 100% cotton pajama

Pants and shoddy emotions for three days.

My temperature sky-rocketed. My bed-sheets

Soaked salty around my lower-back and

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Looking You in the Eye

We’re still excited at the success of Echo Hill, our latest venture, and we thought we’d take the time to look into what we’re doing here at Foundling House in the first place, and why we would put together a dinner and concert in which people look each other in the eye, taste delectable food, and drink in well-crafted, truth-bearing art. Also, here’s a great chance for those of you who missed our evening to get a glimpse of what transpired:

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More Than Muscles

“Show me your muscles!” I say.

My boys shrivel up their faces with a scowl, strike a pose, and conjure up their pre-hormone physiques. The experience is similar to that of a Jedi warrior invoking the force.

“Look at those strong boys!” I say as I examine their arms.

Every time, my young men smile back. They usually bounce away with their chests a little higher and hearts fuller. I am too proud for words—with or without notable muscles. They are mine. My sons.

I turned thirty-six last year, and I can subtly sense the creeping shadow of a mid-life crisis looming over me. It’s probably much more about longing to see Jesus face to face than sports cars and cheap thrills. Those things never satisfy middle-aged people anyway, and I’m not interested in that kind of emptiness. Whatever the shadow is, it won’t find me waiting on a couch of discontent. I’m after something deeper.

I’m still asking the question: is the Lord really proud of me? 

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