Psalm

Day of aches means day of rest.
Self-imposed Sabbath, unavoidable inaction.
Movement becomes awkward, hard.
Hands-dull ache. Feet-tense and curled.
And all else in between reminds me
I am but dust. A broken temple.
A sacred moving hospital.

To really feel is to slow down
And care for this earthly shell.
Even with water, sleep, food
And advice from doctors
I still ache.
And when I can only sit in the sun,
Instead of hike and run and play,

I close my eyes in blinding light
And give thanks.

Give thanks for this broken jar of clay.
For Christ alone can console and redeem
And give hope in the midst of pain and inactivity.
He always remembers I am at once both
Only dust and made in His image.

One day, all will be well and restored-

Life and movement and energy will surge and bound.

For now, I rejoice in these struggles and bless

Him who gives real health, real healing,

And newness of life each day and every night.

Self Portrait

I happen to be a beautiful space cadet.

Head in clouds, feet on busy ground.

I am a wonky princess, a gorgeous human being,

A tragic masterpiece, a mighty force, a weak heroine.

This form is a bastion of untried potential.

An unspoken sermon, a quiet storm.

Work of progress, fearless bumbler, the queen of all this.

Faithful mess, a jester of all things me.