City of Sound

I looked for a sound to rise up from these streets

And quench the fire in my head,

Turned corners filled with rhythms

Notes like bees swarming the sky

Ev’ry direction echoing between

My ears, filling the anxious space

With their sweet buzz

Bring me back to here, now

Sun shinin’ through concrete and steel

On the glass tube letters,

On my hair and in my skin.

The fire falls into my bones,

My cadence gets in line and I

Swing through this city

Two three four.

No pain strain rain in my brain

Just mixed up mellifluity

My pulse paced with a bass on

The facing corner

Two steps to the left of drum sticks

On a five-gallon bucket

Ka-thunk, thunk-it

Meowing steel guitar pierces through

Honky-tonk windows to the sidewalk

Crowds sing along to secondhand classics,

And for the space of of five city blocks

My heart too



Everything You Ever Wanted

“Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” – Psalm 37:4

I decided my sophomore year in college to change my major from Sociology to English. Admittedly, I wanted to study sociology because Zora Neale Hurston did, and she wrote characters that walked off the page and into your mind, flipping through the filing cabinets of memory and reading aloud long-forgotten accounts. I wanted to observe people, to study people from a safe distance. I did not know how much science was involved, and my research papers were cleverly written, but complete scientific bunk.

What else does one do with an English major, though, except teach? I had daydreams of scenes from Dead Poets’ Society, sitting on the big desk and philosophizing about Hamlet and Frost, molding young people, inspiring, high-five-ing in the halls. Steady, respectable, interesting employment.

God has the habit (perhaps, His character) of giving us exactly what we want, and what we need, but in completely different packaging.

After five years of teaching seventh grade English (no philosophizing or even inspiring, although lots of high-fives), I felt an undeniable urging from the Lord to leave my job and raise my child, later children, at home. It was the hardest decision I have ever made. I left the thing which had made up so much of my identity for so long in exchange for full-time occupation in something that I was never truly pursuant of or prepared.

I took that in which I knew I was successful and left it on the altar. I grieved for it and looked back many times, quite frankly. I took up the position for which I was ill-equipped because God said.

The last three years have been a trial by fire, one of learning and correcting, the practice of grace.

My son is four and will begin Kindergarten next fall. I have been counting down the days, making plans for focusing on one child again, and eventually returning to some type of work. But through a series of events and realizations too lengthy to detail here, I am beginning to see that home school for the first few years may be our best option.

I am not a home-schooler. I was not even an elementary teacher. I was never a mommy-ing woman, even as a mother. I believe in public education.

Yet here I sit, flipped on my rear again, asking God why and how and “Seriously?”

In these three years I’ve also published one book, nearly finished another, and I whip out an occasional haiku for kicks. And I remember Zora Neale Hurston and that I wanted to observe people and write. I want to write transporting truth and beauty and something so familiar it makes you check your rear-view mirrors.

I have realized that my desire to work is not about my identity; it is about a deeply buried notion that my ability to add economic value is what makes me valuable.

God asked me one time in a desperate place if I would be willing to give up the vain accessories that decked my heart’s desire. Would I lay down the visible extras to do the thing for which I prayed? And as I answered, and the external vanities were cut away, I felt peace and direction which had been clouded.

God is allowing me to have the opportunity to pursue the occupations I always wanted while doing what is best for my family, even if I never earn an income or notoriety as a writer. My faith must rise to the uncertainty of finances and to the strength to face the tasks given. I must trust my fragile soul in the hands of my Creator, who gives me the true desires of my heart.


Book available now – Sparrow: Devotions in Prose and Verse

My Story

Every generation has that moment – the one you tell your grandkids, the one which you can recall exactly where you were and what you were doing.  For my mother, it was President Kennedy’ assassination.  She was thirteen at the time and remembers it like yesterday.  I grew up listening to that story, fascinated by the tragedy that struck an entire nation all at once, and that changed the course of history.  I now know the story I will tell my grandchildren.  I know it like it was yesterday.

September is beautiful in Tennessee, and the eleventh was the epitome of all that was young and free.  The morning air felt like walking into the ocean, and the sky was perfect blue.  Tuesdays were my favorite days of that early school year: double-periods of gym, humanities, and art.  It was everything a senior could want in a schedule.  My morning gym class took the school’s activity bus to a nearby driving range to practice our golf swings.  Some of my best friends were in that class.  We donned our gym shorts and shades, and we joked about our pathetic attempts at hitting golf balls for an hour.  I remember being joyous, loving my life and the promise of the present.

The forty or so seniors in that class piled back into school just as classes changed.  I was on autopilot, beaming from the fresh air and sunshine as I climbed the stories of our ancient high school which sits in the heart of downtown Nashville.  I didn’t notice the strange, somber faces in the hall; it is the nature of a seventeen year old to be self-centered.  As I left my friends and entered my homeroom, I encountered a foreign sight.  Small groups of students huddled, talking low and staring at nothing.  My teacher stood on a chair trying to make a mounted television work.  We had never watched TV in homeroom before.  I do not recall whom I first asked, but I asked someone.  “Hey, what’s going on?” 

 Do you ever have the experience of listening to someone but not absorbing what that person says?  Her words bounced off me rubber bullets, creating unexplained pain.  Plane crashes.  World Trade Center.  Pentagon.  “Wait.  What?”  We pulled a third into our conversation to re-explain.  My mind began turning.  I couldn’t even remember what the World Trade Center actually was.  My eyes lifted to a static-y television scene to see a replay of the second plane hitting one of the towers, the other tower like a smokestack behind it. 

The teacher asked us all to move to the room next door where there was a working TV.  I sat on a cold tile floor staring at footage that is forbidden now.  We watched the first tower sway, news anchors attempting to comment on what seemed to be an inevitable collapse.  After it fell, we saw people from the second building leap to their deaths, preferring to die in the air than the rubble of a building.  I had to keep reminding myself that it was real, it was live, and it might only be the beginning.

Eventually, we were sent to our next class, which happened to be a humanities class.  We spent the entire time talking about the whys and hows and what ifs and what nows.  Our building was put on lockdown because it was surrounded by governmental buildings.  I looked out the windows from the third story classroom.  No cars on the busiest street in the city.  Planes had been grounded, leaving an eerie silence overhead.  An armed officer patrolled the block around the federal courthouse across the street.  It felt like a nation was holding its breath.

As the day wore on, the lockdown was lifted.  People slowly made their ways home.  We, as a nation, began to get clarity on what happened and why, we, as a generation, began to see the implications.  We knew there would be a war, and, more than that, we knew it was probable that much of our lives from that point would be defined by that day.  I remember crying one night at work because an older co-worker began excitedly talking about war and how there would probably be a draft.  All I could think about were my brother, my boyfriend, my friends.  It was not his generation that would pay the price.

Looking back on it now, I refuse to be cliche, saying that I grew up that day, or that things were miserable after that.  There was never a draft and, while I have friends and relatives who served in the wars, they did so voluntarily.  I didn’t lose a loved one that day, and I was not tangibly effected by it.  I will say, though, that a cloud settled over us that day.  No one of an age of understanding was unchanged.  And in my tiny little sphere, our perspectives changed.  The feeling of  invincibility that comes with being seventeen was gone, and in its place was a deep respect for frailty and resilience, as well as an understanding of the big picture. 

I wish that generationally-defining moment was a beautiful one which I could share with children and make them smile.  But, if we are honest, it is not the beautiful moments that change us.  They are good, but they don’t grow us.  It is through trials that we develop hope, perseverance, and maturity.  We are a nation that is more mature now than it was on September 10, 2001.  Let us pray,  fervently and sincerely, that we do not forget.