On Plato and the Cave

Called broad of chest, yet broader still of mind,

The gadfly’s pupil in Athena’s town,

He, seeking truth beyond what shadows bind,

Shows us a picture. Down he leads us, down

Through gloomy grottoes; there, bound inmates name

What shades they glimpse, for such is all their sight:

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Your Final Warning

As I watched my dad walk into the gas station, I rolled the window down to enjoy the sunlight.  I was basking in the rays of the summer sun as a car drove by very slowly. I don’t remember the face of the driver, but I will never forget his eyes; they were filled with lust as he stared at me from his car. In reality, the encounter lasted only a couple of seconds, but the image of his eyes lingered in my mind. The thought immediately crossed my mind that he must not know who my Father is. I wondered if those eyes had made other girls as uncomfortable as they made me. I wondered if he knew the transforming power of God. So, I wrote a poem to him and others like him; it serves as both a warning and advice. 

Your Final Warning

You look at her with pure lust in your eyes

But soon realize she is not what you expected.

She’s not broken, weak, nor neglected

But supernaturally protected.

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I Am Not a Gardener

Photos courtesy of Nancy Elizabeth Wentzel

“I am not a gardener,”
I remind my husband
As we scroll through endless photos
In search of our first house;
After eleven years of wandering the country
like vagabonds, pursuing useless degrees in
Math and science
We’re weary of apartment confines,
Heavy with another baby on the way.

Every house I view seems palatial;
The extravagance of our own home, our own yard
Leaves me not very picky about the options in our price range.
We should be close to the college
And Nate wants a yard- a big yard, fenced and level,
For the children to play.
“We should have goats, and bees,” he says
As we drive around rural Unicoi County.
“I am not a gardener,” I remind him.
“You’ll have to do all the yard work.”

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Mother Charity

Photo by John Palmer Gregg

Charity, great love,
is the love of my mother.
Agape. Selfless.

ἀγάπη
Worlds forever change.
Situations are as tides.
My mother is constant.

ἔρως
Eros, romantic,
is a love of many lusts.
Temporal pleasures. Venus.

στοργή
Storge, natural,
widely diffused, emotive,
finds dependency.

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Free Indeed

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.”

Galatians 5:1

A couple of weeks ago I watched a video that was circulating in some of the circles I used to live in, and while I watched the video I felt fear and anxiety come flooding into and over me. Waves of panic broke at my throat. What if I’ve been wrong? What if the whole world is going to hell in a hand basket? What if there is separation? What if we really do have to do or believe something to bridge that expanse? What if I’ve been breathing too easy? What if I I’ve been too free?

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Gethsemane: A Poem

Loving a broken person has caused me pain. I lament for what could have been; for them and for me. But love forgives again and again, since ‘love covers over a multitude of sins’. And the source of my love is not myself. Love is not that I have loved God, but that he loved me and sent his son, the true vine, to lay down his life for me.

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.

Abide in my love.

John 15:9

Gethsemane

Only after the precious jewel was taken hold of,
thrown to the ground,
shattered and skittered,
was it gifted to me,
and where I would have polished
and velvet-encased, until death’s release
I gathered shards, cutting skin.

Blood dripped and cried out,
witness to another’s
loveless hands,
and my task seemed impossible
but for you,
my willing Lord.

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