a smattering of some of Christine’s recent published work
HELLO, LIGHT
Published by DTS Voice | Awarded 4th Place in Poetry by The Evangelical Press Association, 2024
I remember, too, the sunrise.
The miracle of dawn just
when I deemed myself
destined to dwell
darkened forever
First, a flickering
like tiny fireflies
of silver, then wavering
like a lone meek candle
braving the horizon
Then, peeking
like golden dapples
through trees; hope dancing
and pirouetting in invitation
And finally,
like you struck
your divine match
and—reckoning it
to my heart—engulfed me.
And I remember
how it drove the darkness
screaming. How, at first,
I stood bewildered, blinking
like an unburrowed mole
before your brilliance,
astonished to find
that you warmed
instead of blistered
WAIT
Published as ADVENT by Fathom Magazine
What I would not give to rise
from this window seat of longing
to brave my way into the gray
and through the gray to part
the veil that obscures life
from light
If I were a bird, I would nest
in you, in your safety. Pluck
the healing from your hands
and place, honey-sweet,
your promise on my tongue.
Oh, to taste your goodness.
Yet… your already-but-
not-yet kingdom
will not yet receive me.
Not yet.
I must wait,
face and hands pressed
against the glass. Peering,
seeing only dimly now.
I must wait
for your hand to throw open
the palace gates, for
your hand to lift the curse.
to lift my chin.
Write your name upon my brow.
Place your pledge upon my finger.
Tuck your flower in my hair.
I will wait.
HOLY GROUND
Published by Fathom Magazine | Awarded Honorable Mention by Rehumanize International
Boot bottoms, dusty
with holy ground, trampled
Divine abundance desiccated
by gulping greed
and inebriated industry
Land watered by war
and plowed by gore. Opulence
obtained through oppression
Suffering sown as seed
Flags planted instead of freedom
The stolen ground grumbles
and. beneath it. the blood
of stolen bodies groans
Loam—once fertile and fruitful—
now crumbles, as parched
and poisoned as the
American church witness
Stewardship forsaken for profit
Creation exploited, embezzled
The plunder hailed as God’s bounty
Cultivating dispossession,
a mockery of freedom. We pledge
blind allegiance to truth untold,
praise a hidden history
Shoulders proud, hands
over hearts of stone, erecting
monuments where we should
be kneeling graveside
UNNAMED IN THE STORY
Published by Fathom Magazine and in Lattes with Luke by Dr. Sandra Glahn
Then Jesus told them yet another story: “Once a man had two sons…”
LUKE 15:11-31
The kitchen window
framed the scene—
the proud posturing,
the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy extended his hand,
demanding honor from Kindness.
For six years, I coursed my days
and minded my worries
at the window, eyes straining
down an empty road,
prayer pouring from mourning lips.
In the evenings, I despaired
as low shoulders—burdened
beneath sorrow—undressed
in tallow light, and rough lips
mouthed unanswered prayers.
While I, unnamed in the story,
lay beside him, hand-in-hand,
sitting shiva with Kindness.
Each morning, I rose with the dawn,
picked limp dreams from the counter,
and kept watch at the window.
Washing, praying. Drying, praying.
When at last our earnest prayers
were answered and our lost son’s
shape rose on the road, I abandoned
my post at the window.
Eyes straining to meet his.
Joy pouring from praising lips.
I clutched my miracle on the stoop
and then busied myself
with preparations. But
as the celebration swelled,
the sun sank and a new agony
dawned in another son.
The kitchen window
framed the scene—
the proud posturing,
the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy pointed his finger,
resenting kindness from Honor.
I QUIT
Published by The Holy Shift
I quit buying in on burning myself out and selling myself short.
read the rest | hear this piece
SPIRITUAL VERTIGO
published on The Holy Shift
In the upside-down Kingdom,
he flips our tables
and topples our empires.
He inverts our assumptions
and upends our expectations.
He reverses our priorities
and upsets our majorities.
read the rest | hear this piece
BREATH MY ONLY BOUNDARY
Published by Fathom Magazine | Awarded 2nd Place Preston Perry Poetry Contest
A mute and silent prisoner
bound beneath ebony ocean depths
dull obsidian within me
Lips, shackled.
Tongue, tethered.
Cheeks, shame-faced
and waxen. Lack of light,
want of redemption
There is no song here.
Bite my lip, seeking
some sensation. Savor
the copper tang of deprivation
Pennies on my tongue, bitter
Marbles in my mouth, muffle
Anvil on my ankles, leaden
Trauma tangled in my hair
Hope mangled by my fear
Can holiness reach even here?
He says yes.
The sky brightly beckons
Would I dare rise?
I yearn toward yellow
but my fear fetters
The wicked waves
thrust me deeper,
send me tumbling. Yet
I clamor, kick, climb,
for truth is not a tether
Fear-soaked and vice-choked,
I break the surface
Breath now my only boundary,
I confess the bitter briny sea,
the brackish wild depravity
and gulp—honey-sweet—
his mercy
The sun sways daffodil
above me, showers silken
warmth upon me, sparks
worship deep within me
THIS is glory
My lungs and heart
are full to bursting
My mouth, once desert,
no longer thirsting
My first song is surrender
I am free
*the phrase “Breath my only boundary” was inspired by “Breath as a Boundary,” the title of a portrait by Kenturah Davis.
DROWNING IN GRIEF:
Published in Fathom Magazine and The Holy Shift
Grief ebbed onto my shore last year. It came at first just slapping at my ankles with a catastrophic rift in my family. Then a dream died and it sucked the hope like sand from beneath my feet. Months of chronic pain that no one could explain or alleviate brought it higher still. Finally, with the awakening of past trauma I had never quite confronted, sadness like the tide rose to my waist and chin.
read full article in Fathom Magazine
MY FATHER’S HANDS
Published by Fathom Magazine
Fear was my father’s favorite game and one I learned to play at four years old.