a collection of writings and samples seamed together over the years, many of which were formed adjacent to the photographic projects also found here.  

Everything Matters

George

you’re dying. they’re killing you right before us all.

how many more thoughts did you have to think?

how many more dreams did you watch whither while beneath the treacherous surface of the body that held you down?

..until your last thought.. your last dream..your last breath…

I’m sorry.

sorry that this broken land never seems to be ready for people like you, like me.

sorry that this world could not read into the cries of your posture or the mournings of your history.

I’m sorry that you weren’t allowed to be enough, to be you.

but you are enough.

hear me, please as our two worlds shift toward one another; until your heaven meets my earth, hear me.

you are enough.

for you’ve recently entered into a land that has been confirming this since you left the home that is our Father’s merciful protection.

you’ve been enough since He decided you were worthy of death and worthy of resurrection, and of the hope lying within the newness of an adoption that claimed you as His.

you are enough because He formed you from everything this synthetic world perpetually rejects.

He called you..away, and then back.

so tell me please, now that you’ve heard, how’s home?

did you hear them singing as your flesh suffered?

were you able to hear the sweet words that the Father has been singing over you since He lead you to continue on through your realm-shattering journey?

have you yet transformed from brokenness + pieces into joy in its fullest capacity?

have you yet said hello to the others?

 

 

Cicely

It’s dedication day.

Another daughter gone to the end of the race she ran so beautifully.

So we send up praises towards the highest heavens unto the Maker who gifted us all with such brilliance.

We still hear the songs she sang.

We’ve kept record of the shouts she bore and the tears she cried into the hands of the One who carried her through.

And so we will choose to carry on joyfully,

As children satisfied.

For we’ve been taught how to run despite trial and how to persevere despite pain.

96 years she ran even if first hidden.

She leapt and dodged unheard and unseen so to reveal all she’d come to know to the ones left outside of the grace reaching out for her.

She rebuked. She relieved.

She prospered before the Light of lights until the flame she tended to asked to return home.

So we rid ourselves of any sorrow concerning her passing on,

And let gratefulness fill the rooms we house.

For we’ve been taught,

and we’ve tested.

And we will embrace the levels she’s led and left us to.

To soar, because she ran.

 

 

Elijah

Memories as cold and dark as the night that took your life.

Cold like the terrorist hands invading the innocence of your body.

Dark like the hate garden growing within lost vessels finding significance in their badges.

You were young.

Too young to fully understand how a man once your age could look at you and hate himself enough to take a life still in the making.

Still too fresh…

 

 

Chadwick

For the cape-less hero who’s own suffering painted stars in foreign skies of bleakness and doom.

Your light illuminates within each soul stirred at the sight of your humble interior.

We see you.

And as your name scatters through a rumbling world, one is only left to ask how?

How you stood so firmly between two hateful extremes while remaining only tarnished by love?

How you underwent such an internal war as your health withered away to the sound of trembling walls and a cracking exterior?

You wouldn’t allow us to see you broken.

For this, I want to be grateful but I know your true strength rested in weaker moments.

The moment you lost sight as your eyes were filled with painful memories of what was.

The moments before you began to see yourself differently.

I know your true strength remains within the hearts of those your love-light touched.

Not necessarily the stories you told, but within the peace whispered into the air as you refused to be molded by hands unaccepting towards you.

We sang freedom songs and gave thanks to the Son as your arms moved towards your chest once more.

We felt safer. We felt heard. We felt seen.

The sweet nature of the Father manifesting within yet another son.

Though not created or able to save, you called into each present moment the remembrance of the salvation made available by the One who’s touch lead us to you.

Or rather you to us, and then back home again.

I pray you knew peace.

I pray He knew the you we weren’t able to fully know.

Sleep sweet brother,

And rest easy friend.

This world was not made to keep you.

 

 

Ahmaud—

Justice for wrongdoings.

Weeping for lives lost and those losing.

The internal dissonance of social soldiers riding the American wave.

Waves raging on as thunderclap-bullets disturb the beauty of difference and bravery.

To be brave or to be different? —to be bravely different.

It’s to resist the internal commotion in our souls that tell us to slow down, to be still, to assimilate…No.

It’s to rest in the greater though less admirable understanding that in our effort to be brave the American way, we forsake ourselves.

In our unrest, our gracious God reminds us to be still. to be still, unlike the roar waging war on our souls.

To be still in reference to the Lamb spotless and unashamed He died so not to leave us behind.

In the past, we grew weary in our waiting and desperate in our aching.

“Remember not the former things.“

Ahmaud was 25 and knew then what we choose to now. —that this roar cannot be kept silent in times when our cries carry much weight.

For it is all consuming to cry the tears of those fallen too soon.

A premature uprising.

A reckless longing.

A newfound and remodeled hope in the very Christ claiming our skin has His own.

Jesus, take the pain away.

This night’s new morning found in a runner smile. Justice is served.

Where can we wait for the next gavel to strike?

Jesus, take the pain away.

“Here, here.” “Here, here.”

There! —the new world’s order awaits the coming King.

Jesus, take the pain away.

He was as 25 as I am now.

Where can we wait for this life to fully except the skin of land laborers well-favored, holy, and acceptable in and through all things turned good?

Jesus, take the pain away.

Can I finally tell my brother he’s safer now that justice is equivalent to time spent behind bars

walking, living, breathing the same air breathed by both the life finally accounted for and the Maker of and behind all things?

Jesus, take the pain away.

Where do I stand in line to state my unrest in nights spent waiting and wandering through time,

trying to claim it as my own in hopes of handing it back to us all?

