Belinda

pain radiates in conversation
hoping to be set free.
her world of hurt blinded by
daffodils and coffee.

the smell of a house built
too close to the bank for
people who can’t even
afford toothpaste.

steps away from familiarity
leading towards two new rooms
where things grow.

Routine Transparency

He asked how his grandkids were,
the other answered willingly
with stories that created laughter
but mostly exposed the brokenness

fifteen years of Friday mornings
causes all questions to be
answered with truth.

winding through books to familiarity
reminds them of their routine
transparency.

the retired ski instuctors
with two weathered sweaters
chose to sit on
the same overstuffed couch
with the same view of the mountains
with the same mug full of the same
mocha with whip and decaf black

But today someone else was there
yet to be a regular here, she sat alone
with blank pages and a serious look
facing the books
comforted by a cup of tea.

they knew they had sat too close
they knew there were empty couches
they knew their words were safe with her
after they exposed their souls she
joined with tears and told them
how lucky they were to be known.

the jump in his step

Redemption for Victorian literature came to me through a professor this semester. I spent every Tuesday and Thursday with Victorians such as Tennyson, Browning and Carlyle. I can honestly say my heart was a little heavy when I wrote the last word on the final and walked out of those doors. There is so much irony in this situation that I cannot help but laugh. If you talked to me in September I would have told you that this class was in the process of killing me and I was never going to make it through. However, I really think it was the passion that pulled me in. The passion of a white haired man with a taxi driver hat and very neatly ironed pants. I have never met anyone who could have so much passion about what I thought at the beginning was a lifeless subject. We could see it in his eyes when he walked into the classroom every day. His passion radiated through the stuffy room in Boyd hall and because of it I fell in love with Victorian literature.

I want to have the kind of passion that radiates. I want to be so passionate about something that the passion can't help but consume the listener and draw them in. I want people to look at me and crave to know why I am so excited. I want to bring the gospel to life in the way that Dr. Gracie brought victorian literature to life. How convicting to me it was that he was this passionate during 30 classes about one subject. An intriguing subject, but one that hardly changes lives. Shouldn't we be this passionate or more every time we get to talk about the gospel? Shouldn't we be this excited even thinking about the cross?

What keeps us from sharing this excitment? Dr. Gracie would literally have a little jump in his step when he talked about Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Even though we had not studied Victorian lit the way he had, he did not withhold any of his joy. He was not weary that we did not understand. It was 9:30 in the morning and he was exploding with passion. It was a beautiful thing.

I want that little jump in my step to be recognizable everywhere I go.