Aspiring Poet, heartfelt thoughts.I have Just Discovered that I can write

  "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom." — Psalm 90:12 Some thoughts begin as a sentence. Others begin as a wound. And some begin in the quiet places of life, when God takes an ordinary moment and suddenly opens our eyes to something we have been too busy to see. This thought came to me with a simple sentence: "There is a last time you will do everything." At first, that thought feels heavy. Almost painful. Because when you really stop and think about it, every one of us has a list of moments that will only happen once. There will be a last time you pick up your child. A last time you hear your mother's voice call your name. A last time your father walks through the door. A last conversation with someone you love before they become a memory you carry. The difficult part is that we rarely know when those moments are happening. Life does not stop and whisper, "Pay attention. This is the last time." There is no warning...

  The Funerals No One Sees (A reflection on the graves we carry, the courage to share our wounds, and the faith that still dances) “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me...” Psalm 23:4  There are some words that sit quietly inside of us for years. Not because we do not believe them. Not because they do not matter. But because they came from places too deep to easily explain. Sometimes the hardest things to share are not the moments when we broke down in front of everyone. It is the things that broke inside where nobody could see. This is one of those thoughts. I wrote this a long time ago, but I never had the courage to share it. It sat quietly, like so many things we carry, waiting for the moment when I was ready to let someone else see it. Maybe that is because some truths feel too vulnerable when they are still close to the wound. But sometimes God takes the very thing we tried to hide and turns...

The Thief We Welcome "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."   Psalm 90:12  Some thoughts are born from hours of study. Others are born in the middle of an ordinary moment when God causes you to see something you have overlooked your entire life. That is how this thought came to me. Tonight, I was talking with my daughter. It was just a normal conversation, one of those moments we often take for granted. But somewhere in the middle of that conversation, a thought entered my mind that I could not shake: Time is the only thief everyone welcomes. The more I thought about it, the more unsettling it became. Because it is true. We spend our lives protecting the things we own. We lock our doors. We guard our possessions. We insure our homes. We protect our treasures. But there is one thief that never has to sneak in. One thief that never has to break a window. One thief that we invite into our lives every morning. We call him Time . We hang cloc...

  "Heaven is filled with people religion missed." That was the first thought. It was not meant to be a poem. It was not even meant to be a complete sentence. It was simply a thought that settled deep in my heart. Because when I look through Scripture, I see something that should humble every one of us. The people Jesus reached were not always the people religion expected. The thief hanging beside Him on the cross was not a man anyone would have chosen. He had no time left to prove himself. No time to clean up his past. No time to rebuild his reputation. He had only a broken heart and a desperate plea. And Jesus saw him. Religion would have seen a criminal. Christ saw someone worth dying for. That thought became the first stone in the foundation of this poem. Religion Sees the Sin. Christ Sees the Soul. The next thought came from something I have wrestled with in my own life. How often do we look at people and only see what is broken? We see the addiction. We s...

  There are some thoughts that do not begin as words. They begin as a feeling. A weight. A question that refuses to leave. This poem did not begin with a desire to write about the church, sinners, or judgment. It began with a disturbing thought: Why do we fear the smell of someone else's brokenness when we have forgotten the smell of our own? Somewhere along the way, many of us have learned how to clean the outside of the grave while forgetting that we were once buried inside it. We know how to look the part. We know how to say the right things. We know when to stand, when to sit, when to bow our heads, and when to raise our hands. We can wear the clothes. We can speak the language. We can even convince ourselves that we are far away from the darkness we once walked through. But underneath all of it is a truth we do not like to remember: We were all once standing in the same grave. The first thought that came was the image of a grave. Not because I wanted to write...

  "The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit." — Psalm 34:18 There is a kind of grief that few people talk about. People expect you to miss your mom. They expect the tears. They expect the holidays to hurt. They expect you to think of her when you hear a certain song or smell a familiar recipe. What they don't expect is that you lose part of your identity. My mom didn't just love me. She understood me. She knew the parts of me that I never had to explain. She knew when I was hurting before I spoke a word. She knew when I was trying to be strong while quietly falling apart. She knew when to laugh with me, when to challenge me, and when I simply needed someone to sit beside me. Most of all... She knew where I fit. That may sound like a strange thing to say, but when someone knows you that deeply, they become an anchor. You never question whether you belong because, with them, you always did. Then one day...

  “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” — Psalm 139:23-24 Where the Thought Began Every poem begins somewhere. Sometimes it begins with joy. Sometimes it begins with inspiration. But sometimes... Sometimes it begins with a battle taking place deep within the soul. The first thought that started this poem was simple: We all have darkness inside of us. Not the darkness we easily see in others. The darkness we refuse to acknowledge in ourselves. The hidden pride. The quiet bitterness. The wounds we cover. The sins we justify. The weaknesses we pretend are not there. It is easy to look across the room and see someone else's failures. It is much harder to stand before God and ask: "Lord, what darkness is hiding within me?" That was the beginning of this poem. Not judgment. Reflection. The First Step: Realizing Every Heart Has a Battle The first...

  "I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust." — Psalm 91:2 There are battles people fight that cannot be seen by the human eye. There are storms that leave no bruises on the skin, yet they leave scars upon the soul. There are wars fought quietly behind a smile, behind a handshake, behind the words, "I'm doing okay." This is one of those battles. What I share here is not meant to be a medical explanation of bipolar disorder or a description of every person's experience. It is simply my story—my journey, my struggles, and the lessons God has been teaching me along the way. If my words help someone feel seen or help another person better understand a loved one, then sharing them is worth it. When My Mind Reaches the Heavens There are moments when my mind feels unstoppable. Ideas come faster than I can express them. Energy seems endless. The world feels brighter, and dreams suddenly seem within reach. It can feel like ...

The Church was never meant to be just a building. It was meant to be a family. "And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together..." — Hebrews 10:24-25 There is a question that has been weighing heavily on my heart: Have we become so busy being the Church that we have forgotten how to love the Church? We live in a world where everyone is overwhelmed. Everyone carries something. Everyone has battles that most people will never see. Yet many people walk through life carrying their burdens alone. Not because there is no one around them... But because no one stopped long enough to notice. The Church Is Not Steeples and Walls Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten what the Church truly is. The Church was never meant to be defined by buildings, stained glass, programs, or a beautiful sanctuary. A building can hold people. But only love can hold a broken heart. "Now ye are the body of ...