A Pilgrim is, according to Eugene Peterson, a person who spends their life going someplace, going toward God, and whose path for getting there is Jesus Christ - the Way, the Truth, and the Life (John 14:5-6). Another definition calls a pilgrim a traveler in a foreign land. 
When I journey through seasons of dissatisfaction the clouds blow in and the storm seems dark and unbearable. In those moments everyone disappears. I'm desperately lonely, uncertain, stumbling through the days with tear brimmed lids. It seems that nothing can go right; I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time, working the wrong job, and hasn't it been forever since my last blessing? Since last I received affirmation for my efforts? Nothing I do can put me in the right direction. I've exhausted my passions to set things right, turn things around, and focus myself. But that's not what this was ever about. A pilgrim will never know her way through this foreign land. This is part of the journey, no …


Sometimes all it takes is one dream. Reminding us of where we've been.  Where we are.  And to where we will go.  Just one dream,  from a restless sleep.  That's all it takes sometimes.


Growing is rarer than not at my age.  It is intrinsic -- unnatural, however the adverse is almost always true.  But THIS, this is nearly obsolete.  A thing only I can incur.  They don't believe it's possible,  for if they did they'd do it too.  Or perhaps they don't know there's something else.  Not something else, something better. Better is calling.  Are you the best?  Your best?  I mean, if you are, why in all of God's creation did you stop here?  Nobody deserves to settle here --  call it quits right here.  I run to escape this anarchy. Stride after stride.  Lost thought after lost thought. I can't recall the why after shouting the what  all day, every day, each month, for so many years.  I run to collect my thoughts -- design them -- then call them mine.  For every mile is one mile closer to toward the stillness.  I can barely remember that tranquility now,  it's as if it were a faint dream. lost by the light.  Still I run, chasing the light for wh…


Mary, run -- that king wants to kill your baby son.

Run, Alien, run
These days of our open arms are done.

Peace on Earth, Peace on Earth!
Good will to Men.

Run, Black Child, run -- that man has a badge and he has a gun.

Run, Schoolyard, run
We just gave that angry man a gun.

Peace on Earth. Peace on Earth.
Good will to Men.
Good will to Women.
Good will to Children.
Good will.

--The Brilliance

the packaging

The first day of school is right around the corner and I doubt our education system. With every passing year the organization and scheduling becomes easier and more defined. The outline of our curriculum becomes stronger. And our boundaries are more blunt. I doubt this is the best. Actually, I am convinced that this is worst thing we can do for our kids. We teach them the right ways, we keep them from the wrong ways, and we manipulate their thoughts to be like ours.

"Think outside the box!" We demand, but we provide examples and books on how to think outside the box.

"The sky is the limit!" or "Shoot for the stars!" But what's beyond?

"Use your imagination!" And they ask, "What is imagination?"

What we really mean is, "Here are the boxes kids, now package all your thoughts into these boxes. If they don't fit, manipulate them until they do, transform your thoughts and ideas to fit into these boxes of our society. Then crea…

When the stitching tears

Stitched up tight is how things should be.  Tenderly mended,  Even doubled-up over time for an extra strong stitch. Sometimes the strings come loose.  They rip out when there's a pull on the fabric. One side of the seam is pulled, while the other is yanked in an opposing direction.  This is when the stitching tears. The material shreds; the thread breaks.  Now there is neither material, nor thread. How can the stitches be replaced?  What will keep any material together now? I wonder if stitches can ever be remended.  Oh, what it would be like to have some stitches now! How much love we could hold in our pockets,  if they weren't ripped out.  We could hold the love,  and it would bind us closer. How close would we be bound?  I can imagine, one day, we will.

This space

Blank space is so intimidating after a long stay in the un-blank.
It's been a long time since an empty blog post stared me down.
I know it's needed. I've been expecting it,
But now it's as if there's this unspoken void,
Like an acquaintance, our journeys are nothing similar.
Yet, so complimentary,
But I'd prefer to avoid those facts.
It's like peeking into my old cave,
Seeing some old, forgotten remnants,
Feeling some long-lost emotion.
The art - left on those once blank walls - is hardly recognizable,
Such dark depictions, now a blur.
So I meet with my acquaintance,
Since we have so much in common.
Then I'll clean out the blank space
To create a place I need now.
Next time we meet,
I predict it will be peaceful.