by Amber Elisabeth Sanders With dust upon their feet, They weep where grief and grace meet. Not less than because of a fall, But called by the Shepherd who knows all. Their hands shake holding the weight of the lost, Their prayers taste of salt as they count the cost. As priesthood keys rest in appointed hands, The power and healing flow through the lands. Nothing lacking from the mercy seat Where they kneel, undone, at His nail-scarred feet. Christ atones

By Angie Ora Whittemore One morning my mom and I walk a remote island coast near her home. Watch your step, she tells me, these beaches are littered with glass. Shards of white and foam green lie amid discarded caps and lone shoes. We scan the sand before placing our feet. A quarter mile on now, I bend to examine these pieces and wait look the glass is rounded, smooth, opaque. There are no rough edges, no jags to pierce my skin. Decades of churning in the sea, weather

by Candace White Whimpers of a four-year-old girl sequestered between the wall and her bureau light up heaven as a bright red beacon. “Help,” she cries, weakly but sincerely, like the offering of the remains of her piggy bank to cover the broken dish, the dolls on the floor, the postage stamps used as stickers, the inconvenience of her existence. The martinet is determined, a heat-seeking missile, and she knows if she is found before he moves on to other targets, the beatings

by Candace White In this child of four years old, There burned a spark of heavenly gold. She knew the earthly father’s punishing rod Would melt ‘neath the gaze of God. Like stars concealed by noonday light, The promise lingered out of sight. Though clouds of sorrow veiled her view, The heavens held their witness true. Through fields of shame her feet did stray, In weeping night and stolen day. For thirty years the serpent spoke, Shrouding her in a heavy cloak. “Awake!” the He

by Emily Hawken What does He do with His sorrow? Does He find comfort the same way I do? When He’s sad, does He paint a sunset? Does He compose a birdsong in the trees? Does He run like the wind? When He cries, does He weep into a meadow so the wildflowers can grow? Did He write a psalm on David’s heart? Did He give us these gifts because He knows how they help? Emily Hawkens, Creating is my lifeblood.

by Emily Hawken As she lays her head on my chest, She listens. For my breath. For my heartbeat. Soon, our breathing is synchronized And our hearts beat together, in unison. I lay my head down and listen for His breath and His heart. I find peace in His words; strength in His voice. I want to be aligned with His breath, His heart. Emily Hawken, Creating is my lifeblood.

by Justine Bingham Oh Lord, my heart sends humility and gratitude upwards to Thy throne. Thou hast heard my heart’s yearning to be. Thou hast sent friends with listening ears and caring souls to walk beside and sit with me. They have heard my plight. With nonjudgment, they hold my pain, tenderly reflecting perspective and bearing Thy messages to me as gifts. Thou hast bestowed comfort upon my spirit. Thou hast enlightened my mind with inspiration through genuine text messages

by Linda Atkinson Joyfully in Baroque style. Snap fingers on beat after “heart”. In 6/8 time, in 2. Eighth-note beats for parts with movement. Let God judge between me and thee; He looks on the heart. (snap) He alone can judge with equity; He looks on the heart. (snap). (with movement) All our thoughts and deeds He knows, Each word and action here below. Ev’ry intention is known to Him; He looks on the heart. (snap) Let God judge between me and thee; He looks on the heart. (s

by Miriam Barlow Should you find yourself at a dance and death seeks your card, call on heaven for a paso doble. The angels like a lively tune. The steps may seem inaccessible, but a fantastic Partner will lead you through. Over here to avoid a semi-truck Over there to the ER Step inside to dodge that tree crashing down. Though death has fine offers “Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery”, in a paso doble Where he’d like to cut in make sure you’re on steady footing. You wi

by Heather Ruth Pack My mother died with disfigured feet. Bruised, battered, and broken. I never went near them. I never washed them. I couldn’t bear the mess. Years later it was my feet that were washed by the same hands that had washed hers. As living water fell between my toes, I understood what I had missed. I could have been Christ to my mother. Why didn’t I wash her broken feet the way Thou washes mine? Thou accepts me bruised, battered, and broken. Teach me to accept t

Day after day The sun high The land dry I come to the well Empty

O, Jesus, my Savior and dearest friend, My companion in this season of sorrow, Wilt Thou walk beside me in the solitude Of my silent, aching heart? Wilt Thou hold my grief in Thy warm, strong hand? Hast Thou heard my sore lament?

O, Jehovah, Thou Son of God, let my praise to Thee be found on my lips. Allow my tears to wash Thy feet, accept my offering and let Thy will eclipse.

A dissonant tune twinned to plaintive words can live and spread like aspen roots, binding generations.

I hear Him In the gentle breeze Of leaves Half-flushed With green and gold.

For beloved bits of earth burrowed into my soul–– diamond-cold creek, edged with yarrow and thimbleberry; jagged canyon sheltered

r mercy is a deep river. Wash the pettiness from me and wring me out to dry.

When I was a child I didn’t spell things right And I thought the Son of God was actually the Sun of God So every time I looked at the sun I thought I was looking at Jesus

Lines of heart and mind silken invisible but tensile and tough Even when I severed some myself I could feel the tug Someone on the other end who hadn’t wouldn’t let go

he showed Her Son how to mother, so He could show the world.