by the trinity 

In the morning,

I sit at the table 

& eat a chocolate cake

donut. The three chairs 

around me are empty–

Abba, I imagine You across,

with open hands & a smile.

I think You are asking me to

open my hands or give them 

to You. Receive. Jesus is to my 

left, Holy Spirit to my right. He 

wants to grab my hand, to pray

with me. They are quiet, heads 

bowed. I’m held tightly 

fmf: eat.

This poem is a little different in the way I felt I was experiencing this again. The calm. The way I felt like the Holy Spirit really reached out and held my hand, the right, weaker one of the two. The way Abba sat across and smiled with a knowing glance that said, you can open up. You can receive all I want to give you. 

God is moving me into new places it feels like. With my writing. (This was really, REALLY difficult to write. The memories were foggy, but the ache of how Jesus loved me was overwhelming. So overwhelming. With taking to Him about how I’m feeling without trying to hide. And with friends. Letting my heart come out, still unsure if I’m loved.

And then there is this reminder from Tim Tebow’s new book, Shaken, that hit me like a ton of bricks last night:

I can’t help but feel God is bringing something new, despite all the chaos and anger and sadness, things I can’t let go of. I can’t see the future and the fact things are always foggy is beginning to wear on my soul. I want to be in moments. I don’t know how to do that without assuming sadness/anger is all there is to hold. I know it’s not true, but sigh.

God, you make all things new. Beautiful in their time and joy. Laughter. Depth. Hope. Love. Please oh please show me this true. That is joy coming around the bend and I can soak it in. Because I want to stay with you, but I also don’t want to deny that what you’ve been bringing lately isn’t from you. You know, like the butterflies that keep me thinking we’re going to fly soon. Or Juno, who keeps plopping herself down in my lap. Or all these other things, one in particular that is so overwhelming it doesn’t seem real yet. Please show me this doesn’t have to be so hard to take. Please. In Jesus name, amen.


I realize this commentary has nothing to do with food. Soul is on a little of an overload lately. Thankful God lets me write and cry and get angsty. 🙂

have love to lift you.”

without love,
i look at myself
and think: i am
a fool. i find my
legs curled to my
chest, tears pouring
fear i’ve fallen too far
to be looked into—
“darling,” he speaks

fmf prompt: fear. this last line i feel Jesus has been whispering the last two days. i spent yesterday with a friend, spilling out fears (ex. how the lie creeps in I will be forever alone, leaning on the invisible God; it’s such a lovely thing to admit.), being reminded Jesus is on my side, going into a bookstore & not buying any books, singing, and going to see inside out. (which is an actual portrayal of emotions…especially sadness. (side note: i pretty much thought of my brother teasing me forever with sadness/) and did i mention i had steak n shake, a cookies n cream candy bar, a slushy (these at the movies…i haven’t had one of those in FOREVER.) and chick-fil-a and tons of laughter? yeah, Jesus loves getting together around food.. or I was extremely hungry…

all this & wednesday night showed me again how Jesus sees me/ how He longs to be gracious to me. And how he hears me.

how He loves me.

grace, my mouth gapes 

she comes out

onto the deck,

placing a large 

piece of pie in

front of my face.

why are you giving 

me this? because.

you said you didn’t 

want to eat alone, she

says cheerily. it is not dinner,

but made of peach and lemon

meringue–a light dessert i don’t 

deserve before the proper time,

but before my eyes again, is God.

my head throbs without remark

today, i let
go, become

ash. yesterday,
i could’ve over
indulged whims—

half pound box
peppermint bark,
facebook until I

blotched red
over my face.

instead, i thought
pączki he brought

her what i imagine
every year. lemon,
cherry, raspberry

filling a richness
we all must desire
before the sacrifice.

i didn’t, huffed
discomfort before
mother’s eardrum.

what now? she said.
my heart is heavy, i
don’t know why. i

exasperated, watching
stripped onion fall beside
waiting mushroom, inside

heated pan. you see, what
i would like to give up—
my innate looking down

upon my own worth.
i have to tell myself
truth, mind, heart &

soul argue believe

grey skies cast

shadow over blue—

depth of me

She pulls out the tray,
places tinfoil, a carton
of guacamole on top
& a bag of chips beside me.

I watch her place a large Hi-C
atop the bedside table.
“I got you fruit punch, too.”
kindness flooding every syllable.

She apologizes for not getting me
this yesterday. I say, “it’s fine, thank
you, sompingme.” gratitude rising
inside, heavy, happily, faithfully.

I don’t say, you make me want
to weep love in the best, purest way.
Instead, I sit unraveling tacos,
sorrowed joy swelling beneath my speech.

I’ll make you speechless, he says

I sit before familiar—

salmon patties,
mashed potatoes
& black beans I imagine peas.

She tells me I don’t have to
eat this if I don’t like it.
Everyone cooks things differently,

my eyes surely growing
wide with wonder as I
thank her.

I clasp my hands
after she closes the door.
God, thank you, thank you, thank you!

I eat, savoring,
each bite allowing
memory’s well inside.

Years before, I sat
head of the table
with grandpa to my right.

Lou Dobbs and him
having a typical one way
conversations ending in dah!

A wave of the hand,
as grandma places this meal
before him, me. Or vice versa.

We said our prayers.

Grace. I think she said.

Bless us, O Lord
& these our gifts
which we are about to receive

from Thy bounty
through Christ our Lord,

This was a typical Friday
night during Lent.

I ate slow even then,
what some call mundane, busiest time.

But tonight, after I had my second helping,
telling this woman I withhold calling grandma
her meal was really good, she laughs..

Well, thank you.

