How Can You Tell?

How can you tell who the right God is?

How do you judge between ‘religions’?

If there is only One God, (and there is)

How do you discern it?

Through love.

What’s the greatest emotion?

What makes us give our very lives away?

What turns the world dark if it disappears?

Look for the God who loves the most, to tell.

The One who loves so much, He wants to be loved back.

Imagine an angry god, running the universes.

Why would you even exist?

You’d have no rights. No joys. No place to hide.

Or imagine a god who creates and then forgets us.

A vast lot of emptiness floating in space. No, thanks.

We crave love, because He loves us.

Because our God, although He has the full range of emotions,

(He made us in His image),

He chose to be the God of love. He originated love. He IS love.

Love is what motivates Him, always.

Jesus gave us two commandments.

To love, and to love.

(In order to love Jesus, you have to believe in Him, right?)

Love Him, the King of Kings. Most, and first.

And then, love your neighbor,

And, just to cover all the bases, love your enemies.

Anyone tells you something different about Jesus,

That person, or devil, is lying.

The devil puffs up sin, and says,

Resist the God of love and choose, anything else.

But why, resist love?


I’m a Last-in-Line Warrior

I’m a last-in-line warrior.

I woke up late for roll-call.

I was the last (slightly chubby) jogger to limp across the finish line.

When I arrived, my armor wasn’t hooked in the right button-slot,

And I dropped my lance with a crash which caused the real warriors to look my way and shake their heads.

The Lion of the Tribe of Judah paced by to inspect the troops, on padded, stately paws.

One majestic eyebrow rose as he passed me,

But for some reason,

He let me join the army anyway.

Comic relief?

But I’ve been practicing my roar.

Why, The Flower

We’re like a flower that springs up, some people say.

A flower that grows beautiful for a time.

We can even put out a sweet fragrance.

We can be useful to decorate the room, or mark a special day.

For that moment, our existence seems justified.

But then, we start to wilt.

The petals get tarnished and brown.

Our flowery heads, drop down in weariness.

Finally, we fade away, according to some, except our seed,

Might live on to influence the world for a while.

Without God, this is all it comes to.

Beauty, weight of intelligence, fragrance of talent, useful purpose.

Without God, does any of it really matter?

But, With God, existence makes sense.

Reason must have a reason.

Beauty and fragrance call to someOne deeper.

He values us. He sees us a beautiful, long after the mirror says otherwise.

When we die, praise Jesus, we don’t turn into ash.

We go home, if we believed and took the hand of Jesus.

Heaven is a beautiful, sweet-smelling place.

Filled with God’s love and His creatures, proving joy has meaning.

A flower’s first existence, is under the earth.

Everything is dark, and there’s dirt everywhere.

This seems like all there is.

But, when we accept the salvation of Jesus,

We leave that underworld place, and burst in Heavenly bloom.

Only For the Adventurous Hobbyist

I once knew a person, or more

Who came to God, gave Him a lot of energy

Pursued the subject til becoming an expert, and then

Got bored, and moved on to the next, nifty, hobby.

The issue with the concept of getting bored with God

Lies in the assumption a person could ‘master’ the subject

Without focusing on encountering the Master.

Once a person truly fell in love with Jesus,

How sad it would be if they left.

For if He can’t satisfy, the Source of all life and love

Nothing ever will.

Wildflower Heaven

Maybe I’m for a gentle-fields kind of Heaven

With rolling hilltops in view,

butterflies and ladybugs, and friendly, inquiring honeybees too.

The weather has scents in the balmy breeze,

For wildflowers wink and spice,

Stands of tulips, fragrant roses, bring color-walls

For the houses of bunnies and mice.

Ponies, grown horses come to visit,

Me with a closet of twirly dresses,

I’m a child waiting for children,

Dance wearing daisy-chain tresses.

For we know our most special guest is coming,

For whom our hearts delight and cheer,

We laugh at the joke for of course,


Rise and a Call

I finally wrote something, after a very long writerly dry spell.

