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Fed up with reflections and illusion
I am begging for something real-- To be alone in the kitchen at half past seven With flour on my knuckles, The nitty-gritty nascence of a feast. I want to bow my head, my heart, my whole body. I want to be completely hollowed Into hallowed ground, the divot That Moses wore away with kneeling-- Ash-stricken by the flames ahead, but holy. Hold me in some tangible embrace! Cast out the dark; cut every veil in two. Enter me incarnate, in bread and wine And weighty waiting, a patience renewed By reality, a glimpse of something true. -- Ava Pardue is a young poet studying at Wheaton College. Her work has been published in Christianity Today and The Christian Century and has been recognized by various groups including the Wells Young Poets Awards and the Wheaton Lowell-Grabill Prize.
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These mountains are in my bones--
both calcified spines, straight lines from head to heart. I sit in solitude and listen, bask in what He’s given. When I grow quiet, I learn that just beyond the wood-line, there is bird-swell: cardinals and wrens, jays and sparrows, chattering back and forth in endless creation-song-- bursting with verve in my repose-- among the ancient spruce and pines. And here, just beyond the blue mountain’s crest, a faithful train chugs west through the valley, and its longing whistle adds to the chorus of nature’s endless hymns. I come here to learn, to go low-- to be voiceless and see anew, to shed the scales I can’t see through. I have come here to disappear into it-- to be stripped of my self-obsession, to find a Truer Country-- when I dare to be still and know: the mighty ridge, the thick verdant forest of life, the lush rhythms of a coming spring. I have come to know God’s hours and his canvas for myself, to rest and wait in this quietude for the sunset, moonlight, and midnight stars to shine-- unencumbered by the city noise and city lights, unsheathed from my former self-- so I might watch it all unfold like the miracle it is: God stooping-- even here and ever still-- to paint the sky, all golden-grace and fire-glow, and to fill the air with a song for my silence. -- Kimberly Phinney is an award-winning professor and writer. She is the founder of TheWayBack2Ourselves.com. Kimberly holds her M.Ed. in English and is a doctoral candidate in Community Care and Counseling. Her work appears in Christianity Today, Ekstasis, Solum, and more. Her poetry collections, Of Wings and Dirt and Exalted Ground, were bestsellers. Her forthcoming book on art and faith debuts with Baker Books in 2027. She’s a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, Audience Choice Award winner with Ekstasis (now Inkwell), and runner-up in Fathom’s Poetry Contest. She was featured on Good Morning America for a national teaching award. Instagram: @kimberlyphinneywriter. Substack: https://thewayback2ourselves.substack.com/. He was an extraordinary talker,
but he was not arrogant, conceited, or proud. His words painted the world with love and kindness, rather than charm and vanity. The beauty was always inside of him. Without the Light, you could only see its outline in the shadows. But with the Light's illumination, the kaleidoscope within came forth, speaking life into dead places, reflecting the Maker's radiance and His skillful shift of the mirrors in us to create something new. -- Madison is a biomedical researcher and emerging poet living in Virginia. Her work explores themes of love and loss and has appeared in Grande Dame Literary. with the parts of our soul
that submit, laying down on dark altars? the parts that giggle and groan and weep, beneath and behind glass frames? the parts that beat trowels into daggers and burn all the seeds, take mallets and chisels into the mines to wound, steal, be stripped and stained, to bleed alongside others in shadow? Why do we pretend they are hidden? Have they finally closed their mouths? Are they sitting quietly in cold sad corners, unseen and unheard? No. The feeblest dissemblers among us cannot keep them chained. They come screeching, smashing all our fables, hurling fire on each new name. Perhaps they slink and sneak to meet the One who hums-- “I will sprinkle you with hyssop. I will wash you. I will make you whiter than snow.” Perhaps they hope against the dark their offerings might be redeemed? Maybe we should bring them out to meet Him? -- Blake Kilgore is the author of Leviathan (Hapless Hip Books, 2021), a collection of poems wrestling with faith and doubt. He teaches history and coaches basketball during the workday and tries his best to love his wife and four sons when he goes home. His writing has appeared in many fine journals, recently including Vita Poetica, Fare Forward and Pensive: A Literary Journal of Spirituality and the Arts. You can find out more at blakekilgore.com. Each year the house was solemnly blessed
