Sock Feet

Don't cry little Sock Feet.
You pick up all the lint left over from parties and things-
confetti and crushed flower petals
You're not hidden
not a hermit crab with crampy legs
you chose socks though your feet hurt
shoes can't feel the earth like feet do
What do you carry on your white cotton fibers?
Why do you chose to walk through the dirt?
Don't you know you'll get holes in your stockings
and bleach doesn't get dirt out.
Careful little Sock Feet
Careful where you tread
In the yard there are sand burs and crab grass
In your search for dandelions to blow prayers into the wind
careful little Sock Feet
your soles are very soft

these days

this is the season of me not having much worth saying

this is the time of contentment
after thirteen years of fruitless striving

these are the days i enjoy being silent
and look forward to my quiet treks to school

these are the mornings i wake up
and eat breakfast with dad
before the sun rises
and though it's the same routine
as three years past
something about orange-juice and morning talk in the dark
hasn't lost my anticipation

these are the days i look forward to
as i fall asleep around ten

it seems these are the happiest days i've known
maybe ever
although nothing really special happens

these are the days of learning to listen
to the Voice that i want so much to hear
and of wanting to pray
and being at a loss of words
and being okay with that inadequacy

these are the days i wake up
and instead of expecting to be lonely
just expecting to be alone
and believing, for once,
my heart can still be fully happy that way

these are good days
and for this

i'm so very thankful

En los zapatos de una persona sin techo

Yo soy la chica con una corazon por personas en dolor.
Yo pienso donde esta mi chica especial.
Yo escucho lost suspiros de personas sin techos.
Yo veo el banco en el parque, el banco donde yo duermo.
Yo quiero una amiga que me ame.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

Yo pretendo que yo soy una pilota y yo vuelo en lo alto del mundo injusto.
Yo me siento contenta en el aire.
yo toco los nubes y lluvia.
Yo me procupo cuando las personas solamente piensan en ellos.
Yo lloro cuando yo recuerdo que yo no tengo familia.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

Yo se Dios es bueno.
yo digo que mi Salvador tiene paz para mi.
yo sueno con tener una casa.
Yo trato de tener paz.
Ojala que yo viva una vida buena.
Yo soy la chica con el corazon destrozado.

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This house.
Yes, she lives here—
The one with curls of mousy hair
The table in the parlour, there,
Has but three oak legs
Yet it stands and
There she writes
And thinks all sorts of things
Outside the window sill bloom
Poppies in the spring
They bleed crimson and ebony
And sip the watery sunlight
After the rain has moved along
That’s when she likes them best
In the peace she slices cheese
A Fontina sheer and sweet
And places scales of this joy
On crackers made of wheat
How peaceful here
In this house old
And quietly alone
The dark wood trim
Is carved and thick and stained
With semi-joy
It is the ideal place to be
For none but she owns a key
And simple as the magic seems
It is her place of rest