A tiny toddler stands on the slimy cobblestones; alone it seems.

It was the 90’s, or the 2000’s.

Around the child a storm began to rage.

We, the parents, were at church. Little paper cups and treat trays.

But we left the back door open and our toddlers felt the wind.

A cold, stenchy hand crept in with a crooked finger pointing down.

And they, like foolish children do when they look for another light, followed.

All these years later, the world has changed.

Bombs that once were distant, rattle the church walls.

The garish windows reveal less of us inside.

The party ended sometime, and there were no funds to pay the groundskeeper.

Paper cups are lying sideways in the gutter.

We, the parents, have lost the innocence in our eyes. We’ve seen too much.

Millions of aborted babies on our shoulders.

Rape, drugs, suicides, mental illness, loss, Loss. LOSS.

The enemy advanced. Our Bibles got sneered at.

And now we realize, where are our little ones?

Our babies were kidnapped.

Childless, we weep. Deep aching cries to our God.

We step outside the filmy church walls.

The landscape is filled with wreckage.

~~ —————————– ~~

No more, we declare.

This isn’t just about a stolen election.

~~ —————————————— ~~

A fake religion sprung up with a powerful grip.

It provided a momentary piece, of a puzzle.

Made up of bits of tarot cards and dreamcatchers, and diversity posters.

The fake religion allowed all forms of non-Christian god, or no god in the belief system.

A shiny storefront of a build-an-idol workshop on main street.

As the black battle turned into a storm, the blood-orange blasts revealed glimmers.

Of a pseudo-god with no power to save, since it didn’t exist.

~~ —————————————— ~~

We, the gray ones, our hair-color turned because of the horrors we’ve seen.

Now, finally, we’re getting mad. Determined.

We’ve sharpened our rusty bayonets.

We squint to see without our glasses.

We look around for young warriors who could fight with mightier yells.

Still, fight, we must.

Casualties are everywhere. Enslavements.

Now is the time for the real God to step in.

On the skirt of His robe, clings His ragged, older, knob-kneed waifs.

Tears stream down our cheeks. We grieve for our lost children.

We ask forgiveness we didn’t fight better back when we were strong.

And the real God pauses in His march.

He wipes the tears from our eyes and picks us up to ride on His shoulders.

Aged soldiers gain our feet, with more strength left than we realized.

~~ ———————————————– ~~

A tiny toddler stands on the slimy cobblestones.

Bombs are falling everywhere.

Cold gales, icy rain, darkness in all the movies, books and games.

Most don’t even have enough income to rent an apartment by themselves.

Dreams of what to be when grown up, are a thing of the past.

Some begin to see; an evil hand has almost destroyed everything good.

‘Rise up!’ this is barely heard.

‘Rise up!’ scratchy, old-sounding voices call.

The way to win this war is to return.

Turn back to Jesus who died to save you long ago.

Turn back to the God of your fathers.

Of your mothers.

Put your armor back on.

Get saved.

From consequences.

From war.

Then wear the helmet of salvation, like safety on your head.

Strap on the truth of the real God around your middles.

Step into big boots of the gospel of actual peace.

Forgiven, you wear the breastplate of righteousness.

Holding up the shield of faith, nothing can level you anymore.

And, our only weapon, the sword of the Holy Spirit. It’s enough.

On the dark, war-savaged streets, warriors arise.

They are unexpected.

Light breaks through the chinks of their armor.

Behind them is a vast, angelic-type, warrior host.

God has answered the feeble prayers.

He will always come.

But the children we ache for, have to want to be saved.

God never forces us to fall in love with Him.

Rise up!


Be loved!


Globe Alight

Imagine the globe

Earth sitting on a table; spinning

You sit beside it, face glowing in its light

Imagine the speed, a thousand times,

Faster than actual time.

History whirling, each important deed

Flashing by like a spark.

Moments are delineated you don’t expect,

For the measurement of flame is love,

Kindness and sacrifice.

