A group of kids with skin made of night sky
Soared through the sidewalk towards the park.
They were greeted by a spectator’s suspicion and bullets after dark.

A single mom feels panic invade her chest.
Her minimum wage isn’t elastic enough to feed her son.

Just in case a trigger-thirsty villain besieges recess,
A school rehearses hide without the seek.
The thought alone suspends each parent’s sleep.

A kind man tried to unburden his anguish with decades of gin,
Finally enough to make his body a wasteland.

A woman is gone; a lover’s fist found her,
Stole her pulse before she could find her voice.

These are the details on my desk.
These are plotlines of my family.
These are vignettes of strangers on the nightly news,
Stories stuck in zip codes we prefer to rush through.

Why can’t every sad story have a plot twist?
Most days, I can’t stomach what God permits.

I watch the world ration its thoughts and prayers,
And flinch to offer our care based on who’s in need.

When the sorrow swells in me,
I make a meal of my tears.
I aim my anger at my Maker.
I let prayers, petite and passive-aggressive,
Spill from my mouth.

And each time, the Divine can still stomach me.

I think there’s sacred space for a woman who wavers,
For whenever I have questions to savor.
There’s a welcoming for when my belief is brave enough to doubt
And honest enough to pout.

There’s a God that softens me
Through time span and silence,
Spreads me sincere like a Psalm.

There’s a Creator that waits patiently for me,
For when I’m ready to draw near again.

A God that tastes of goodness
Even amidst an aching, unfinished world.

A God that can bestow my body with both
A grit for grief and joyful relief.
Because there are also wondrous days
That display humanity’s bandwidth to become unstuck,
Where people are liberated from the confines of a blueprint designed for their dismay.
There’s a threshold where life can contract and expand,
Like an impoverished man making his way through school
And painting his kid’s horizon brighter each day.

And a woman who was trafficked, now free,
Braving her own feelings and reflection,
Showing up to each therapy session.

And that veteran who swallowed so much carnage overseas,
Made an island of himself,
Yet he is starting to let loved ones approach his shores.

I’m holding awe for the miracle of any movement made,
Whether by the millimeter or by the mile.

I’m sojourning stories that make me want the world to dance,
But not in disregard
For how others are perishing near and far.

I’m sojourning enough stories to want the world to weep,
But not in unbelief of how God’s goodness can still find us.