We use poetry to express something that feels inexpressible, to transform our experiences, thoughts, and emotions into something we can share with others. Poetry often captures moments of beauty and pain, providing the reader with a glimpse into the poet’s view of the world.
~ Rosie Houze, Poetry Editor
In sermons I learned of a Heavenly Father,
Who welcomed me as an adopted heir.
His home abounded with unending love,
But I knew nothing of the music there.
All I knew was the sounds of cracking
As the ground beneath me broke apart,
And the lonely ache of being left behind
When loved ones decided to depart.
I knew how it was to stand all alone
As the house where I dwelled split in two.
And wandering souls poured out
Too quickly for my love to pursue.
I know of family that tears at each other
As blood proves thinner than water,
And weaponized words thrown about,
Until they’ve broken the heart of a daughter.
I know of strife that breaks open the earth,
Revealing everything human love lacks.
And I know of chasms so frequently formed
That I was at home falling through cracks.
Suspended above black holes,
I have been wedged between anger and pain.
But it was there I knew God as an ocean
Of a love and peace my heart could not feign.
God arrived like a song in my solitude,
A voice conversing in my confinement,
A friend refusing to leave my side
Even when the world was out of alignment.
No, I did not learn to commune with the Lord
As a father reigning at the head of a table,
But as a constant companion in my darkness
Carrying the conversation when I was unable.
I am less than the sum of my parts.
Anything more would be a facade.
I mean, to be anything more than who I really am
Would be a fake.
I am less than the sum of my parts.
I am not a native Texan.
I am not a college acceptance letter.
I am not someone battling ADHD and depression.
I am human.
And so are you.
So while I may not understand the things
that make you who you are,
I understand who you really are.
And you can understand me.
Do not look at what makes me who I am.
Rather look at who I really am.
At first glance, this doesn’t seem like a poem about bridges at all. I wrote it a few years back when I was still on the African mission field as an MK. My mother and I had been invited to help the church ladies prepare food for a vow renewal that was happening the next day. We got drafted into peeling and chopping butternut squash that would later be seasoned and roasted. This was big for us, because we had never been included in something like that. We went to the church often, but our main ministry focused on kids. Interactions with church members were mostly limited to the small handful of people who assisted us in the ministry.
Who knew chopping butternut squash could be so fun?! We spent the evening laughing, chopping, and getting to know each other. As we sat around the table that night, I felt like we had crossed a bridge. Not a bridge of cables and bolts but one of culture and custom. We laughed, chopped, and exchanged tidbits of our lives together. The ladies taught us to slather our hands with oil to avoid getting our skin dyed orange (it mostly worked), and we told them about our lives before coming to Africa. It was a wonderful night and remains a memory I will cherish forever. Enjoy the poem!
"Chop!" says the knife
"Swish!" sighs the peel
“Ehe!” laugh the ladies
Butternut will make the meal!
Knives are sharp
Netted bags are full of gourd
Oil slathers every hand
Fingers rap each cutting board.
"Chop!" says the knife
"Swish!" sighs the peel
“Ehe!” laugh the ladies
Butternut will make the meal!
The peelers slice merrily
Empty rinds fill the trash
Shining bowls await the cook
The cubed contents will soon be mash.
"Chop!" says the knife
"Swish!" sighs the peel
“Ehe!” laugh the ladies
Butternut will make the meal!
Chopping, chuckling, chortling
The ladies smile with glee
As soon as the work is over
It will be time for a cup of Bush tea.
"Chop!" says the knife
"Swish!" sighs the peel
“Ehe!” laugh the ladies
Butternut will make the meal!
Once upon a cloudy November day,
Our two paths crossed for the very first time.
Fifteen years past, my love, what would you say?
That love bloomed, wilted—no reason or rhyme?
The beautiful bridges joining our hearts
Burnt down, replaced by these clouded lenses.
Jesus, you see me—broken sum of parts.
Your pure blood running over me cleanses.
But the pain! The sorrow chases me down!
God, am I the bridge I prayed you would rebuild?
So then, Maker, stretch me; my hope is found.
You’ve crowned me with mercy; I’m now fulfilled.
My child, young one of my heart that I love,
Grasp this lesson, and this hope from above.
My life was a ship set sail,
And my future was the ocean.
There I’d go, thrown to-and-fro,
By waves of my own emotion.
I asked not for God’s plan or advice,
But saw only my own intention,
Till I hit rough seas and fell on my knees,
And begged for divine intervention.
With the sky cold and gray,
And my boat filling with water,
I choked on my sin until God swooped in,
And rescued His prodigal daughter.
Now I know I need a captain,
That has known me since Creation.
Of my life’s map, I have only a scrap,
But God knows the final destination.
My ship, battered but not broken,
Is a reminder that when I dare
To take the lead at full speed,
I should instead offer this prayer:
Lord, don’t let me take the wheel,
Whether I am in pain or in panic.
Those around me shudder when I am the rudder,
For my life becomes the Titanic.
Nighttime crashes over us
the setting sun, the rising moon
cold air lacing every breath
the warmth of light has left too soon.
Stars blooming through the clouds
blinking on like car headlights
North Star, Big Dipper, Centurion
my breath stolen by the glorious sight.
Sitting with the man in the moon
I close my eyes and imagine
seeing earth from high above
how could anything be tragic?
Brightest sea, swirling grey clouds
artificial lights pinpoint cities
each dot a million people seen
from this distance all is at peace.
Does he see the calm,
the newborn babies’ sighs?
Does he see the harm,
her father’s empty lies?
As the whole world spins on its axis
hurricane brewing in the east
the birthday party with no guests
does he see only peace?
Is he the peace?
Is he the pieces fallen apart?
Is he the glue to make whole?
Was he the end, or was he the start?
The answer’s hard to find
when you’re only one part of the dot
but to him it’s easy to understand
to him each one is the biggest part.
No matter the distance
no matter the pain
he’s not just a man on the moon
watching us to feel entertained.
Beautiful despite our flaws
we are swirling seas in his eyes
rushing rapids, whispering wind
each one a beautiful sight.
Oh, cold night once lonesome
unlovable, unworthy
people forever leaving, now He stays
despite the darkness, there is peace.
I
remember the Cold Floor.
Right
next to the nursery door,
where
we would sit.
You
would joke.
Well
we would joke—
about
anything.
Something
to escape reality—
well
when we could.
Sometimes
it was hard to joke...
because
the smile that we had was worn
by
the belt of our Dads.
We
didn’t choose to sit on the Cold Floor,
but
our Dads chose it for us.
Little
did we know what our Dads did not;
That
the Cold Floor would introduce us to each other.
That
Cold Floor allowed us to tape our Brokenness
with
each other’s to remain Whole for a moment.
until
the Cold Floor became your warmth,
and
Your smile began to feel again.
It
came from the Man you called Him;
The
Man that I now call Him.
The
one that took us Both off the Cold Floor,
and
led Us out the church doors
To
see the warmth of the Son
through
the sun.
The
Man We called Him.
Removed
the tape and brought us a new heart.
Even
though We are now living our lives apart,
I
remember the smile after that day.
The
one that never fades or gets worn,
But
the one that smiles at those who are torn sitting on the same cold floor.