War is blackness, a brief sludge of battle,

Scarring the globe.

Murder a pinpoint of ink.

Each life goes too fast to see,

Smiles forgotten; passions too common to color,

Except, in France, or Rome or Native America.

Big, important history. When one person

Died to save a group. When love triumphed,

Evil was driven back.

If you stared at your spot in the globe,

And watched long enough,

Would you see your mother’s love?

Or your own, bright contribution?

Now look, back and forth in time.

To when, Jesus Christ came.

Like thunder beginning in the West,

Of the ancient and scoring beyond,

The East of the End.

Once you saw that flash,

So big your eyes hurt,

The globe obliterated with light.

So long, it’s still going on…

I’ve Been Clogged

Flowers, Ornament, Decoration, Floral Design, Floristry

I remember being 9 years old, and it was the birth of the 70’s. In Kansas City my mommy was exploring her different sides. The country was challenging the status quo. People were wondering how to become ‘free’. Jobs, and responsibilities, old-time values, and wars we didn’t want to fight, were shackles.

How amazing everything is when you’re 9 years old. I was just about to be introduced to Narnia, and a lifetime love of reading. I saw the world through the safety of my family’s lens, yet I was absorbing so much. My oldest brother and his explosion of music, of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Bob Dylan, and Cat Stevens. My mother meeting a lot of sash-wearing, long-haired, folksy people and bringing me along: I caught the nuances of their feelings, the way they chased sunlight, and craved ankle skirts in bold colors, and danced barefoot. One of these was a young mother, with a baby, who’d just been born again and told me about Jesus. She taught me to serve Him free. To take out a verse from the Bible, and find it exciting, like a jewel meant just for me.

One evening my mother took me to an old Kansas City building somewhere. Or maybe these memories I’m about to relate are an amalgamation of experiences my child-mind jumbled together. But I think there was old wood paneling wrapping the walls inside this building, smelling caramelized in beeswax. A carpenter-built stage four feet from the audience, with dancers in flowing, hippy skirts. Bare arms and sashes, wound through and braided in their hair. They did a dance called ‘clogging’. It swept me away, for I’d never seen anything like it.

‘May the circle, be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by, there’s a better, home awaitin’, in the sky, Lord, in the sky’.

These words were sung by guitar players and drummers in a simple band, and expressed by dancers, pounding the syllables into the warm, dark-brown floorboards. They weren’t a famous pop group. They weren’t up and coming. It wasn’t about that. They all felt the heat of this atmosphere, of the swirly world of bright colors, longing to burst out of a person, like freedom.

There’s a verse in the Bible that says this: ‘The Kingdom of God is within you’, or, as is more correctly translated, ‘in your midst’. Meaning, it’s Jesus. He’s here, in the middle of everything. He’s here.

We haven’t felt free lately. We can’t go and dance together, holding hands. We’ve been clogged. But Jesus has given me a lifetime of freedom, and a future home waiting for me.

Down deep inside me, I can still find that child I used to be. I can sing and hold His hand. I can pound the floorboards with my faith. I can hope God will give us more time. I want all my friends, who don’t know this peace, to come. Jesus’ hand is outstretched. He loves us all. Believe it.


Bleary Weather


Inside a single raindrop

A globe perches on a branch, made up of what sits inside diamonds.

Some drops hang upside-down, tempting fate.

Because one day that raindrop is gonna fall, or explode, dropping it’s load,

To water the ground.


I could speak on new birth,

Of temporary, bursting, water houses losing life to gain the larger good.

Instead I contemplate the large, dreary day.

Outside one more bursting drop adds to the mud, and the hidden, gray sky.

Puddles, melting earth, pounding leaves.


The large picture of life is too big for me.

The changing weather, like experiences, goes from sunny to overcast, cold rain.

So, back to what I can handle.

The single, clear little raindrop of right now.

A globe of rounded purpose, innocent and full of possibility.

Actually, that little drop is beautiful.