on being the holy broken.

you wonder

if it is worth

living your life

cracked

wide

open, whether

.

.

wearing your heart

on your sleeve

and

all your

hopes

carried in

unclenched

hands,

is ever safe, where

.

.

all the world can

see, and

all the world can

say

what they feel

about the tender courage

that has

taken

root

within you.

.

.

it will not be easy.

no.

definitely not.

there will be pain.

it is a new birth,

after all.

.

.

but, you must not

curl

inward.

.

.

lift your head.

unfurl your spirit.

reach upward.

live outward.

.

.

you are the holy broken.

.

.

the one holding the light.

.

.

and if you show your scars, people will come

and sit with you,

and they will listen.

.

.

and this

is how we heal each other.

by living gently,

and walking vulnerably.

unafraid of opinion.

ready to wipe away

tears

and

fears

and

other darkness,

with the light

shining

from

the cracks

in our bones.

moved only by the spirit.

.

.

so, yes—do it.

live your life a white dove

on the battlefield.

.

.

cracked

right

open.

.

.

it will all be ok.

.

.

—on being the holy broken.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

.

.

Photograph by @luizclas .

grace, in the everyday.

i breathe

thanks

for the

gifts

as

they

fall

into

my

lap.

a

moment

by

holy

moment,

eucharisteo

for the

seemingly

insignificant

details of

my life.

instead of

relying on tired

memory

at day’s

end,

when

i forget

the taste of the tea,

sweet and milky.

the warmth from the radiator,

always reliable.

candles and apples,

and flowers

from the grocery store.

windows in walls beneath a roof,

and books

that

line

my

walls.

a washing machine that

works.

and food in cupboards,

my daily bread,

given.

and,

i search deeper

for the plain things

that

are holy things

of old.

the water and the wine,

and

the fish and the bread

and

the mud and the spit

and

my breath and my life

and

always

the giver

becomes

the gift

and

it

is

all

a golden

thread

of

everyday

grace.

and

i

breathe

thanks.

— grace, in the everyday.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Today, we are held.

And this,

is the wisdom

of nature,

this love letter

You write

daily

of sparrows

feeding

young

and

woodland orchids

quietly blooming

where eyes seldom see

and death

comes

to

all,

eventually.

Even then,

in musty

decay

there is beauty

left behind

to nourish

others.

But,

today.

Today,

there is

enough.

We have enough

and

tomorrow

will come

holding her own worries

in a basket,

but

today,

we are held.

— Today, we are held.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

There was so much more I wanted to include in this poem. How the continous thread in God’s Word speaks of ‘just for today we have enough’, and how this life can cause us to chase tomorrow’s blessing and worries, but that is for another poem.

Another day.

I buried my fears under a tree and hope grew.

I walked

into the

woods

today

carrying

yesterday’s

disappointments

and

tomorrow’s

fears.

Wandering

the

ancient

soil

I

sought

a

resting

place

for

these.

Until

at

last,

emptied

of the

past,

and

relieved

of

the future,

I

simply

stood.

Small.

Under

a cathedral

of

trees.

—I buried my fears under a tree and hope grew.