Two spring poems, written one year apart, on waiting with Him…

In memory of “one year,” a poem from that week…

I write too many research papers and that takes time away from Jesus…

Decades later, I remember that day and wonder how well my memory serves me. If it were not for my aged, leather notebook featuring the detailed account I rushed to pen while the experience was fresh in my mind, logic would have wiped the details from memory long ago. It happened on my walk from the university at the start of the academic year, in the most curious way…

I am tall like my great-great grandfather, Stradon, the curve of whose back shielded a Jewish boy from Nazi gunfire…

I am no “poet,” but like the woman who touched the hem of the Messiah’s garment, I, too, long…

My grandfather was transporting Bibles across the Belarussian border when his steering gave out…

I never met my grandfather, but I grieved him all my life...

Gnarled, bony branches reach to night skies and I wonder what my grave might say…

I confess I’m far more wretched than the rest…

I loiter anxiously in a tidy church foyer on a Sunday afternoon waiting for Pastor Victor. Hours after the service, he finishes his final meeting of the day and catches me hovering by the railing as he descends the office steps. “A profile?” He chuckles. “You’re certain you want it to be about me? Ah, ever the writer,” he winks. “Come on, we’ll lock up together.”