I can still feel my fingers
at the keys, 
tapping out eternal warnings
to fellow thirteen year old
pilgrims on the OG 
messenger platforms
brains early in development
didn’t stop my confident assertions

I came at matters of belief
like a child soldier
lobbing theological grenades
in the name of 
love?

Thankfully, 
the turnings 
and conversions
birthed from the faces and spaces
that flipped my assumptions 
and judgments 
came divinely appointed
again and
again and 
again

The ones
the world calls lesser
whom Jesus calls blessed

kept bringing me home to the news
that God 
never wanted appeasement
or child soldiers
or fear-based ultimatums

Just mercy,
and love,
and embrace

Though I
shudder at times
to think of my youthful arrogance

I know this current me-in-progress
fingers at the keys, 
tapping out reflections
will appear immature
in my rearview mirror
twenty years from now

And even as
I look now at my own
children in development
I never want them to feel
ashamed of the winding path
they must walk 

to come home to the news
that God 
only ever looks
like mercy,
and love,
and embrace.

It’s been raining for as long as this goldfish can remember
And the forecast shows no sign of change

And I am tempted to complain
about the moat forming around my castle,

But then,

I think of floodwaters
Rising to meet eaves
And the displaced ones
Scattered through churning streets

My mind
Jumps borders
Envisages explosions
Tries to reckon with invasion
The places where displacement
Is not by nature, but by design

The gridlocked chess match
Of expensive weaponry and fragile egos
History is a finger painting of innocent blood
On repeat

Much closer to home
I think of the friends who cannot sleep
Battling invisible mental beasts
They text me to pray for them

I pray Psalm 23 for us all,
For the whole flooded, bloody mess of it
Are there green pastures and quiet streams,
Amidst all the dark valleys and enemy tables?
Sometimes I lose sight of the shepherd

As it all swirls through my mind
To the sound of constant rain,
I am hyper aware of the shelter
I have from the storms
I am sheltered — physically and emotionally
And there is no entitlement in it
No deserving of it
The things I am most grateful for
Feel like subtle reminders of injustice

And I don’t know how to do anything else,
Except cry out for the shepherd:

Please,
Don’t hide now.