The trees are dancing. Rustling their fingers in the wind. I sit on a bench outside the library, and they hang their long arms down around me, letting their green finery sparkle with just as much dignity as a class of kindergarteners whose dried pasta necklaces, strung together with yarn, demand glee and celebration and joy.

Yes, you are fancy. Yes, I see you. Yes, you are some beautiful, glory-clapping trees.

Ordinary? This day? No way.

Just miracle.

Here. Here. Here.

In the presence of beauty, I feel the tension within me. Tension to feel—too much, too little? Oh, this aching world. And he knows. He knows.

While countries battle and people cry out, what is the response? Does the heart rise up and forget to cower? Does it choose to feel and not be overwhelmed? Does it trust the hope of God, his goodness in face of evil? Does it believe praying can be a light, can be an engine that mobilizes? Does it entrust mighty Love to move?

Oh, Father, I believe you move.

In the pages of this story, Lord—make us see the miracles you are writing. Let the truth of your character—your goodness—stir us, guide us. Let us be the children who are mobilized—by your beauty, by your goodness, by your love, to lift our hands and pray.

Lord, we will move. Lord, there is hope in you.

In a poem, tell a story about tension you are feeling. Tension between doubt and desire. Or discord and dreams. Give your heart space to express it deepest whispers now. What is it feeling? What is it saying?Listen close. What words can you find to say….right now…what is true?

Please share it below, as a comment, or with the lovely women at Loop Poetry Project. Click right here. I can’t wait to hear from you.

Love,

Jennifer

Inscription

Not one place can tell the story 

holding me captive here. After all, 

this book has pages not yet 

read. But I want to believe

they are beautiful ones,

the story-telling beautiful,

the characters (or just me) 

captivating and believable to 

you so that when you read

it (how I love that you are reading it)

you will know me–your mark upon 

these pages making you smile because 

the story has been yours all along.