God's been talking bout me
and I mean to disagree
h'e been having his way
and sharing with his son
the plans he has for me
and -like I said-
I'm not sure I agree.

He calls me names
like annointed
and holy
he's written me into his tree
and grafted in my energy
so that he can speak plans over me
and just take the reigns of my life

they bless me and lay works
before me that they want me to pick up
and all the while
i am praying down here
to just listen to me
and what I have figured out

its funny.

Little Girls and Big Plans

This morning my little girl woke up with big plans on her mind.
She carried down her princess book collection
all twenty hardcover storybooks
(it took three trips)
and stacked them up tight.
Like an autograph signing session
she opened the covers, and chose a ball point pen.
She then began to write her name,
not just Katie – but Katie Hope LaDuc-
she meant to claim those books with a flourish.

I watched her with tenderness-
proud that she valued the written word-
but on book number two
it all fell apart.
The perfect moment she envisioned
and the mark she wanted to leave on each
was smudged.
She had made a backwards “e”
and recognizing her error, tried to erase it with her thumb.
But ink doesn't erase, it just smears.
Her flawed “e” became a mess of ink
and a when a tear dropped in
it pooled into nothing less than ugly marks upon the page.

Sweet Katie had wanted nothing more than to leave a pretty mark.
She wanted to call the book her own
and then to keep it close like treasure.
That is all.

As I brushed a strand of hair
out of her teary eyes
I had a god's-eye vision.

How often does he wipe a lock from my brow
and hold me gently too
to comfort from my messes.
I am the child who tries to write with elegance
but instead has leaky pens and misspelled words
that make me want to blot out all I've done.
When it is too late to erase
or too engrained to re-pen
and I can only gaze and cry upon my labors
-it is then I feel the hand of God
pulling at my shoulder
telling me to step back.
I'm trying with too much of me
and not enough of him-
too early, ahead of his plans
I grab my collections and write without plans
without drafts or brainstorming sessions-
and yet I expect perfection to be laid upon my pages.

How funny we are
-silly, really.
To think so proudly that the collections even need our name.
No one is looking at them with malicious or envious eyes.
They are not going on a journey in need of identification.
We keep the treasures in a pile in our room or on a high shelf
but still, we want our mark upon them.

I took the pen from Katie's hand
and held her tightly, then led her to the sofa.
I pulled a blanket out and whispered
“It's too early, sweetie.
Lay your head here and rest.”
She obeyed without a word
because her desire to be loved
outweighed her desire to write in the princess books.
I won her over easily because she wanted to be lead.

Tonight we will try another pen. One that doesn't smudge.
I will take a book at a time and point where she should write.

I am thankful that God does the same for me
because today I woke up with big plans on my mind.

And God said, "Do nothing at all."

Sometimes faith requires us to do nothing at all.

In an American mind,
in love with self actualization
and underdog glory
we do not like those stories.

We'd rather put them back on the shelf,
shove them under the bed,
and grab another tome
more weighty, more lofty
more action packed
where the hero runs fast
fights hard and finishes first
because we want that glory
and the approbation
that comes from all around when we take the riser
and accept the crown.
To step off and shake hands
to say thank you, thank you-
this humble scene we pridefully dream
and hope to push God from prominence.


Sometimes faith requires that you do nothing at all.
Rather than up, we ought to step back.
And a porch isn't a setting of adventure
a campfire isn't an obstacle course to tackle
a kitchen table isn't always a banquet hall event.

Sometimes it is just a place
where God wants you to sit
and wait upon him.

Land of Goshen

I know now what it means
To rest in the Land of Goshen.
With the hands of God guarding me
And passing plagues around my home
But touching me not.

I’ve been years in Egypt,
Slave to sin, my Pharaoh Satan.
Trapped, wanting out,
But pulled, pulled, pulled back in
Just as the moment ran out.

On the inside,
Looking out, knowing
There is a land that’s promised.
But frightful Pharaoh
Kept me locked,
Closed my blessings out.

And I cursed the blood
And cursed the locusts,
Wondering when my God would bring
His people to his house.

But what all this time
I didn’t see
Was the rainbow promise
arched over me – shielding,
giving boundary to
the Land of Goshen.

I pray to be like Solomon
who in his wisdom knew
that fear of the Lord
begins a track that leads right up to lady wisdom.
If God asked me for what I want
(and I think he did. He does.)
I know my answers not as smart
as Solomon and his.

I pray each day for children
for blessings to be born
I pray for envelopes of freedom
to drop upon my door.
Wrong-mindedness entangles me,
intrudes upon my prayers.
I look to Solomon for schooling
and nod a thanks before I bow again,
and rethink my meditation.

I pray to be like Paul.
He too was a heady soul,
confessing his should and should nots
alongside his did and did nots.
Self condemning and prudent confessing,
he lived my story too
-only more dramatic and dynamic.

Joseph and his shrewdness
Esther and her courage
Job and his endurance
Ruth and her selflessness

These stories stay with me
as I head out the door
facing no real challenge, no real suffering
and I pray a prayer of my own thankfulness
as I jealously yearn for vision and permanence.

Confessions to God and St. Augustine: Book One

I am humbled.
My sins that I have confessed
are large.
But after I told you what I did,
I stopped.

It was kinda easy too
because ten commandments remind me
and when the seeds sprout
I can just refuse the water.

Or so I thought,
but the saints, they now enlighten me
how blurred the image I have seen
of my own sin and wanderings.
I have a hoard of iniquities
shiny and sheltered
resting in my treasure trove-like mind
(or is it heart?)
And though I pray for
deepest cleansing-
i'd rather you not come in
my darkest corners.

Oh,yes, walk the main paths,
sweep the open verandahs, dust the lounge chairs of my heart
-then stop and let me be.
To look behind the door frames
and white glove my mop boards-
Isn't rudeness defined by these?
Didn't you give me this house-
then can't I have a closet to hide my secret things?
Lord, please, don't ask for all of me.
My home, my gardens
are not fit for a king.
But are they good enough
for a lowly child like me?

If my house you would have spotless
empty from nonliving
then my garden you'd have garish.
For fruits equate with death
-the serpent taught us that-
and so the colors you'd erase from my garden paths.

But, (if I may wrestle as Jacob did),
by keeping
sinful fruits from growing,
I miss the beauty of the green
and not just the red apple fruit.
I'm too small to ask
and I know your stubborn answer
but I would you'd let me live in the garden still.
I vow I'd walk the rows of plants
and simply smell the fruits
-no dining, no conversation
and certainly no touch-
to simply walk the garden paths
and see the colored fruits
the gifts you gave to me
and then took away by dropping them in sugar coated
promises of sinful cavities.

Lord, why paint an apple red
if you don't want it to be fingered?

But you've instructed me
to weed and prune
and fumigate -
stopping any growth
and I try.
Robotic-ly I turn the whole field brown
and miss the green
because you've told me to
and I'm no green thumb-
but I could, couldn't I, just let one flower grow?

St. Augustine, though,
shames me and shows me
that tiny greens I never pruned,
for thought they'd never bring me flowers,
have trammeled up my corners even so.

My intentions, my disregarding,
sins of commission and omission
pile up from infant hood.
Focus askew,
we worry for “umanity” and not humanity,
the simple sinner tells.

And our self-built Edens
become travesties -
a jail.
We do not even know it holds us
because we are contented with our cell.

These words are my confession,
to God and Mr. St. Augustine,
I can't.
I try.
I'm sorry.
I need more of you in me.
Show me how to keep a house
simple, pure, and clean.
Teach me how to grow my garden
in only white and green,
yet still somehow supply me
with a rainbow mottled life.