In Hope

A park is not the same without the squirrels and the trees
And I am not quite sane without you here right next to me...

I was in graduate school in St. Louis, and my girlfriend (now wife) was finishing her bachelor's degree in Wisconsin. I wrote a lot of poetry then; it was one of the ways I dealt with my longing and desire to be with her. I wasn't always the most eloquent in person, and I can struggle to communicate my feelings in the moment; poetry provided me the opportunity to express something deeper, more profound.

As I looked out my dorm room window into a park filled with overgrown oaks and squirrels, I told her I would write a poem about squirrels. I was meaning it to be funny, but when I started to write, it became a more serious poem about how I felt less than whole when I was not with her.

Now I know what it means to not be whole

Missing a piece, like the grave misses its soul

I'm a body buried beneath a sea of sand

Waiting for you to dig me out and take my hand

I'll stand, and wait, for you, in hope...

I was not a mature person at 22; I didn't have life figured out. I only had the faintest idea of what "love" was. But that is all you need. The faintest idea. And that is the beauty of poetry- it can help you see a faint picture, far ahead of where you are now. And it can lead you into a different place. It can strengthen you as you struggle to make sense of what you are going through. It can empower and enable you to endure the worst life has to throw your way.

I was reflecting on Zechariah 9:12, where it is written, "Return to your fortress, O prisoners of hope." Hope is a powerful thing. Hope is what makes us human- the will to fight and strive and push forward in what appears to be a meaningless and cruel world. We all are prisoners of hope: we cannot escape finding hope even when we are desperate. What are young lovers, other than prisoners of hope? What are lonely widows, other than prisoners of hope? We have to try so hard to crush our will to keep on keeping on. But there is no better place to be than imprisoned with hope. Hope is what can spring us free from despair, anxiety, anger, brokenness. Hope is what can push us forward to the places and people waiting for us.

Then I'll know what it means to be whole
Like the beautiful unity between body and soul
Like the land and sea colliding, mixing on the shore
I'll dance with you, I'll be with you forevermore.
But for now, I'll stand
But for now, I'll wait
But for now, I'll live
In hope.

When I wrote this poem, I was focused on my own situation, awaiting my first love and being married to her. I look back in fondness to these words, and I now think of my mother, who has lost her husband. She is yearning for her love much more deeply than I could have imagined comprehending at 22 years old. These words are for her, too. In my youthful love, I stumbled upon a picture of love that endures. I stumbled upon a reality that is not just for me. I walked into a bigger story, one that might just speak to you, too. A picture that might cast a ray of light into the dark and murky waters of your future.

Like a squirrel burying an acorn in Concordia Park, poetry is meant to sustain us for just a little while. But instead we leave it in our hearts, and it takes root, and it grows into an oak tree which keeps us and countless others going. Prisoners of hope, forever freed.

No one else

Someone else can pen a prettier poem,

Another can build a sturdier home.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can love their wife,

Another can have a fuller life.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can do more to bless,

Another can raise sons with more success.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can have a better year,

Another can create a bigger career.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

Someone else can write great books,

Another can have finer looks.

Someone else can have more love and grace,

More joy and hope upon his face.

But no one else can write this line,

It is no other’s- it is mine.

No one else can hold my line tight,

No one else can fight my fight.

No one else can run my race,

No one else can wear my face.

No one else can let it go,

No one else will ever know

What it is to live like me

Unless you live your life:

                                         Go- live free.

Holy Week Haiku

Holy Week Haiku
To share simply, profoundly,
The cross message, H O P E.

Maundy Thursday:

Don't reject service.

Jesus is not your genie. 

His service starts yours.

Good Friday:

God gave up glory,

The tree of life has been found,

Bloody, cross of death.

Easter Sunday:

Go to the gravesite;

Hell won the fight, lost the war.

Hope is yours, now go.

Experience more:

Listen, pray, watch with others,

Go to church. Yes, you.

www.facebook.com/firstimmanuel for more information on our services in Cedarburg and Saukville.

You Are There

I am my father's son

Same frame, same race to run

I'll look back when I'm done

And know you were there.

Why did you give me life?

To subject me to strife?

This pain cuts like a knife

But I know you are there.

My short days are fleeting

Time left with heart beating

This knowledge- unseating

But I know you are there.

I need you Lord, to save

My mansion is a grave

You know I am not brave

But I know you are there.

You are there- in weakness

You are there- in trials

You are there- in heartache

You are there- in grief

You are there- through it all

Immanuel- with us

You are the God who is there.

H O M E

How did you draw me out, my love?

How did you set my heart free and capture me at the same time?

How did you give me a safe space full of suspense?

Not even a quarter of my life, but the immense amount of memories threatens to dislodge everything that came before you. I have found meaning and purpose in you and with you, something that never existed before that warm night in June. I experienced a fire that was life-giving, warming my soul and lighting the way before us.


You have become home.

You have become family.

Years of wandering, and I found you.

Years together, and we have each other.

No fancy mansion; just two broken and weary-worn parents with love and coffee.

We have become parents.

The next generation lies in our hands and wets our bed.

We are driving through Colorado, staring at stone faces, waking up with Hank the cow-dog. We are smashing roaches, birthing babies, moving. Always moving. Seven times moving. We are living Saturday mornings at farmer’s markets, walking downtown, leading our sons through the parks of childhood. We are living.


And we pause for a second, to look back.

Every step seemed to take so long and demand so much time, care, and attention.

But look how far we’ve come.

We have become a man and a woman.

We have become a husband and a wife.

We have become one.


We have become a home.