Hello Again, Fear

The little girl closed her eyes, feeling the curve of the couch cushions that supported her, sagging and clammy like pancakes that are left out all day. Sleep tugged at her. Then, the flick of a shadow. Her eyes flipped open, and she froze.
I still remember that night, remember the abrupt introduction to fear I experienced. I recall my imagination racing, tripping over itself as sleepless hours trudged on. Years afterwards, I asked my mom about that night. She claims she never saw anything, but I was convinced that I saw a black hand slowly emerge from a potted peace plant resting on a side table at the foot of our blue upholstered couch.
We moved often when I was growing up. Every two or three years we would pack up and haul off to another Midwest state for my Dad's residency or training to become a doctor. My family was stable through all of this; I was not. I was an only child for six years until the addition of three siblings. I had a difficult time discovering and sustaining friendships because of my selfishness in my only-child years and my isolation that resulted from being homeschooled. My mom and dad were my constants, my supportive pillars, but another move and middle school toppled my temple with Samson-like force. I rarely strayed from the confines of my stable bubble, which propelled me to depression because of my deep yearning for friendship. Though my relationships with both my mom and dad were very strong, I felt trapped like I had a perpetual itch to traverse beyond the boundaries of my dwelling and was unable to do so. My parents decided it would be wise to enroll me in a few classes at the local middle school for social contact. I was terrified and feared failure. From then on, my initial reaction to any new experience was one of panicky anxiety. A few years prior to this time, I developed a nervous habit of pulling my hair out. Heightened by additional stress, my destructive habit became obsessive. My eyelashes and eyebrows disappeared, and my hair thinned and became bald in different areas. I fell deeper into self-loathing sometimes wanting to die, always wishing to be beautiful or disappear. In my insecurity and sheltered naivety, I continued to struggle finding like-minded friends or any friends at all. Fear grew discretely, hiding behind my broken awkwardness.
I remember a girl inviting me to a Cardinals baseball game. I accepted, giddy that she wanted me to accompany her, but panic hit me like a meat hook, as I realized that I was going to drive two hours away to watch a game in a stadium with thousands of fans with a girl I barely knew. My parents would not be there to protect me. What if I got lost? What if I got sick? I tried to go to sleep, but the panic was overwhelming. I broke out in tears and ran sobbing to my dad who was reading his email. I pleaded, begged him to call and tell her I could not go. He tried to assure me that I was over-reacting. Short of breath with tears cascading from my eyes I begged and begged. He remained indifferent, knew I needed to go. I slunk helplessly onto a chair, exhausted and shaking as waves of nausea rose and fell over my body. The next morning my friend and her family arrived to pick me up at my house. I took a deep, shaky breath, hugged my parents, fought tears at the thought of never seeing them again, went to the game, and quite enjoyed myself.
Middle school finally withdrew. I flushed depression and ADHD medication with it. My hair grew back and I became relatively normal. We moved, once again, and I took the opportunity to polish up my first impressions and project Confidant Karin. Regardless of my fresh canvass, old problems lurked silently beneath the smooth surface of my heart.
Darkness. I only knew I was not alone for the bold voices offering up intent prayers to the Lord or explaining a fresh vision or word from the Holy Spirit. Shack Church. Twenty teen and college youths crammed into a metal thirteen by twelve house we lovingly dubbed "the shack." Lights off and hearts surrendered, we were a growing bunch of dripping passionates zealous for the heart of the Lord. "Guys, when he was just praying, I saw a demon behind him. It's gone now." With these words from a young woman in our group, I was introduced to the other half of the spirit realm: the forces of darkness. I panicked. Shaking, sobbing in the blackness. I was not even fully aware of what had set me off. It took several minutes of prayer from faithful friends to give me back my composure. I was freshly alarmed. Months later, sitting at home alone, my lights on in my bedroom and completely safe, the sensation hit me again. I could feel them around me. Demons. I was in the middle of my floor, too frozen to even crawl into bed. I just cried and rocked back and forth, sensing that I was surrounded, feeling very alone and more fearful than I had in a long time.
Whenever I confessed my growing distaste and struggle with my problem, I felt shrugged off by all "normal" people. They always told me I was too emotional, that I "just needed to trust God." I did trust God. When fear came, I would speak his promises to myself, and pray scripture, but it did not remove the fear. I knew there must be something terribly wrong with me. I shut down and continued to cry out to the Lord.
One of the hard parts about being a Christian is struggling with something, knowing that you have been given the authority to overcome it and still struggling. I knew the verses. I knew the Lord was with me and had not given me a spirit of fear. I knew my fears were irrational, that I had authority over fear and demons. Yet time and time again the hairy monster returned. It was not until a couple months ago that I was reminded of some important equipment I had been ignorant of using. Acknowledging my stronghold, I sought out the wisdom and prayer of a Godly couple I respected and trusted. I explained my problem and desire to be set free. The lady responded gently, "We had a friend who underwent a similar situation--feelings of vulnerability to the kingdom of darkness. She began to put on her armor verbally and wear it by faith. I would encourage you to do that whenever you get up in the morning, and when you're feeling susceptible to fear. We'll also pray for you."
It had never occurred to me that I needed to put on my armor. It made perfect sense. I was in spiritual warfare, and the enemy had an open target. Yes, I had authority and ammunition, but I was not wearing adequate protection.
A few nights later I sensed fear skulking around my heart. I began to pray against it in Jesus' name and prepared for war. Remembering what had been suggested to me, I began to summarize Ephesians 6:13-17. Lord, I equip my feet with the readiness that comes with the gospel of peace; I put on the belt of truth and the breastplate of righteousness. I put on the helmet of salvation, take up the shield of faith, and unsheathe the sword of the spirit.
I slid my cell-phone open and squinted as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light, "9:53." I lay awake as I had so many nights before recounting the events of my day. It was dark--very dark. I tried waving my hand in front of my face, scared myself a little and chuckled at my childish foolishness. My mind skipped over to the night's condensed blackness. What was lurking unseen in my room? There it came again, my old foe Fear. I strapped on my armor and began to pray. I was not paralyzed! I turned over in bed. That wasn't so bad. I silently gave thanks to the Lord for his goodness rejoicing for this small victory. I noticed redemption slowly replacing old habits with freedom. "You are good," I whispered as the peaceful heaviness of sleep accompanied the joy in my heart. "...put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.." (Psalms 130:7)

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There is no song as true as that which the heart sings.
No path more unfamiliar.
No sorrow but its own.
For it will feel, and so may carry, the pains of those it loves,
yet, none can feel its potency but the owner of its key.
No heart and mind are the same.
Similar ones are found and cling to each other,
yet each has its own parcel of trinkets
and thoughts it alone holds.
No one can fully know the heart of another—
with exception to its Maker:
He who knows the hearts of all.

confused days

Evanescent frills of wispy sensation accompany a sip of lemonade.
One of those perfect days.
The ones that have an identity crisis confused between summer and fall.
The trees are just freckling with tints of cider drippings, as
I muse from my hammock of twine.
The birds are more timid this time of the year;
they bother me not.
Their fledglings eloped from the roost.
Only cardinals meet to spar over berries,
as they usher in the arrival of The Chill.