“My King is the King of your king”


  “My King is the King of your king” By: Mo Isom, 2011   My King is the King of your king, my King gave your king life. My hope hopes that your hope will learn to hope, in all that is True and Right.   My faith has faith that you’ll find faith, when Read More

Where You and I Can Go


There is an empty sunset at the end of evening’s glow. A place where most have wandered, a place most choose to go. What lingers there are broken smiles, dreams cut short at whim. For as the sun sets deeper, so sinks imagination’s end. But I know of another place where you and I can Read More

Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself…


Sometimes I make jokes about my father’s suicide. I’ve found that almost every time I try to lighten the mood or laugh around some of my life’s circumstances, I’m inevitably met by stiffening postures and quick sips of water around me. Sometimes people stutter over a few awkward words and then quickly word vomit something Read More

Freedom Redefined [VIDEO]

Freedom Redefined [VIDEO]

Freedom Redefined So picture this scene, you’ve raped and you’ve pillaged. You’ve murdered, you’ve lied, you’ve destroyed a whole village. And when the High Courts catch you, you’re guilty of crime. You’re covered in blood, you’re punished to die. They explain to you you’re death will be gruesome and slow. You’ll be stripped, you’ll be Read More

Kisses from Katie


“…even though I realize I cannot always mend or meet, I can enter in.  I can enter into someone’s pain and sit with them and know. This is Jesus. Not that He apologizes for the hard and the hurt, but that He enters in, He comes with us to the hard places. And so I continue to Read More



A hot tear rolled down my cheek as I worked to straighten my twisted frown and fake a shred of composure. I had told myself I wasn’t going to cry. I saw a wince dance across Coach Miles’ face as his eyes began to redden, as well. I stared into the watering gaze of a Read More

Clay In the Potter’s Hands: a poem of trust

potters hands

I am but clay in the potter’s hands, a mass amongst many in the workshop of life. Formless and shapeless, no use or demands, simple and naive, unfamiliar to strife. To my left rest many, resembling me, but they’re hardened and drying, crumbling in state. Though the potter offers moisture, graciously free, they progressively resist, Read More