#68

 When every life matters,

Strangers find their way to your dinner table.

The conversation takes you to

daughter's middle names and

stories you can't quite understand

instead of questions about using.

My place is not to turn you over

to the deputy patrolling the neighborhood,

rather to really listen.

If you say you're hungry,

we'll find some snacks for the road

and if you're willing, we'll set a place at the

literal table.

That's how the Savior of us both

chose to dine without reservations.

Sister, I mean it when I promise to pray

and hope to meet you again in eternity.

#67

 It's too much.

This underwater rollercoaster,

Trying to fly.

My skull is caving in as my brain explodes.

There is no good option,

Only versions that are less bad.

The world is on fire and I'm drenched

In the samesame of inequity

Just like those I try to help,

Only a little less.

It's overwhelming.

It's consuming.

And the nightmare keeps unfolding.

#66

#65

When I talk about our son,
I refer to him as "our son".
I don't say he is "my husband's son",
even though that's true.
I don't call myself "a father's wife."
That would be unnecessary.

So, why do well-intentioned women call themselves
 a "pastor's wife"
or a "church-planter's wife"?
Because the male-centric church
considers women as second-class citizens.

We let our very language
decide our value
instead of listening to
the value awarded
by the Creator;
the value restored
by the Redeemer;
the value empowered
by the Counselor.

My husband cannot plant a church
anymore than I can plant a family.
We plant tomatillos and sugar snap peas.
We plant native shrubs to
keep our hillside from crumbling.
But if the Church grows in our neighborhood,
Scripture is clear,
it is the working of Jesus Christ.

So as I strive alongside
my husband and son,
sharing the Good News with everyone,
we watch our words,
the wellspring of Life.