There is a trust . . .

There is in trust a writing between the lines.
I trust you, but that trust expects an outcome acceptable to me. My blank slate of surrender has a lot of smudges around the edges—things like “Don’t make it hurt,” “Let all end well,” “Let love be stronger than hate.”
There is in trust a whining between the lines
that holds hands unclenched, but my heart is hidden behind my back with fingers crossed.
Is there a kind of trust without the small print—Yours and mine. A trust that knows I and my loved ones and my cares are in the arms of Someone not only able but willing to do what is good—
no matter what that looks like.
There is a trust, and I am learning and yearning for it.

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My Book of Uncommon Prayers: Willing To Be Defeated

I used to be cocksure,
willing to trample fragile souls for the sake of being right. And
it hurts to think I was so unlike Your sacrificial kindness, so unlike Your bleeding, selfless truth.
May I be willing to be defeated to win one. May I grow accustomed to embarrassment to at least appear humble as the pride prickles are chiseled away—one by one, by weary one.
My kingdom looks ever dim in the bright hues of Your shining presence—and may all see You
in spite of me.
If I would feed on Your words more than I feed on my need, I would be so much more nourished
with life to give.

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There is a line . . .

There is a line in the sand, and I dare not cross—
but funny thing about sand and funny thing about lines,
they wash away with beating waves, leaving a skimming reflection where surety used to be. So maybe instead of lines in the sand, I should head into the surf and just ride out these waves.
But some days I feel more infidel than faithful.
When the press is great and rescue far off, help me not to fail
but to fall
into You.
Without You, I will sink in the undertow and be lost.
Are Your arms bigger than my sorrows, Your view wider than my narrow vision, Your heart tougher than my doctrine, Your compassion deeper than my loss, Your love hotter than my tears?
If there is a way that I must walk, can it be a yes-way, a water-walking way—a path of fullness and yeses.
So often I walk in these in-betweens, chained to an accumulated load that fills my soul with the hollow No.
Piercing doubt, filling, spilling. Knocked sideways. Sinking in the swells.
But I am ready for the Yes, Lord, not a way that seems right,
but is right.
No variance to the right or left, but straight-ahead trust
to joy, unspeakable peace, unbreatheable, that just is.
When the press is great and rescue far off, help me not to fail
but to fall
into you.


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S ensing the need to feel
I mportant, –> that thoughts, actions, and
G ifts really matter, not just in the big scheme of things,
N ot just ticks on nature’s timepiece,
I ntertwined with myriad others, who
F ashion a purposeful life, a fanciful life, going somewhere–>
I t is inbuilt, this need to belong, this feeling that
C reation matters, that we matter,
A nd that I as one lone voice matter,
N ot just as a cog in a
C osmic wheel–> but as imagio deo–
E verlasting because He has given me significance.

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Window Shopping

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

The son through the window is just a prop, not the subject of the poem. :-) The son through the window is just a prop, not the subject of the poem. 🙂

There are those who walk on by, not willing to sample the wares,

not willing to enter in and be a part;


when they look in our windows, they see disheveled shelves (or is that selves?),

grudges, priced to move quickly,

beautiful window dressings covering dirty, bitter hearts.

So they walk on by; and so would I


these are supposed to be



bride; but

it seems kingdom life is under self-rule, and

bowing down happens only on Sundays, sometimes.

And we wonder why there is no revival, why our truth-telling is ineffective.

Ah . . .

but it is effective,

and that’s why the world just walks on by.

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Furious Words

Words, words,

analysis, paralysis,

and the real needs of many

are displaced and replaced with swirling,

ever changing,

news coverage.

Money spent,

reputations rent,

as all of these Solomon moments,

as all of these vacuous comments

suck oxygen,

abandon needy.

Words, words,

agendas, careers,

all being built and / or destroyed

while bridges crumble and enemies rail–

imbecility, futility,

furious words.

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A Sunday Rose

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

400 - Copy

With fire and form and bursting light,

life unfolds its fragile strands

to live and breathe

and die to live again.

399 - Copy

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Known by many but known by few—image, identity, purpose twisted together, carnal and spiritual, an alienating stew,

feeling just as alone in a group as alone; and I thought

You would be enough, but . . .

The rants and rails of pundits are as unsettling as personal attacks. It is just like with lawyering where winning is more important than proving what is true. And

strangers take sides, and friends take sides, and what takes shape is a pulling and a tearing, and

I feel caught in the middle with no solution,

no resolution, and all of this when I thought

You would be enough.

And playing church stopped being an option, but I thought being more real would have less pain, but

the ragged edges of human spirits with or without acceptable doctrines is just as bleeding hard as playing the game and hiding the differences behind smiles and “God bless you’s,”

skirting round the edges of maybe relationships, and here, I thought

You would be enough . . .

But my need bumps up against inability to change how people feel, how people act,

how and whether people care—and the weight of emptiness haunts me in the night when I search the ceiling for release,

for answers, for a place to belong, and

I pray that with all of this,

You will please be enough.


Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you. ~I Peter 5:7

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Simple Goals

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

I had simple goals as a child:

I only wanted to be famous and change the world.


I realize with any and all accomplishments, my real goal should have been to change myself—

or at least place my life in a position to be changed.

What good is a song,

a poem,

a story,

a photograph, even if it gets recognition,

if the singer,

the poet,

the writer,

the photographer

wears the same old shabby faith of yesterday?

I have simple goals as an adult:

I only want to be changed into the child God wants me to be.

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Oh Sole Mio! ♪♪

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