The Wolves in the Walls

Tell them I’m going home
To the dark corners of dusty attics
Where the wolves in the walls
Seem safe
Compared to this.

Tell them not to wait,
That I’ve packed my bags and left,
That the rattling chains awaiting me
Are lighter than the invisible bonds
Of hateful words

Tell them to draw the shades
And quench the light
Shining like a lie in the window:
A flickering counterfeit
Of hope.

Tell them I won’t write,
That the ink has dried
For the last time
Offering little comfort,
No joy.

Tell them I won’t be back,
That I’m happy to go.
I’ll repair the mirrors
And the vase
On my own.

Being Here

What Gardener is it that fills his plot with weeds?
What Author is it that builds his stories on weak words?
What Potter cherishes the broken shards of his work?
What Shepherd chooses ailing lambs?

A scandalous love indeed.
A love for stories
And for songs;
A love that breaks curses,
Saves lives.
A love eternal.

I am learning to follow a leader who goes to dark places to make light.
I am learning to trust a physician who breaks bones to heal wounds.
I am learning to to obey a King who takes lives to save them.
I am learning to serve a master who’s unkindness is love.
I am learning to love a God who is good, but not safe.

I am learning as I run home
To Him.


Why is it that Mondays can never decide exactly what they want to be?

For instance: my morning started very unwillingly with a heavy-handed tap on the snooze button, my stomach upbraiding me  (probably for last night’s red curry), and several attempted excuses to justify skipping my run. However, logic, guilt (and habit) rolled me onto my feet and to the treadmill where I eked out an unhappy two miles, then into the first articles of clothing- slightly rumpled but otherwise clean- that came to hand. But somewhere between the scrambled eggs and the last-minute assignments (and in spite of a stunted attention span) the day has already improved vastly.

Perhaps it’s the earl-grey tea, Max Richter’s score from Testament of Youth, or the happy atmosphere of the Grind–the volume;s steady swells with the arrival of each smiling face. Maybe it’s the pride of completing work I enjoy, or merely completing anything. Then again it could be each of these, indelibly intermixed by the sunlight that comes slanting through the windows throwing shadows across the floor in some sort of elysian perfection whispering “Peace, be still.”

I’m perfectly cognisant of the fact that this could all dissolve again into the foul funk that initiated my day, but I’m also aware of the human capacity to remain content and joyful despite circumstantial temptations to do otherwise, as well as its power to change and control thought patterns.

Happy Monday, all.


There are mornings when the stirring seems as hard as the rise, and there isn’t enough caffeine in the world to tempt any amount of “shine;” it’s so cold that the ink in your pen doesn’t run, but the words won’t come anyway. There are the mornings where you find you must lock yourself in the lav, sit on the floor, and pray for the grace to even start the day.

Conversations drag like weary feet that march their way to class; rooms full of potential negated by dissipated minds more inclined to sleep than to learn.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

But there is also a strange joy to be found in these mornings as well, when the strength to move, to think, to speak must be begged from its true source, and can only be attributed to above. When the “How long?”s are resolved by the bounty and its memory.

Learn to rest here, to eat the food of fiery trail, the bread of tired sorrow. Learn to find strength in the provided bounty of the Lord, and the many ways it is already apparent all around you.



The open window beside me is nothing but inviting.

The drifting smell of wet earth and the way the sunlight plays across the brick patio outside and here, across my table, reminds me of reasons to live. It’s easy to forget in the midst of winter’s darkness that life and light exist, and that they are worth fighting for; it’s easy to allow the overshadowing gloom to trick us into believing that it can extinguish our little candle flames.

But darkness is merely absence of light, and no matter how threatening it may seem, as long as that candle burns the darkness cannot completely overpower, cannot entirely win.

We are children of the light sent to dark places for the purpose of glimmering faintly, exiling the gloomy night however minutely with the single, eternal ember of the salvation we carry. We bear the symbol of hope in that dark world, and it is to this unconquerable light that the lost are inevitably drawn.

So shine on, dear ones, with the little lights you carry.
Shine and remember that the darkness cannot win, that somewhere there are still waters and sunshine, grassy slopes, fields of peace, and vaultless skies of perfect blue. And when the misty shades of night seem endless and bleak, hold fast to the hope that those fields are our home, and that eternity there will be so much sweeter, so much longer.

Shine on.


A sense of turmoil in the gut,
A knotting of the heart,
And a sense that this too is

A room,
A window,
A desk,
A chair,
A page,
A pen;
The world.

To write is
A paper cut,
Bleeding ink.


I wish I could make you see that
Even in silence
You are a music
Lovely to hear.

May I apologise for my blindness?
For my failure to hear?
For the irrevocable redness of your (forever lidded) eyes?

For the ache I failed to fix.
For the wounds I can’t stitch.
For the stains that will not wash.
For the final, heady rush.
For the voices dying with a dying fall
And the silence in between.

For lingering,
Arriving late,
And only knowing
How much you craved your sleep.

An anchor at work is rarely seen,
But always felt.

When I open my eyes
Screwed tight against the blackness of the dark night
I see you there-
A table and a feast-
In the shadow of the rift,
At the enemy gates,
At the end of myself,
At the foot of the cross.

In the shadow of the valley
Broken bones may still rejoice.

I want to be the rain;
On just and unjust alike,
Loved by some,
Not by others,
And yet
A sign of life,
A source of renewal,
A mark of hope,
A promise of love.

How strange a thing it is to be broken,
And better for it.