My heart is like a honeycomb.

Tiny pockets filled with things that make their home in me.

Things in the future, things in the present,

things that are merely remnants

of a past that is no longer me.

Things I don’t even know,

places I don’t even go.

Things that are true, things that are a lie,

things that are more than meets the human eye.


My heart is filled with so many things

that need to be scooped out,

that need to be replaced with Christ Himself.

I get lost in myself, trying to figure my heart out,

which is why He sweeps in me

like a woman searching for a lost coin.


I want to do the seeking myself, but I get torn,

and that’s when I realize that in myself,

I know nothing about feeling at home.


I don’t know myself,

proven by my wandering,

lost in all the pockets I find, seek, hide and keep.

But He knows exactly where to go, what to touch.

He knows me best, searching my deepest depths,

knowing my heart, melting my heart

for Him.

Luke 15:9


I wrote something new

but then ripped it in half,

tried writing again

but I couldn’t go back

to the feeling that lied

on the black and white lies,

the feeling that lied

on my ribcage inside.


I wrote something new

but realized it old,

the same words from past years

of rhythm and coldness

and nonsense of

missing and reminiscing

and limbo and fishing

for something new to write.


I wrote circles around this,

tried to get past this,

found it awful to carve it down,

carve it outside me.

like dragging old bones

and expecting them to walk,

waiting for time to work

and light to search–


And so I stopped writing.


To pull away for a moment,

to stop digging and picking

and to let the light grow

was needed.

there was the winter and rest,

the killing snow and rain

for replenishing, healing,

and washing away.


So no more empty words,

no more torture of ruminating to

illuminate something in darkness.

there is just today,

with a clean page

and a fresh start

to write with boldness

concerning the truth.

After the 14th

Something inside me broke–

and it’s been a gathering of shards and scraps since.

I’ve been holding the pieces in my arms

asking God for it to be fixed.

But maybe the fragments of glass are just sand

and they’re meant to blow away with the wind.

Perhaps what was broken was intentionally finished

so I may receive what God wants to give.