A blog by Shannon Baker
Can glory be wrapped up in nouns
or tied with verbs, like string?
It seems like a disservice
when fireworks break at my ribs
and embers shower down
and Billows blow to flame.
I scuff my shoes, apologize
for words that leave their tracks
all over holy ground.
But, what if glory wait for words—
each word a branch, a leaf,
a bush through which to blaze?
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Unpack my heart
and give me room to breathe
your true self,
for I could never
wrap my arms around
your whole self
or hold my breath
and reach the bottom of
your deep self.
But, I can wade this moment
in your shallows,
then spend forever venturing
from shore.
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She got a call. “Your brother was at the Bataclan.” Tomorrow’s lunch is off. She won’t ever meet him for lunch again.
How do we make sense of such evil? How do we pray?
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Over breakfast, I read Psalm 82—a poem by King David where his trust and confusion bleed together—a space for struggling with God Continue Reading…
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Sprinting, squeezing through the metal doors,
my mind a passenger on every train,
careening through a cityscape of deadlines,
past endless blocks of tasks that must be done,
now dipping into tunnels webbed with worry,
then out again into the blaze of dreams,
each line a frantic scramble toward tomorrow,
carrying me to everywhere but here Continue Reading…
Screened in on your back porch—
you big and boring people
who just learned my name
while milling in the foyer
after service.
Now I’m stuck all afternoon
at your house
because someone has to
feed the visiting pastor.
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Under mom’s silent eye
I fork a bitter, leafy ball.
Chew and swallow.
Chew and swallow.
Victory.
She nods and looks away.
This somebody’s grandfather
drones on, keeping time
with the walnut clock
whose ticking marches down the hall.
If only I could be anywhere,
everywhere else,
but here.
