a white blank page and a swelling rage

The rage is why I write – I have experienced my fair share of rage, and I have filled my fair share of pages. Now I entreat you – I beseech you – write. Write. For the baby used as a battering ram – write. For the mother that accepted cash in exchange for not...

Hold someone’s hand

I sit writing overlooking a playground on an early Monday morning. The sun is trying to crack the icy air so children warm up to the idea that today was made for living. Three swing-high girls walked two skips ahead of their skyscraper teacher. (Playgrounds were made for jungle gyms, not high-rise buildings.) They were...

Asylum

I am the mental hospital that hoards the crazy of your love. It’s out of control, trying to be controlled in here. So wild our memory locks jam and we forget words but hum along anyway to the lyrics of “rescue me”. I don’t remember. I don’t remember the unlove before you walked through creaky...

Running in the dark

I went for a late night run two nights ago, around the cricket field on a deserted school ground. The air was at room temperature, even though I was outside. My flesh caught in embrace with the particles that carried moonlight to the ground and the space previously filled with the shouts and screams and...

Help! | On divorce, that love thing, and brokenness

This world is broken. Each of us, broken. Our futures are creaked and cracked before we’ve even tread near the territory of our dreams. We can’t fix it. We can’t do it; we can’t do it alone. We need Jesus. Perfect Jesus. This weekend I had the privilege of being part of a camp for...