We can only nourish the seed of real justice one heart at a time.

Words delivered, stillborn of action.

“Shocked.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”

What remains in their wake is the tragic stench of beautiful, dead words — offensive.

We defer to our leaders to fight for justice — but even those courageous enough for battle, can’t legislate control on the depths of a heart.

Each time another life is ripped away, we cry for God to heal our land.

But the God of love can’t animate unwilling hands and feet — and violate love’s nature.

In the mirror reality of Spirit, love’s life-giving waters flow upward — from the particular to the whole.

Truth…


The Seed

This story begins with a small, hard dot
In a gardener’s hand as she looks for a spot.
She digs deep down in the cold, dark earth
And the seed — she covered it up with dirt.
Time went on, both day and night.
Something was changing; but out of sight.
The seed broke out of it’s small, hard shell.
It began to sprout — but no one could tell.
Then one spring morning the dirt gave way
To a soft, green plant that could move and sway. …


Embracing the hard, the dirty, and the nonsensical mess of it all as ultimate perfection.

The dirty mess of imperfect life—so perfect.

Odds and ends that don’t make sense sharpen my edge.

I try so hard to polish, and perfect it…

But it’s the dirty mess of it that makes it true.


There is only God in divine transaction — of which we are all a part.

Reaching out for help,
or out to help,
we all take our turn.

So this time, friend,
I’m glad to lend
my outstretched helping hand.

Because I know
that one day I’ll
need help from someone too.

And it’s in this give and take that we
see God in me and you.


Forsaking all of heaven to someday enter in.

In the world and of the world
The temple curtain—torn.
The ghosts and monsters spewing fears
All gone in light of love.

No more will stone cold buildings
or doctrines reel us in
with promises of perfection—
a heavy, fruitless din.

The second coming has arrived!
I see him! He is here!
He’s here with us each time we love
regardless of our fears.

While walking through both pain and joy
the new earth will draw near.
When what’s of this world is held and loved
then in will God appear.

Here are several ways to donate and help the migrant children at the border.


A tale of a marionette’s surprise.

Pristine and polished on a shelf she waited.

For small tugs on her hands or feet…she waited.

To be tilted how she should love…she waited.

To be pulled to whom she should serve…she waited.

To be led by the cross with strings…she waited.

Until…

She looked up and saw—

No strings!


So follow your bliss.

Pushing the pulls and twisting the twirls…

…to make it connect.

To make it make sense.


The night doesn’t last forever, but eventually gives way to blessed morning.

Source: Tom Sodoge, Unsplash

On most days I wake up around 5:00am. The possibility of finding a few quiet moments before the kids and husband wake up, propels me out of bed each morning.

I like to sit in front of the bay window in my living room to watch the sun peak over hills and through the trees. Seeing the sun rise prompts hope to rise in my heart for the day.

The transition from dark to light. That sweet moment when the darkness is gently pushed aside by the light just below the horizon.

I hold tightly to this moment, but it…


Methods that help create the space and quiet in which the divine is experienced.

As I’m beginning to research this topic, I’m learning that the term “contemplative practices” can encompass a number of activities, from meditation, to yoga — even to volunteering at the soup kitchen. Contemplative practices are any activity which provides you with communion/connection/awareness of the divine/that which is greater/God.

Everyone is different, and so our methods to the end goal of achieving connection with God is going to vary in effectiveness.

What’s going to work for you? That’s the important thing to discover.

This article is going to introduce you to some of the contemplative practices within the Christian tradition. Since…


With faith, there’s always an element of “not knowing”. Why the mystery? What thrives in this lack of certainty and is there a purpose?

If I could hold it in my hand, I imagine that it would be round — a sphere composed of a changing mixture of light and dark through a hazy mist.

When I wrap my fingers around it’s vapor-like substance, it slowly disperses through my fingertips and loses all shape and form. When I bring it close to examine, the individual subtleties disappear.

This strange, elusive orb appears in greater clarity the less rigid my grip becomes. My examination of it’s substance becomes clearer the further I hold it from me. …

Faithe Anne

Writing through faith and doubt.

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