What God Wants

I spend my life
To figure out
What God wants

What does God want me to be
…to think
…to feel
…to do?

How does God want me to worship
…to live
…to love
…to die?

What does God want me to believe
…to know
…to let go
…to learn?

I keep asking myself
What does God want?

Because I keep doubting
I keep forgetting


All God wants is me
Just me
However I am
However I am not

She just wants me.

My Favorite Prayers

Are You kidding me?
I don’t even believe in You.
Go away!
Leave me alone!
How could You?
I don’t understand.
Religion is bullshit.
Faith haunts me.

Thank you
For remembering me
That I am made but of dust
And you can’t expect much
Of dust
Except maybe
The occasional sparkle
In Love’s sunshine

Thank you
For loving me
Even when I hate You
Even when I don’t believe
You exist.



My heart sings
With the ordinary

I hold his hand
As I wait for Word to load

He watches an old western
Texas Rangers
With the sound turned off
And closed captions on
Because he is deaf

My eyes fill with tears
Because they are tears of joy

No need to water my cheeks
Just fill my eyes
As my heart fills with his love

Nothing extraordinary about tonight
Except everything

As always.

Christmas Eve

Dark-skinned baby Jesus
Lay quietly in the manager
Atop the three year old’s
Mondrian lego dump truck

Wise men watch
Too wise to intervene
In a child’s over-excited

Macaroni and cheese
And sweet potatoes
Insistently eaten after
Boston cream pie
But before the
Made by himself
Cookie dough cake

Crumbled wrapping paper
Carpeting the floor

Neighbors bring
Christmas greetings
And – oh blessed gift –
Their three children

Five adults talk
For over an hour
As four children
Inside and outside

A Christmas miracle
Worth celebrating

Thanksgiving Challenges

To be thankful for:

ToDo lists that never get done
a God I’m not sure is there
the sun shining on dusty furniture
young dreams that never became
wet clothes I forgot to dry
life lived, sometimes well, sometimes not

a marriage betrayed
one time too many

a family broken
in ways that can’t be fixed

friends left behind
when I let life move me on

the winter of life
when the bright leaves have fallen

These are the challenges.
All the rest is easy.

Comfort My Age, O God

Inspired by Isaiah 40: 1-8

Comfort, O comfort my age, I cry to my God.
Speak tenderly to my years,
for I have served my term, my penalty is paid,
I have received from life double for all my sins.

My voice cries out:
“In the wilderness of age prepare the way of hope,
make straight in the desert time of life a highway for grace.
Every valley of despair shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill of discouragement be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of living long shall be revealed,
And we shall see it together,
for joy speaks still to us.”

God’s voice says, “Cry out!”
And I answer, “Do you want to hear my cry?”
All people are grass,
our lives are like the flowers of the field.
We wither, the flower of our youth fades,
when the breath of life blows upon it;
surely we are grass.
Yes, we wither, the flower of our youth fades;
but the joy of our faith can stand forever.

The Simple Truth

Four loads of laundry
Bleach with the load
Of bedsheets
Spot removal
On tea towels, napkins, washcloths
One load after another
Into my washer
With multiple settings
None of which I change

Three loads hung out on
Two clotheslines
Clothespin holder shaped like
A pioneer dress
I feel like a pioneer woman
As I lift the poles
To raise the well hung clothes lines
I feel strong and noble
Like I am personally saving
The plant

But one load goes in the dryer
As I pick herbs
To use in the Italian herb bread recipe
I found on the internet
And am bravely adapting
To stuff the bread
With our own cherry tomatoes
Sautéed in olive oil
That splattered across the electric stove
As I hung out the second laundry load

In the kitchen I killed a fly that persisted
In buzz bombing me
Until every smallest shred of Buddhist
Inclination vaporized
I thought of my Christian images
Of God
As I cleaned the kitchen
While my handmade bread rose
In my oven
With the setting for proofing bread

Some days
Even the simple life
Seems complicated
Much less my attempts
To commune with the divine

I wish I could wish
That I had not killed that fly
But I’m glad I did
And that’s the truth of it

His Earth

The earth itself is his natural element.

Perhaps some god graced his parents
With foreknowledge
To name him Elwood
Perhaps some imp tickled his friends’ fancy
To nickname him Woody
Because this son of a sharecropper
Grew up
Past his horticultural degree
To become a tree farmer

More hobbit than Ent
He understands dirt
And weather
And lifespans

His strength weathers like his trees
His smile blooms like his flowers
His love endures like his perennials
His steadiness nourishes like his vegetables
His generosity flows like his stream
Into the carefully built pond of his friendships

He rests in the sunshine
On the porch he built
As he rests in my heart
On the love he planted there
And tends so carefully
With his gardener’s sure hands
As though I were
His earth itself


I turn into the driveway
Negotiating easily
Thanks to 12 years practice
Between mailbox and side rock garden

I pull the car halfway up the driveway
But can go no further
My way blocked by the pile of sweet smelling
Wood chips
Higher than the car
Filling the top of the driveway
Waiting for our shovels and wheelbarrow
To disperse them
So they become
Once again
Part of our garden
Lying low on our pathways
As their parent maple tree
Once towered over all
Despite the hollowness in its trunk

I pause in the driveway
Sitting in the driver’s seat
Staring at the wood chip pile
In front of me
And I laugh aloud at the thought
Of plowing the car into that pile
Burying steel in wood

I reach for my purse
Take out my phone
That is also my camera
Open the car door
Step out, putting my
Starbucks grande mocha decaf latte
On the roof of the car
So I can take a picture
Not of the wood chip pile
But of the small brave yellow
Blooming amid the rocks
At the side of the driveway
Blooming as if spring
And not autumn
Were just now, just here
Blooming their yellow promise
Of another spring
Right around winter’s corner

Between wood chips piled high
And Sternbergia blooming low
I am immersed in joy.


My head is loud with words
Too loud
Too often
Too many words

(I never learned the knack
Of wordless wonder)

Who was I, do you suppose,
In my mother’s womb
Before words conquered me?

Who am I, do you suspect,
In my secret soul
Where words delight me?

Who will I be, do you suggest,
In my lifeless grave
When words desert me?

Will I be?
Can I be?
Do I want to be?

Without words