YELLOW DOT

In my highest high and my lowest low,

I remained His.

When the songs and sights changed,

And my peril was imminent,

He remained still.

When dark beckoned me

And the time came when I was to be no more,

Heaven trembled with saving grace and shouts of praise.

Sight and hearing fully restored.

I, again, was alive.

Dreaming, and singing, and saying hallelujah,

Back from the dead,

Dry bones stepping into faith and restoration,

Prophesying life, love, and freedom.

In my highest high and my lowest low,

He is, and was, and will be the One, I AM, Sovereign Lord.

HAD

She criticizes. She shuts out. She shuts down.

People irritate her. Family annoys her.

Survivors don't matter. And children irk her.

Opportunities aren't given. Barriers protect.

Hope is fleeing. She lives in retrospect.

Community is exclusive. Feelings make her.

Rejection is to be expected.

And love?

Love is not present, not loud, not visible, not life-giving,

but elusive, costly, and oppressive.

What? Is this the new normal?

The beginning of the end?

Is there a ", but God" in this story?

A miracle? A friend?

Life in abundance? A purpose? A calling?

She wants her name to be Healed.

But Had is what she's been, who she is, and why she keeps falling.

Had knows Help. And Help can heal.

But Had must seek Help's help if she wants freedom to be real.

See, she wrestled with the devil and was given a new name and façade.

This Had was had and had again.

But Had had Help–and Help is Free.

And if Had holds onto Help, Healed is who she will be.

Ezekiel said, "Sovereign Lord, you alone know."

But, Zeke, I know too.

I walked down to the valley, and at the bottom, I forgot whose I was.

In my descent, I watched sin take my tendons, my flesh, my skin, and my breath.

When I arrived, I wasn't living anymore.

I lay in my death for a long time, and darkness was all that was there.

Then, from above, I heard someone echoing "dry bones, hear the word of the Lord,"

And my bones rattled and began searching for all of me.

His voice gathered my broken pieces and I started to come back together.

One by one, bones attached themselves to one another.

Again one body. Alive.

Shame and guilt became dust and were buried under the soil.

And they did not return to me.

Beauty came from the ashes of my former frame.

I then began to walk up the valley following the sound of His voice,

And He began to clothe me in strength and dignity.

The further I walked from the dale, the clearer I could see.

I looked down at my fingers and saw they were ready for battle.

But not now. Not yet.

Instead, my hands held wildflowers and my feet trampled snakes.

I had no fear of the future.

I laughed and kept walking up my mountain.

I reached the top and saw Him waiting with a handful of beauties.

This is when I knew that He was Lord.

And that dry bones can live.

tears streaming down their faces telling stories no one knows.

sorrow, pain, love, and holy longing,

this is what escapes as warm rivers journey down the cracking masks

on my left, grief incarnate begs for peace–comfort seems impossible.

on my right, the faithful servant awaits her reward.

and all around, in this hallowed gathering, the hopelessness of a land oppressed by depravity descends with menacing pressure.

here, where strangers become mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers,

tears flow freely knowing they will be embraced.

so let the tears come.

break down the dams.

let the rivers roar and learn to tell the stories that have no voice.

let their honest warmth continue to melt the masks we fasten before we walk in.

we will see the miracles we are praying for.

our land will be healed.

our lungs will be filled.

And our hearts will belong.

7:04 was not the end; it was just the beginning.

Monday Evening Prayer Gathering

The sun is her confidant.

He dances as she tells her story from beginning to end, over and over again.

Unbothered by the memories remembered,

he hears her story every day as if it were the first time.

He watches her as she weeps at the loss and tries to smile at the victories.

But he knows.

He knows that she is more concerned with the loss,

with its weight and threat.

He never leaves her having not heard all she has to say.

And this is why she keeps coming back.

She trusts that he will be there every day,

ready to listen, to dance with her,

and to give her the warmth no one knows she needs.

^BLUE

I wonder if he thinks about what happened in his office 12 years ago.

Does he remember the things he made that 16-year-old do in the chair across his desk?

Does he trace the beginning of it and land at the blue dress?

Or was it the frailty revealed by questioning her about the self-inflicted wounds?

No. It was her intelligence and maturity. That is what he said.

It wasn’t him preying on the weak.

It wasn’t the novelty of having someone other than the missus [...]

It was all the things that made her so special, so special she became his click.

Does he remember in detail the things he said and made her do?

The first time he undressed her and kept her security.

The first time his strength was frightening.

Does he remember how long it lasted?

Because she doesn’t know if it was a couple of weeks, three months, or two years.

I wonder if he became anxious, depressed, or suicidal.

Or if he trembled when a man got too close.

Did that year change the rest of his years?

Did it mark his life?

Did he cry himself to sleep wondering why?

Because she did. Every day. For years.

But the story changed, and the victim became the victor.

She sat cross-legged, leaning on the same desk where he used to lay the 100 pounds of innocence she once was.

She looked at him and saw freedom. It was hers to take, not his to give.

She used truth as her weapon and forgiveness as an attack.

God was her fortress and her breath.

And like arrows hitting targets, her words split his strength and made him weep.

Tears streamed down his face at the revelation of his true self.

She smiled and felt security settle back on her as she became who she was always meant to be.

FREE

There will come a day when a sweet touch is merely a touch.

My heart, untroubled by love's embrace, will beat steadily.

It will no longer ache with longing or sorrow,

But will cherish love for what it truly is–a birthright and a gift.

There will come a day when I’m whole and well again,

fully restored and full from affection.

Scarcity and want will no longer cripple me.

I will stand anew, aware and grateful,

Confident that I am worthy of what once seemed beyond my reach—love’s gentle, unwavering grace.

Wander With Me

FÉ

PAIN

HOPE

AMOR

Tyra Nicole