O Lord

You are the strong line that holds my ship.
O Lord, You are my unwavering stepping stone.
You are the rock upon which my feet are planted.
When I am afraid you are there,
You are the my light in the darkness.

In my fullest sin you give grace upon grace.
Your beckoning is sweeter than any honey I have known,
You are the fragrance of the lilies and roses of the field.
Before my heart had beat, you forgave me.
Your sons blood became the bridge of my salvation.

Salvation.
What a sweet word.
How wonderful a definition for us, the meek, to cling upon.

In the greatness of my sin I find my fingers reaching for yours.
I grasp ever so tightly to your truth.
You are the way. You are my path.

Where have my epic summers gone?

Where have my epic summers gone?
Where did the fingers on my back go?
Where has that freedom gone that I knew so well?

I miss you love.
I miss you freedom.
I miss you.

Where have my late nights gone?
Where are all the sleeping piles?
Where is the sleeping beauty?

Move but don't move on. Go to the places that you feel called but never forget. Remember the loves of your youth and fall head long into their voices. We love you. We are you. You are us.

Place your pillows at your back and at your stomach and sleep in the makeshift pile that resembles those who are the wild things. Make cakes and knit blankets and kiss the sky that covers you.

When you look at the moon, tell him hello for us and know that we look at him too.

Where have my epic summers gone?
Where did the fingers on my back go?
Where has that freedom gone that I knew so well?

I miss you love.
I miss you freedom.
I miss you.



For Andie.

What Made Decorah, Iowa Famous.

What made Decorah, Iowa famous was her. Men wanted to know her and women wanted to be her. She knitted very well and cared for her sick mother with soup and honey infused cornbread. Her name was Josephine Anne Bennett and she was the world’s most perfect woman. Or so most thought.

Fast Moving Cars.

It used to be pink skirts with dogs on them and black and white shoes. It was a land not so far from here where apple trees were filled with dangling feet and boys who walked girls to doors. Slow moving cars drifted down well-lit streets where intentions were pure and futures read out like crayon filled picture books.

It’s become a bit darker now and the lights have been dimmed and the cars move faster and then stop in back allies or in closed garages. Girls walk from car door to front with empty hand and broken hearts. Flickering love stories play out on big white screens telling stories that can never be.

And now there is a boy in a field or on a rooftop or in a window filled room looking at the stars and wondering where those pink skirts have gone. He wishes that the cars would slow down and that some girl somewhere would let him hold her hand while he walked her to the front door.

And there is a girl who looks a lot like a princess and she is sitting on the steps of her home waiting for the slow moving car to pull up and open the door for her. She sighs and touches her hands together and thinks of how nice it would be for a boy to come along and stitch the fabric shards of her heart back together.