Poems of Doubtful Hope

The weariness runs bone deep And it doesn't seem to matter the amount of rest or sleep, Because tomorrow will just be more of the same old shit And I can't move forward but I don't wanna quit. So I'm asking you to show me a path And fill me up with hope. They say that hope springs eternal, But it never did here And the hope has bled out of me down through the years. Instead of hope what I feel is alone. I keep calling but you won't pick-up the phone; I don't deserve it, but I still need it. On a hill far away, over the River Jordan, In the sweet by and by, one bright morning, Come now, angel band, In the garden, in Beulah land: Is Death the only hope there is? Can't I be saved here and now from this? The love of God resonates, but sanctification? I know me too well to sing that song. Friends have been hurt by The Church and decided to quit, But there's something there amidst the hypocrisy That I can't quite release and it's robbing me of my peace...

 Friendly hugs, taken by the virus. Intimacy driven out by maternity. Feeling alone and unwanted; My biggest organ failing. The crowds pressed in on every side; Did it make you feel trapped? Social propriety was never your concern; Was the Son of Man a hugger? I keep people at arm's length But yearn to pull them in close. Can you hold me tight enough To force the broken pieces back together?

I know she loved me, But it's hard to associate love With hollow threats of violence And an insatiable need to fill the silence. I know she cared, But she hasn't heard a word I've said for years, And all my fears and tears never made it Past the swirling vortex of self-pity. I know I'll miss her, But how do you explain missing someone Who was relentlessly self-obsessed and built A wall of nonsense between the two of you That nothing real was ever going to penetrate? She's gone; her body is ash, Her life reduced to a pile of stuff In my parents' garage. Do I miss her, or a version of her I never met?

Have you tried changing your diet? Have you tried praying about it? Have you tried going for a walk outside? Have you tried meditation? Have you tried medication? Have you tried exercise? Have you tried sleeping more? Have you tried sleeping less? Have you tried spending time in nature? Have you tried shaking up your routine? Have you tried positive visualization? Have you tried making goals? Have you tried being grateful? Have you tried treating yourself? Have you tried a new skin care routine? Have you tried a sun therapy lamp? Have you tried buying enough stuff to fill the black hole where happiness used to be? Have you tried just ignoring the fact that the world's on fire and going about your day? Have you tried talking to someone who might actually be helpful?

Sometimes I feel like the only person In the whole Bible honest enough To tell the truth is the author of Ecclesiastes. Life is exhausting, because nothing ever changes, And no matter how much good you do Eventually no one will remember your name. No matter how smart you are, You'll still be surrounded by morons. No matter how hard you work, You'll be dead soon and everything you've built Will be left in the hands of somebody else. Maybe this is my time To pull my garden up by the roots. Maybe this is my time To tear down the things I've raised up. I've been weeping and mourning so long I don't know if I'll ever laugh or dance again. I've been seeking in silence most of my life; Is this the time to speak up? To throw away the things that aren't working? The more the words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?

  I’m scared to death everyone is looking at me. I’m scared to death that no one can see who I really am. I want to withdraw and barricade myself inside my own head, But there are things to be done and it never stops. So, I shove it all down, stomping on the lid of the box where I keep my fears, But it’s been bursting at the seams for as long as I can remember. I’m scared to death that a single misstep could ruin everything forever. I’m scared to death that nothing I do matters at all. I feel the waves crashing over me and keep fighting against the tide. I feel the waves dragging me under and I want to just give in, To give up; to sink to the bottom and find rest in the nothing. How can I follow someone who walks on stormy seas when I can barely tread water? I’m paralyzed. I can’t move and I have to move. Rest isn’t restful, and productivity produces results that are barely passable. I want to leave my sons a legacy. I want that legacy to be more than fear and pain and regret. ...

Every day for two years I’d wake up and ache from head to toe. Is this COVID or the crippling weight of depression and feeling helpless? I’d come to work and do my best to bring hope and comfort with me. It felt like a miracle because I fed the people I ministered to: Every time they reached into the basket, they pulled something out, Even though I was sure I had never put anything in. But at the end of the two years, I didn’t collect more than I gave out; I collected eighty pounds from stress eating and an ever-widening bald spot. Every day for a year and a half I’d wake up and the loss would drag me down. We kept trying, but every time it didn’t work all the old wounds opened back up, Hemorrhaging all our hopes and casting us back down into the pit we just climb out of. I felt like it was my fault; I felt like I let you down. You felt like it was your fault; you felt like you let me down. No one was to blame but my anger needed somewhere to go, so I hurled it at the heavens. I scream...

