Not Home Yet

Walking in shadows, occasional whispers of light remind me I am


in Him

inadequate, but on the path to home.

The yearning, the longing, keeps doubt in check—


somehow, hoping that

someday what we partly know will be known in whole—




The here seems material, the then so far off; and this shadowed world, so full of souls and stains would break even the strongest, if not for the


the gracelets,

the glimpses of the intangible, leading us from discomfort to discovery

and home.





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Recipe for Joy

via Recipe for Joy

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Recipe for Discouragement


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2 parts resentment

1 part pleasant façade

A dash of memory

Mix well.

Add 3 parts criticism, sliced and diced (optional)

Sauté in a broken heart and mind.

Slowly add equal parts shame and guilt.

Fold gently. Let settle covered overnight . . . or longer (The longer it rests, the more potent it becomes.)

In the morning, beat in enough sugar to cover the bitterness that has risen to the top.

Bake in individual tins. Take one, share one, and freeze the rest to take out when needed . .  or not.

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A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly


Bits and pieces,

simple strokes here and there

with power to slice to the heart, to dismember and wound,

power to elevate to the skies, to swell dashed hope,

locks to bind,

deceits to blind,

keys to free and give life,

simple strokes that change the world.

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The Peace That Doesn’t Come

I swallowed up your fictions, building great thoughts and paradigms on them to support the framework of my soul’s integrity—because
I thought they were true. Really true. Truer than the dusty time-tested, grime-infested mores of another lifetime. Rusty religion.

And why not?

Everywhere I looked, the narrative thrived, as those in power connived to reel in the more, the many, the misled. Those in university demanded my allegiance and my reason. Media demanded my modesty and my shame. And the more connected I became, the more infected—yet still alone. The more I embraced plurality of thoughts and values, the more I felt this swirling nothingness of the all crowding out the any,
and the new flourished, silencing the drumming and thrumming of the old, what all people have always known—that there are true trues
and right rights, and

the fight is to cling to those when delusion and evil conspire, but
I swallowed up your fictions, wallowed in illumination,

waiting for the peace that doesn’t come.

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The Wounded

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

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We are the wounded.

We are the ones whose histories have been rewritten,

critiqued and re-configured,

pushed through the grids of others—

those who think they only see clearly,

those who see themselves as somehow in control of perception,

of truth.

We are the wounded.

We are those who bleed from the strikes of accusers, as well as

from self-inflicted gashes

from poor judgment and bad choices.

And here we stand, geared up for a marathon, but crippled,

expected to push on to the winners’ circle, but wounded—in need

of another to carry us.

And He was wounded . . .

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A Henri Nouwen Quotation

A p r o n h e a d -- Lilly

The basic meaning of care is to grieve, to experience sorrow, to cry out with [ .. . . ]  We tend to look at caring as an attitude of the strong toward the weak, of the powerful toward the powerless, of the haves toward the have-nots [.. . . ] Still, when we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand.  The friend who can be silent [ . . . ] is the friend who cares.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Ambience #2

The wagon I used for the weathered shot, I used here, too. See it is degenerating more and more as we speak!

(Interesting that I am not allowed to post pics on this blog anymore since I filled up my space, but when I reblog from my other blog, they are reblogged to this site. I wonder if they notice I am apparently breaking their rules! 🙂  )



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In Black and Light


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A candle to push back the darkness, but the tricky thing is

that as light comes it burns,

burns the imperfections away–ashes left behind.

Can I not have the illumination without the pain?

The process?

If I could have light without burning,

I would,

I could, but

fire doesn’t work that way.

To my mind


to my black heart


Light of the world, come.

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Happy New Year


img_1031-copyN ow has accelerated through another day, another week, and

E very moment I thought I had left has evaporated into yesterdays

W ith unfinished to-do lists and unmet obligations.


Y et with this new beginning, I take a fresh look and a fresh breath, which reframe what

E ach new year can be—a chance to forgive, to forget, to dream big again, but to

A ccept my limitations in the context of what is possible. With

R enewed hope and a prayerful heart, I face what can be in this New Year.

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