I hear my grandma’s
lilt, receiving her love
& pouring back generous.

Prayer To Be Enthralled


I am not,


to birds

sing song


fog I wish

stay today.

You know

I’m hiding,

letting dark

have both

my hands,


This is not


light. light.

You softly


to my sad-

faced soul.


I read wanting

nothing, but

his shepherd

leading beside

quiet waters,

green pastures,

begging your


pleas for unfailing

love—let you be

enthralled, taken

by my beauty.

How is it


when I

cry. then

draw defense,

turning my back?

I don’t want

to tell you:

I need cradled,

carried through

this lost-and-

found. I don’t

know this gitl,

no longer interested

in anything other

than tangelos,

yogurt, eating

whatever else

comes before

her, but failing

because she

yearns loving

kindness beyond

food, tasteless on

her tongue,

tripping over

five words

her heart










Author’s Note: Going to start doing this this year, along with Five Minute Friday. I’m praying I start seeing His unfailing love, actually feeling it, more aware. I’d love to be able to read more than what feels like random Bible verses. Actual books. Actually laugh without a hint of pain. Actually enjoy what I’m eating, without leaving it to get cold. Or sit there. Or eat real slow to try to get myself to taste it. Savor. Not gobble it down because I’m so hungry, but not really knowing (or acknowledging), until I tell my mom. I mean, I have these cookies sitting here and I’ve had one, ONE, but I ate the tangelo and yogurt like they were the best gifts ever. I don’t understand what is going on with me. but if this is part of grief, than yay. (sarcasm) It almost feels like I’m fasting in a way.

I want to taste and see God’s goodness, even in the this emptiness. To be mouth-dropped taken away by Him. It’s tough to see right now, but I’ll keep waiting.

Sugar Marie

Author’s Note: The last 9 days have been a blur. The day after learning my Grandma passed away, I wrote this. About the love my grandparents showed each other. I always saw this most clearly in the kitchen, always telling her how they reminded of Lucy and Desi. (except my Grandpa isn’t from Cuba and Grandma wasn’t a redhead.) They argued and made up like Lucy & Desi in I Love Lucy. To me at least.  It was always humorous. I’m pretty sure this piece is a mess, love is the same. A beautiful, giving. receiving, and forgiving mess. Thank you, God for letting me witness how you love us. Oh, the title comes from whenever my grandma dropped something in the kitchen, she would exclaim this. Have I mentioned how much I miss her?


I didn’t expect hyperventilating

hearing God took you back home,

some time last night. sleeping.

Jesus, Jesus, please come sit

beside me, weeping loss

for her, who gave me second mother’s love.

I have since spurted this yolky soul,

watching taste hit my lips, salty bitterness

refilling without my ask.

My head throbs remembering days

I’d come in the kitchen, lean

against the counter or refrigerator,

talking about the mundane of life,

compared to the way you’d prepare

a pot of chili

“Since the weather’s changing,”

you’d say, “getting colder.”

I can’t quite remember

exact wording, but

whenever grandpa came

waltzing through that straight line

kitchen, he’d try sticking his pointer finger

inside the pot. I can still see you:

blue babushka pulling back your short, blonde hair,

a grey sweatshirt with matching sweatpants,

and those squeaky white tennis shoes

standing over the pot, stirring.

Sometimes washing dishes,

a towel draped over your shoulder.

You’d catch him, exasperated:

“Get out of there!”


“It’s just a taste, Marge, relax.”

A smile covering his face.

You always told him, if he could wait

five more minutes and to “go sit down.”

“Okay, dear.” Kissing you on the cheek,

he’d leave to the family room,

Lou Dobbs and him, patient.

Biggest glass, you poured tea

only you could make right,

wedged with lemon.

At this time, I’d be at the table,

as you placed his dish complete

with sour cream and buttered bread,

Rye, set before him.

After he’d finish his second bowl,

you give him the medicine cup

full of colored pills.

Too many for me count,

but you portioned them out

day & night alleviating his ache

even in the midst of your own/

How deep your love

goes, grandpa’s & yours-

small movements of Christ’s love

impressed upon grieved heart

until our eternity is shared.

What My Heart Cannot Get: Apology

They say sorry

you passed slumbering

under night covering.

I keep saying, “it’s okay.”

my eyes spurting salt

thinking my body may be made up

100 percent, instead of 95 water.

I can hear you, “dry those tears,

missy” but you aren’t looking behind

from the passenger seat, to me,

your highly sensitive granddaughter,

knowing you’ll watch over me, listen,

but I won’t be able to call anymore,

hear your excitement to pull out

your Bible to help me understand

God’s love for me. Tonight, a woman

gave me pork chops exactly how

you made them. I thought through

my drops, they taste good cold.

I must have made them bitter.

Author’s Note: My grandma passed away yesterday. She’s taught me more about Jesus than I can put it into words right now. She’s the first person I’ve been close to, that I’ve lost. I love you, Grandma. Thank you for loving me exactly as I know Jesus is loving you in Heaven right now.

Until Your Belly Gave Notice


running starved

hard footsteps coming

judgmental in front of stovetop.

Boy, younger, stands readily

holding a left-handed ladle

drowning in juices you did not

drag from behind in heated struggle.

No, your shied brother stiffened upper lip,

strayed not a question for right.

Firstborn. May I be? Spoken

hushed due to temperament.

Oh, the agony gnawing viciously

unseen, maybe unheard to the quiet tongued

child unimagined in my mind’s eye, as is your tummy.

Until you break-erupt: What time do I have for this?

Give me what I so crave! Downed lowered chin

comes salted broth, a flavoring dear brother

watches break animal resistance.