with colored chalk on the door jamb and header, a bloodless script to set this dwelling apart. In the bleak midwinter a large candle of beeswax was left lighted on the front window sill as a beacon for others in the footsteps of the Posada. In this ordinariness were also folio pages of a paper Bible taped to the glass, not as elegant as a Gutenberg in a museum’s showcase that had its pages in both volumes turned every day, but bright with devotion as our prayers rose up and fell like angels on an extended work ladder. Daily prayers were repeated so quickly, one after another, that some would think it was arcane gibberish, but it was instead a shibboleth test of the true heart. Some of the wealthy and even libraries cut out the richly illuminated head letters from broken books, sold as individual pages to increase profits in sales. Outside in this orderly suburban neighborhood no one thinks they need to find a place of safety, and no effort is required to find their daily bread. But I am the one neighbor who lights a bright candle that flickers and then moves it toward the window while I draw back the curtains as a new day begins. -- Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught classes on the history of Christianity and on global religions for almost forty years. He lives now in a small village that is near a nature conservancy, a green cemetery and Amish farms. The fire at the end of the day
roars like the distant sea. The logs are almost ashes now that once were mighty trees. But with the wind and heat within, they glow as if alive, like Adam in the holy garden clothed with Breath and light. There was a bush that burned, I've heard, but never was consumed. There was a Man who, after death, shook off his empty tomb. He said that if I 'take and eat' him, I too will never die. Let me become a bush that burns with everlasting life. at the end of your uncle’s
graveside service, waiting in the van, a hundred yards from you and the white pop-up tent while I sat enclosed by sunbleached headstones benign as merlons of a fallen castle. There is a time for everything and for everyone the lamp will go out: for you, for me, for the glass bottle wheeze of our napping toddler, for Leroy M. Gallup, his fire snuffed out since 1918, for his elderly great-granddaughter out in the rain. I watched her grip his gravestone, crouch down to anchor a plastic pinwheel beside his epitaph. I saw everything through a beaded windshield, not darkly, not clearly, but magnified. Love, I don’t know a thing about Leroy M. Gallup; I barely knew uncle Mike, but what I knew then was alive: to marvel at you in the mid-June drizzle, left hand gripping a rose, program, and hem of your skirt as you tip-toed back through the wet grass, umbrella synced with your quickened step. You know I could have pulled further ahead, and I knew you’d tell me as much, eyes flickering, I hoped, from that furnace still blazing inside. -- Ryan Apple is a music professor at a small Christian college in Lansing, MI. His chapbook, Stars and Sparrows Alike, was published in November 2020 through Finishing Line Press. Ryan is also one of ten poets featured in the Poiema Poetry Series anthology In a Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets. I miss the maple
that stands at my childhood home, a summer shelter for our simple games a whisperer of good, green words sifting the sunlight for us through glistening leaves. And in the deepening chill it warmed our quiet indoor play casting rubescent shadows through the glass from branches bloodied by the wind-- a burning tree but not consumed. -- David Welch is a husband, a father of three small boys and a writer from Texas. Taking our cue from Eden,
Regarding the intended human vocation: An unbelieving world must be gathered up, Transporting them to God's location. Sovereignly graced for this, Though neglectful as Edenic priests, Meant to represent humanity to God, From those in authority, to the very least. Our essential task of regular intercession, Has, sadly, been widely misunderstood. Standing in the gap exceeds prayers. It means taking the bullet, if we could. The Apostle Paul is a worthy example, Willing to be cut off for his people. The elect must be praying for the same: Those not gathered, under the steeple. Actual atonement is outside our purview. Nevertheless, the Christ is our blueprint. Therefore, we bear His marks and die daily, Yes, even to the point we are spent. We were never put here to do nothing, Simply living prosperous lives for gain. No, to die is gain, but to live is Christ, Even though this often translates to pain. This is our service as Kingdom citizens, Functioning as both priest and sacrifice, Working and tilling as mutual gardeners, Assured that this shall suffice. -- Dr. William Kilgore is a sociology professor and theologian residing in Houston, Texas. After nearly 30 years as an academic, William began writing poetry in August, 2024, while at home recovering from a kidney transplant, at the age of 56. This opened up a door to a new way of contemplating things that was entirely new to him. In particular, and similar to journaling practices, writing poetry deepened William's faith, helping him to think through devotional, theological and emotional issues in his thoughts. We can see transcendence only
in terms of our three-dimensional world -- even angels -- who see in us what is invisible and visible, counting our drumming heart beats. Before this painted encounter we are quiet bystanders as this winged being -- a youth in feather-soft light and wings in motion -- shows power suddenly drawing near our bedlam world. This angel reaches out to the maiden's accepting hand that brings assurance now and at the hour of our death while she breathes the holy air brought from the original garden.. Here is all grace and gravity, magnified in her response, the beloved among the lilies , consoling the startled angel, amazed at humans, by these iconic words: Let it be. This same scene enfolds us as if erasing all separateness to receive gold-leafed light into our lives as we in our searching extend our own hands. -- Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught classes on the history of Christianity and on global religions for almost forty years. He lives now in a small village that is near a nature conservancy, a green cemetery and Amish farms. |