Feet

a street called parramore is lined with men who have no home. another cold spell and the people disappear. all but a few. the least among the least?

my heart aches for the man whose feet stick out from a pile of blankets on the concrete. for the man whose feet are propped on his wheelchair footrest. his body is a mound of blankets. who is he? whose is he?

the holy spirit whispers "made in the image of God." and i whisper a pray for his body and his soul.

on a cold day it's all i can make out. the feet of the forgotten.

a new season

we have moved into one of the most distressed neighborhood in the city of orlando. there is so much darkness and so much light. we have embraced the call to live incarnationally and to love the way that jesus did. the biggest surprise so far? i really like it here. "like it" as in i feel like i'm at home for the first time in a long time.

i hope to share some of my journey on here as i process the reality i now live in. it's hard and it's good. it is beauty and it is ashes.

welcome to my new season... it's gonna be a long one. probably forever.

Little Girl

i sit on the gallon bucket. the one that holds the paint intended to cover old wounds on the house built in 1925. the paint and the brush will likely never meet. these wounds on wood don't seem to matter much anymore.

three little girls with princess dressing dragging the ground play in the open spaces while someone else's little girl cautiously enters into a decked out SUV. she doesn't know him and he doesn't care to know her.

the holy spirit whispers "made in the image of God." i whisper a pray for their souls.

the buying and selling of women and the running and playing of children. same time, same place. my worlds collide and i hold close the little girl i love and i weep for the little girl whose pain i will never know.