in the kitchen i sit at the table worn out wood with etched-in memories in the kitchen i watch my mother prepare a feast with grace and hurry the pilled apron shows years of expertise but the burnt bread shows her youth in the kitchen we pray as a family and praise God for his provisions just today, He has given the manna we need if i only had this kitchen, i could be complete my family to share, my food to eat, and our God to be with us all as we partake at the table.

brewed up the just the right environment the wave of leaves, the fall of water. towering trees, swaying mountains. all made in his graceful splendor. and to whom do i give thanks for these elements added? my reaction to it all is awe and wonder. it’s my place of refuge, arms of comfort. i’ll give thanks to the creator of love when i receive those provisions as a gift from above. so often i assume i’m the one who provides for myself; i have to stop and recall. my basis for life ought to be in his likeness: grace and splendor.

soft raindrops roll down his face in the way his tears fell as he expels the truth. words create emotions - emotions shared by the ones we cry out to. the intentions weren’t to create pain, but that’s what it produced. a season of purging the truth. it hurt his hands as he gripped the shovel to unearth the past. the hole too deep to fill in back in. besides, it hurts too much to patch up pain with memories he can’t recreate. so as the rain falls, he’ll recall the episode of pain presumed and peace produced as he was covered in a shawl of his own truth.