The call of a disciple is to look like Christ,  And the need to be alone is the thing that makes me feel most like you.  It makes me wonder how much of my life is a performance.  What would I do if I didn’t have to do anything?  My role makes me feel the need to be perceived as holy.  If a pastor fails in the woods, is it still a sin? But it’s not just the calling on my life That binds my stomach in knots.  There is a prison deep inside my heart,  And inside is a scared little boy.  The chains are broken, the bars are dust, the door has rotted away,  But still, he sits and waits.  Who can comfort him as he sits and weeps in the darkness? What can set him free if he holds himself hostage? It’s been safe to come out for years,  But the prison is the only home he can remember.  You said you came to bring good news to the poor: Why are your people so hungry for power and money?  You said you came to proclaim release to the cap...

When I was at my lowest you lifted me up and made me feel God's love. It pushed the dark back and it saved my life. You didn't know where that darkness came from, and it didn't matter; you loved me. That love was a beacon of hope to light my way back to somewhere the sun was shining. Now, I want to offer that same beacon of hope to others, And you tell me they're our enemies, who I thought we were supposed to love, too. Not only that, but because I want to share that same radical love with the "wrong" people, You told me I never really understood it at all. So now, I'm praying for you in the midst of my persecution. I'm hoping that God will turn you from an enemy back into a neighbor. I'm trying to be as perfect as you think you are, And hoping you'll see the light when the sun rises and be renewed when the rains fall.

My whole life it has hung over me  Like the sword of Damocles, Reminding me who I am not. I am weak and I am tired. I struggle to find the strength to trudge. I'd rather let anyone else do it. I am meek and I am timid. I am scared of even the possibility of failure. I want nothing more than to blend in. I am terrified: scared I'm not good enough. Scared I'll let down the people I love. Scared of trying my hardest and my best still not being good enough. I am discouraged: I eat because I'm unhappy. I'm unhappy because I eat. The only guarantee seems to be me being too weak to be better. I'd be a lot more comfortable taking God with me if I could leave myself at home.

The Lord has been my shepherd, but lately I've felt harassed and helpless, Wanting something I can't even put into words. I'm feeling too anxious to lie down in the green, I've wandered far from still waters, And the restoration of my soul seems doubtful at best. The shadow of death doesn't linger; Instead it's the shadow of a slow march to oblivion, Dying inside little by little without the hope of dying all at once. I'm not afraid of evil; I'm afraid of myself and afraid I'll never feel what I once felt again. Are you with me? I want to believe you are, but I feel so alone. I don't need a rod and a staff; I need someone to wrap their arms around me and tell me everything is gonna be all right. I need it to not be a lie. I'm sitting at the table looking for my enemies, but all I see is me. To my right I see my own crippling sense of self-doubt. To my left I see a funhouse mirror version of my body that looks like a beached whale. Before me I...

Jesus said I am the way, the truth, and the life. So what do you do when the way feels foggy? How do you follow the truth when you feel like the world is full to the brim of the chaos of half-truths and compromises, sucking you in to the muck and the mire till the breath of life comes in through a straw and its shallow and any attempt to explain brings on looks of concern and prayers of rebuke but what if the evil spirit That’s lurking isn’t the devil or culture or sin? What if I’m the problem, and the doubts are who I am? Jesus may be the way, truth, and life, and I want to believe that he is. But I’m struggling to see the nail-pierced hands and it feels like years since I reached into his side and Gilead’s balm is way up on the top shelf and I’m feeling too tired to climb. So I keep casting my net on the same side. I keep reaching the pool too late. And I try to sneak into the sheep fold unseen Because I’m scared of what might happen if They notice someone like me trying to use the g...

I saw the face of Christ today, Emaciated and worn. His sunken eyes were dimmed by meds, His countenance forlorn. His teeth were all but missing, His hair was long and thin, He mostly babbled nonsense And bore wounds all over his skin. Upon his arms in stark contrast Were symbols of violence and hate Speaking of a master race And a vanished nation's pride over a century too late. We had spoken before of the sins he bore And his heart was heavy-laden Struggling to forgive himself For his choices and lives he'd taken. I saw the face of Christ today, Dying alone and scared And though I struggle with the kindness needed I know that God has cared. For the face of Christ is on us all And God has not forgotten.