#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.

#64

I'm going to mourn with you, sister,
And pray for a miracle bigger than
The sad circumstances of your story.

There's a candle at the Communion Table,
The holy altar within our home
And I'm praying for your soul's eternity.

I'm praying for your surgery, sure,
And the relationships intertwined in
Your home I can't understand.

My very being longs for you
To find the Family of the Saints
And the True Lover of your Soul.

I mourn your baby never born
And pray this tragedy
Brings your entire household home.

#63

How to listen to
those with no voice?
Quiet your mouth,
your soul,
your endless idol of productivity.
Stop and
look around.
Is everyone in the crowd
around
more like you than not alike?

Venture to the places you
deem dangerous,
for there you cannot
help but hear Wisdom:
She cries in the streets.
Wisdom is a woman,
even the wise philanderer scribed.
Wisdom is being silenced.
Lies are louder, more comfortable
more welcoming.

And yet,
your comfort and easy road
lead to death.
The crying woman is trying
to tell you of a better way,
but if you judge the skin she wears
you will not hear
and you cannot listen.

#62

In January 2019,
 our son created a game we still refer to as "bookshelf".

He systematically removes each book from the bookshelf. It's pretty simple.

I use the present tense because he's playing "bookshelf" right now.

Tonight, he reorganizes our theology shelf.
The dining room floor is covered with stacks of
hymnals, Bibles, commentaries and the like.
The made-sacred texts of different denominations mix in with educator self-help stories. Ancient classics piled with the freshly printed.

Luther and Nouwen get cozy in one stack.
Claiborne, Keller and Augustine in another.
But even then,
our book shelf is mostly stocked with the ideas of white men, living or dead.

It feels like the world is playing "bookshelf" right now,
with sermon notes and receipts flying out all over the place
and craving the words of the unheard.