Creations

And so I ask you, my dear reader, what do you love? What do you fear? And what are you doing about furthering your love and decreasing your fear? Stop and answer these questions. I am not here to give you an answer. I am unable to listen to you, for I am not directly present. But if you really did ask yourself these questions, I have accomplished something: I have asked you questions that are not asked every day. And you can return here to be asked those questions again and again. That is the beauty of literature and writing. We are always here. You may change, as well as your loves and fears, but we will always be here, ready to ask these questions of you over and over again.

Does love, then, break down the distance and force conversation? Or, does love give space to cope? Is there space in love? Is this a 'wild' part of love, the angst of distance and time? Though crude, I compare seeing her with eschatological hope. I know, in the end, we will be together. I groan with frustration. I cry, 'How long, O love? How long must I bear this burden?' I know love is patient. I need more of this love. I need to be with her.

This one word is both my greatest weakness and greatest strength. It is the thorn in my side, yet it also helps the scales fall from my eyes. It is the great divider, yet also the great equalizer. It is a source of conflict, yet a source of conversation. How deadly is this word, this curious word... The joy of learning, yet the pain of not knowing. The many truths it can reveal, yet the many truths it can break down. The bridges it can build, yet the bridges it can burn. Who can answer this question, that seems so infinite? My God, My God... Why...?

We've all asked you the question, in one form or another: 'Who are you?' The prayer begins with: 'Our Father...' But, the meaning of this word is vacant because the one who was supposed to give it meaning to me was absent. Is there something I can relate you to or will you always be so far off in heaven? Or will you give this word rebirth, new meaning, new life? My old father has gone... Are you the One who is to come, or should I expect someone else?

Talking with you, sometimes, is like walking through fire. Sometimes it burns, but it quickly heals. You always walk with me through this fire and it burns you, too. But I always come out Refined. And burning for you more.

The father sat on his porch His tears dried up But his face was still twisted From unresolved remorse "All that work, all that time," he thought as the day turned to night He put away the food and ring And turned out all the lights He had read the story so many times But this was a different story to be told Sometimes life is never easy as a story Sometimes, the prodigal never comes home.

The Text

'My God, My God Why have you forsaken me?' Said the man Crucified On the tree I climbed down From this oak Wondering, 'My God, My God Why have you loved me?'

I'm afraid to approach altars Because I've never worn white I've skipped all my weddings For honeymoon nights All my clothes were torn My evenings became cold But you bought me a new dress Whiter than snow

Sheep, Wolf, and Shepherd

'It hurts that I love you'? By your tone, did you mean: 'I hate you'? 'I just can't be around you and...' Sigh Maybe I have this backwards...

My child I remember Your very first steps in the garden where you wept to the cross where Pneuma left to the tomb where you slept My child I remember Your very first steps When I spoke the word “Resurrect”