This morning I woke at the farm


This morning I woke at the farm.

I read DeMello and Rohr and Mary Oliver. Copied some words down so they might cement themselves into my understanding. 

A letter to myself began: “Remember, Christa…”

I found a hidden place on a stone bench to stare at one particular branch blowing in the breeze about 25 yards away. I stare and stare and stare, listening for earth songs and the heartbeat of the Beloved. He can spill a universe of love into my soul with just His eyes. The trick is not looking away...

(Read the rest of this piece on my Patreon page + watch for more prose and poems there...)

the trouble of listening

Screen Shot 2015-02-03 at 1.05.04 PM A bit of context?

When we adopted our son, we gained a sudden sensitivity to the well-intentioned words that manage to nonetheless sucker punch a parent's heart.  Things like, "So that one's adopted, and these are your own?"

In the wake of a miscarriage or divorce, you heard things like, "Well, at least you're can always try again...".

Other times you weren't the one in the difficult shoes, but you were close enough to feel what another human felt when he/she was dismissed, overlooked, humiliated or rebuked, and suddenly you're appalled at all the missing-the-mark things that have come out of your own mouth.

The antidote isn't to stop trying, but to keep coming close and straining your heart & mind toward that of your fellow humans, to really listen, to make small steps toward understanding.  Straining to see & hear God together.

THAT is what it means to love your neighbor.












Love is a pilgrimage through sunlit hills and dreary forests and across roadless deserts, with companions who carry vastly different kinds of luggage and often can't even agree on where to the pitch the tent.

Some of my favorite traveling companions are skeptics, wounded faithful, and unbelievers (cue "All My Favorite People" by Over the Rhine), and right now coming close to them means taking a look around from their vantage point for awhile.  I want to hear them out, and I also want to understand my own perspective in truer context.  So that's what my brain is doing these days, and you know what?  I'm experiencing some frustration.  Spoiler alert: that will likely come out in my poetry, songs, and conversations from time to time.

Sometimes you have to pry yourself out of whatever emotional/intellectual/theological armchair you've gotten so comfy in, if only to cross the room and put your arm around someone you love.



the trouble of listening

(a poem)


I sit in the parked car and listen to the voice of my inner man,

Louder than wind whipping the glass

Louder than the spinning wheels of suburban traffic

More brutal than the signage of strip mall storefronts

So bassy and persistent I can hardly believe passersby aren’t rubbernecking

Wondering at the ruckus

And the lady behind the wheel, still and staring.


Some days I am prisoner and warden,

The man in striped pajamas climbing barbed fences

And the armed guard yanking him back down by the waist of his pants.


Is it okay to admit it? That I sometimes want out?

That I want all mouths, including mine – mostly mine – to shut?

That if I could, I’d take what’s “mine” and leave the rest?


Would it be alright with you if – just for an hour or so - we

Box up the trending phrases and memes

Discard assumptions and studied answers -

Quietly walk by the tracks like we used to do

Knowing they lead


But having no earthly idea where

And not even thinking to ask


Because once

We were there

We were really there

And the grass was dead, the trees leafless

We had no phones or cameras or soundtracks

Only cold Virginia wind

Our own shivered breath

As we killed time,

Lived, together

In the singular, unremarkable moment


Now there is duty

And the backspace button

As if all the world’s salvation hinges

Not on his God-ness

But our goodness.

Not the sound of his voice

But mine.

As if my humanity may accidentally, irresponsibly,

Tumble out,

Remind you of your own.


I’m talking to myself, of course,

The weirdo at the wheel.


I’m neither cynic nor melancholic

But today I hear our chatter through my skeptic brother’s mind

And see through the heavy-lidded eyes of my grieving sister.


What I see are filtered photos and

Smiling pairs of eyes that subtly avoid contact

What I hear are framable arrangements of words

Around well-set tables, with no open chairs


At the moment what I know best is that we know less than we think we do

And may be more terrified of uncertainty than of hell

And that sometimes certainty saves us the trouble of listening.