The window shade lies when you know what waits beneath.
Severe, light bleeds through—fires, insults through the crack.
Drudging scrapes outside. An unheard beg for a joined and justified surrender.
January howls. A knife. A threat. Months ahead of thaw and hope.
Duty wins a nail-biter. Shivers of gloves—yesterday’s items, still frozen.
The mound, once a trophy, blown back. Shovel the boulder eternal.
This was easier, right? Before repeat was pattern and pattern eternal.
Just new, exciting? Before the fear was familiar and solid, just beneath.
Its routine now, reflex. Work done to be done again. Progress a mirage, frozen.
Sweat, breath, scrape. Yesterday’s salt hisses…pathetic, really…carves a tiny crack.
Across, she waves: “One more time, huh?” Half-smile: “God…I hope.”
She’s done, perfect. Sun-bathed and sipping Starbucks, all smiles. I surrender.
These bitter, rote mornings brew exhaustion, self-consumption. Familiar temptation of surrender.
Tasks cold and simple leave minutes for scars and panics in the name of God Eternal.
Habit slips to sculpted temples crumbled, lost overnight. Demolition of long forfeit love and hope.
To bedrock saints gone ahead, lost to sight— and intentions kicked aside under pulpits piled beneath;
Angel and ghost at once—they haunt and bend legends of providence until they crack.
My God what is lost. Taken. My God, what purpose now left frozen?
“Sometime shutdowns are normal and necessary,” sources tell me. Hold your ground, flash-frozen.
For safety. Preservation. Are hesitations weakness? Wrongs unforgivable? Compromises just surrender?
I catalog faults and fears as daily devotion; any zealot in me long dead of fatal fissure or crack
Countless fights noble, trivial, divine, pointless. Shutdown is safer. Blame easier. Mistakes eternal.
Apathy seldom sprouts regrets or irreversible harm. No about-face, deathbeds, or deficits beneath
Unmoving, unchanging, unattempted—unbroken? Survival. Triage. Better hording remains of Hope.
They trouble me, those Saints. My God, they—Imperfect, lost, hurt, depressed—sowed nascent hope.
My thorn, my drug—self-pity, sinister whispers. Sleep-temptations in a night meadow frozen.
But Their witness resists—both crutch and charge. Legacy, unbending flows with hope, life beneath.
Overwhelming toil, baptized—rises as compassion. Love, sacrifice, hands held against surrender
Yes, my God, our scars bleed—but give me fight for blisters not hollow voice for wounds eternal.
Bathe me in the unconsidered, unthinking, unnoticed chance—horizon’s dawn-beginning sun-sliver crack
We join together, this congregation now and gone. Scarred, hesitant to let façades begin to crack
Take my bluster, ego, rage. We are not so perfect, so jaded, so angry…us. Let us seek a non-synthetic hope .
We fade and fail—hand down casualties, objections, blood and fire. But can also labor for love eternal.
Thank God those saints retell…our story may be told with theirs. In time, in love, in life…strength frozen
Honest. Vulnerable. Exposed. Threatened. Painful. But there lies Christ’s necessary surrender.
Sacrificing, substantial love. Perfection from imperfect. Light behind the shade. Spring, always beneath.
Memories of a thunder-crack…long-awaited cry from frozen Mississippi.
Hope long-ago surrendered to ice ten feet deep.
The recovery—rather, reality—of eternal; the river had always surged beneath.