A Poem for my Husband

Your kisses always taste sweet to me.

Your skin feels like my favorite dress-

smooth and warm where it touches my skin.

Us fighting is exhilarating-

thunder and lightning and pounding rain.

Making up with you after the fight

is like a fresh, new dewy morning.

I adore waking up beside you,

listening to your gentle breathing.

My husband, my love, my life, my world,

what we have is something valuable,

it can’t be bought, or sold, or traded,

to others its completely worthless.

You can’t put a price on the mornings

I watch you get dressed from our warm bed.

My dear husband, know that I love you,

now and forever, with my whole heart.

I am yours, husband, and you are mine.

~May 2, 2016~13239198_10209899861118356_7725521178370482228_n

A History Major’s Rant

This semester, as I engage with the texts of the past, I’ve been struggling on an emotional level with the material I’ve been reading for courses.

It is so hard to be so steeped in humanity’s failures, to see the death and dying, to see the fighting and the drinking and the drugs effect so many people’s lives. It’s hard to read about the destruction of the earth and other people so someone could make a quick buck. It’s hard to read about people dying brutal, bloody deaths, inflicted by other people. It’s hard to read about the injustices committed because of race, or gender, or people group. It’s hard to see the broken Imago Dei in the past, without looking away.

People come to my major because they think that History is an easy “A.” They think it’s about memorizing facts, names, dates. That’s not what it’s about, and I’m reminded of that every semester. It’s easy to lose sight of the people behind those names and dates, the ones who made this world we’re in now what it is.

Some days, I just want to find peace, love, joy. I long for a restoration from this broken reality. That’s the hope of Christ, and I can’t imagine doing my job without it. I don’t think I could do my job without it.

All of this is to say, it’s easy to say that hurtful thing. I know, I’ve done it repeatedly. But hurt people hurt people. In five words, that’s my summary of history. Guys, I’ve come to treasure those moments where people show kindness, no matter how small. It’s not the stuff that’s often remembered in history texts, and it seems like it’s far outweighed at the time. But it’s the stuff that makes us human. It’s the stuff that keeps us going. We can’t keep on like this. If we profess to be image bearers, then aren’t we called to reflect the goodness that God is? Even a little light can be bright in the darkness.

Battle Wounds

No matter how much time,

nor how much healing,

I still feel the scars,

like it was yesterday they were opened

by your hands.

Aren’t you proud of your work?

Don’t you admire the lacerations?

Some days I feel them more,

some days it’s like they’re not there.

Some days I carry the weight of the world,

some days I’m light and free.

Some days I think about you,

some days you haunt me.

My soul is restless, my body sore.

There’s only so much I can take,

and I wonder about you,

why you do this.

Do you like the pain?

Does it make you feel better,

to see me like this?

Does it make you feel big,

to make me so small?

I cared for you,

and you cut me.

I cared for you,

and you destroyed me.

I cared for you,

I cared for you!

Why don’t you see that?

What’s blinded you to that?

Who’s whispering in your ear?

I surrender.

I give up.

I can’t do this.

I’m not fighting.

I’m done.

Why don’t you see, the war’s over,

like there was a war to start with.

Here I stand in the end with my battle wounds.