For Grace

Posted in Love So Radical on February 27, 2015 by lovesoradical

Dear Georgie,

I wrote this for your 16th birthday, and then was too nervous to show it to you. Poetry is my experiment, not my gift, but I re-discovered this poem tonight when I was about to throw an old notebook away and this fell out of it. So happy (late) birthday. 

<3 Your favorite sister. 

you leave me in wonder:

you, the she-wolf who cares so fiercely,

the rowdy kid who taught me to value peace.

your hands are charcoal and stardust and watercolors,

on that soccer field you are poise and skill (and elbows),

but your heart I cannot describe,

because the only word I know is



Posted in Love So Radical on January 29, 2015 by lovesoradical

She asked which you were,

the birth or the death,

and I thought it strange,

because you were both and neither:

It was your raw palms that took a Sunday morning,

a few nails and the splinters of your sacrifice

and united Bethlehem and Golgotha.

Image Bearer

Posted in Love So Radical, Poetry with tags , , on January 29, 2015 by lovesoradical

He birthed the world,

His lungs scattering dust

the way trees scatter light in the forest.


The stars burned in His palms,

the galaxies trailed behind His fingertips,

but He chose the smallest image bearer to carry His grace:


dust, rib, breath.


it was good.

Even Then

Posted in Love So Radical on October 20, 2014 by lovesoradical

There are a dozen red roses in the trash behind your house,

and the phone in your hand buzzes,

but you do not answer.

It’s all wrong, when love works backward and undoes you,

and even the air in your lungs begins to feel toxic.

Dear one, the scars that roses left may swallow you whole,

and night will still be night,

but I think you will find that, even then,

grace will still be grace.


Posted in Love So Radical with tags , , , on October 6, 2014 by lovesoradical

You seem surprised, the way winter is always surprised by spring:

But when the sky splinters above you,

with rain and rain and rain,

you have not forgotten how to dance.

So how is it that you have never thought to ask what it meant

when the rock beneath your dancing feet was as solid as a promise?

Still, you look at me strangely when I tell you this mystery:

the water I wash with is a red bleach, life is a death I seek to die,

and the path I follow ravages my reddening feet with each step I take.

Oh darling—did you forget?

Love was never tame.


Posted in Love So Radical with tags , on September 30, 2014 by lovesoradical

“Show me a miracle, Lord,” I shout, my voice rough with sorrow.

(Minneapolis bleeds under my feet, and

my preschoolers tell me, wide-eyed, that hope looks like a lion).

I clamor louder in demand of an answer, afraid of silence.

“Show me a miracle, Lord,” they shout, their voices sharp with impatience.

(Galilee bleeds under their feet, and

the woman, the one they turn away from, anoints his feet with perfume and tears).

They clamor louder in defense of their laws, terrified of this outlaw.

“Show us a miracle, Lord,” we demand, our voices sharp as nails.

(Calvary bleeds under our feet, and

celestial splinters litter the ground of this wild, wild hill).

We clamor louder, as if we could ever shout down the still, small voice.

“Show us a miracle, Lord.” 

(but the answer bleeds under our feet for three days straight, and

when the veil tears in two, top to bottom, we are terrified to the core, because)

“I am.”


Posted in Love So Radical on September 23, 2014 by lovesoradical

The wine runs out, they tell me.


You will run and run and run

in pursuit of passion and life and more, but

always the wine runs out.


And it’s true.


It is vanity, chasing after wind,

and every good fight that I have ever fought ends when

the wine runs out.


But tonight the Nazarene’s wild eyes look to me,


and the scars on his outstretched hands are a roadmap

pointing me to the cosmic wedding in Cana,

where the wine runs out,


but the water for washing runs on,

red and red and red.


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