Jesus, take the pain away.

How many more lives must die for their hearts to break like mamas and daddies and nanas everywhere living the same pre-narrative, dreamless nightmare?

And how much more must He claim His love for me for you to finally see my skin made holy?

—only this time on the cross, in the wound in His side, on the crown on His head, in the same breath given away for the doubt in your soul?

Jesus, He’ll take the pain away.

the children's bread

 

 

 

8/17

Dreams don’t die in fields of blue when held within the hands of a Maker increasing.

What shall be left of the children fleeing genocide in a world too dull to reach out in faith?

When do hidden woman find joy in standing in the places of men far less suitable?

This time, we cry out for Afghan maidens driven from the very homes they labored to birth from the love planted and nurtured within the soil formed from dessert seasons and unfortunate circumstances.

Ashes of hate spread upon graves unspoken and unsheltered.

He hears every cry.

Our only hope. — that gentle whispers in the dark find refuge in His inclined ears and ever-present grace.

"Father forgive them”…or don’t.

For You extend to whomever You please a mercy only pierced hands could give.

But when Your eyes begin to roam around, remember us.

Remember the remnant who sought You before life again turned against those of whom You destined as Your own. Remember the women who held themselves strong—teaching Your little ones of the grace found in the Shepherd leading them towards eternity.

Remember the hidden, only in hiding so Your gospel could remain in the light.

And remember the desperate… in each nation, each territory..each home.

Remember us when You’re searching for deliverers to set captives free in faithful remembrance of the One who goes before us and beckons us out…to call us home.

Close your eyes and meditate for a moment on your own senses.

On the ears you use to escape the world’s noise.

On the sweet satisfaction received as you awaken your tongue to fresh berries or that dessert you can’t seem to get enough of.

Think of the sight of a mid-day’s sun shining bright before you, paying no respects to your desire to see what lies ahead.

Of the cold handle you reach for in hopes of stabilizing your balance.

Do you remember such things?

Momentary experiences that meet you with sudden freedoms and abilities?

Breathe.

Let gratitude wash over the weariness of difficult days and lowly moments of disappointment and despair.

Now, do you hear their cries?

The women persecuted for belonging in their place?

The children mourning the lives of friends and loved ones lost within the darkness dehumanization brings?

Do you hear the fathers reaching for their daughters driven into foreign lands alone and afraid?

Who knew to prepare for the days when certificates of truth and celebration would lend women into arms of disgrace and shame?

Who could ever imagine that a child would find hope in remembering the loss of a parent in ages of old..

..before death met the faithful with disaster and justice was stripped of its honor and truth.

Who remembers to reach for the ones labeled as terrorists even before being crowned with names to be called?

And here we are…again..”praying” for solutions to disasters our passivity helped create.

As though our sudden acknowledgment makes the Father proud.

Is this the life we’ll continue to live?

The life we’ll leave to those coming up behind us?

Pieces and ideas of how to make the infeasible whole?

To Afghan—please, forgive us...

...for closing our borders and shutting down are hearts....

...for withholding our love and rushing past your cries as though the tears you cried were meant to water our greed and nourish our pride.

These hearts were placed in us by One who loves you with a love undying and much more effective than our own.

We, ourselves, are far from greater than you.

We repent.

And we will not forget nor relent..until freedom is as attainable to you as it’s been for us.

With love, 

— A nation un-forsaken by our own imbalanced desperation and selfish desires.

May the america you’ve known in seasons past yield towards the new: a land in mending though still broken.

May the Rescuer we share, rescue you too.

voice, uninterrupted

8/18

 

winnowing trees and ocean breezes. a few of my favorite things. in a world of rubber bullets and hate encased with seemingly loving gestures, I hope if anything to remain soft. that is something I’d never hand over to my Maker in discontent or shame. I am, generally, soft. He loves me this way though I sometimes wish to be unalike. I miss fading glories and harsh memories of best moments and vivid aromas. I miss joy in dark places and dreams sown back together un-misplaced and uninterrupted. 

 

9/3

The call of duty upon the heart of a tearful remnant destined to return to the places of rest fashioned with each of them in mind. “He restores my soul.” A necessary reminder in the form of gentle whispers brushing up against the loneliness empty hands usher in. Nothing new meets the sun’s grand entrance as barren ghost towns lay anxious awaiting the rain. There is so much more to do..when less is acquired and brought into homes His Spirit dwells within. Everything is not what it seems. He is still worthy. He still loves the invitation our emptiness extends for His reach beyond what’s broken and mishandled…and towards that of which remains unseen. Rekindled in His memory of us. unforgotten..unforsaken..undone.

 

Memories soon fade. Real love must grow..evolving beyond hope for tomorrow and towards endless mercies and graces. Hope cannot fall far from the home nested within your womb, but rocky winds have a way with your emotions at times least expected and during seasons of great awakening. Your bloom will not look like that of which you’ve gazed upon once before. It cannot be compared to mediocre rises or lucky starts. For grace cannot be purchased  from the Maker’s holiness not stolen from heaven’s chamber. But instead, it is for you because He is for you. So all you have to begin with again is surely all that you need.

 

“Your lives light up the world. For how can you hide a city that stands on a hilltop? And who would light a lamp and then hide it in an obscure place? Instead, it’s placed where everyone in the house can benefit from its light. So don’t hide your light![c] Let it shine brightly before others, so that your commendable works[d] will shine as light upon them, and then they will give their praise to your Father in heaven.” 

Matthew 5:14-16 TPT