HOLY WEEK: Choices

for Holy Saturday

What way is there left to choose
after what’s been done 
to who we’ve chosen? 

This is not what I expected, Abba— 
you said come, costly, 
but all I could see was a new road
to the tree of life on a far hill,
those thousands of desperate feet 
leaping like deer and 
I didn’t believe you. 

Now you tell me wait, joy,
but all I can see is a shorn tree, 
ivory bones the only moon in 
noonday darkness, 
what’s left of the garden 
from knives and scattering feet
and I still don’t believe you.

But these coals and hillside skin
I do remember, and the fire 
that lived low in your eyes 
when you said Abba, 

when you asked your questions too 
when the sun had dipped 
so bloody low and
you chose.

---

“CAN YOU TAKE 30 MINUTES OF YOUR DAY TODAY TO SIMPLY SIT AND WAIT IN JOYFUL ANTICIPATION? NOTICE WHAT COMES UP IN THIS TIME OF STILLNESS.”

---

Fran Westwood is an emerging Canadian poet writing from Toronto. She writes poems that help her pay attention, often on finding belonging and bridges in diverse landscapes.

Fran’s work has been published by Contemporary Verse 2, the Poetry Pub and For Women Who Roar. She has pieces forthcoming in Prairie Fire, Inanna's Canadian Women Studies journal and in a 2021 collection by Flying Ketchup Press.

HOLY WEEK: ON THE BRINK OF A BARREN LAND

here i stand on the edge
of wildness
on the cusp
of wilderness
on the brink
of a barren land
eyes straining
sight searching
for a road through

Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven
is near!

finally i spot it
a silver sliver
snaking, winding
’round rocky outcrops
through thistle thickets
down deep, dark defiles
this is the way You’ve
made for me?

Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven
is at hand!

surely this
is not the way —
this wasted world
these waterless clouds
that riddling route —
surely this wanting road
is not
the way home
and yet …

Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven
is near you!

here i stand on the edge
of wildness
on the cusp
of wilderness
on the brink
of a barren land
waiting
dreading
longing
to take
the first step

---

“THERE IS A LOT GOING ON IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW. IS THERE ANYTHING PREVENTING YOU FROM FULLY ENGAGING IN HOLY WEEK THIS YEAR? A SPECIFIC EMOTION, A FEAR, A NUMBNESS? WHAT IS HOLDING YOU AT THE EDGE OF WILDNESS AND WILDERNESS?”

---

Amelia Freidline has been writing poems since she was 8 and telling stories since she could talk. She is a member of The Poetry Pub and also has six collections of poems, prose, and pictures about the seasons of Advent, Lent, and ordinary life. She lives in her childhood home in Kansas City.

LENT: VIRIDITAS

How will they hear is your concern,
Romans has been asking for years.
My concern is where it grows from and how it grows—
your sculpted maps, lips white with practice.

The Good News. You clean it out from under your fingernails, 
wash your baby of its food art mess before pictures.
Put lined boots on at first frost and walk past the weakest bodies of it.
In your pocket will good turn to grey? If songs become grey and paper fades,
if the maidenhair fern is silenced and in the rainbow you see only grey stripes.

If the vine and cloth age grey and the lettered olive shell clutches 
against a grey riverbank. If you miss the saw whet owl for the greying sky.
If butter yellow husked fields and the Greenbelt become grey
and stories remain only in Northern stone—

how will you hear
if your eyes close down to green leaf, the reddest of red wines, 
the living page, the colours of a hand?

*Reference: Romans 10:14, the Bible.

---

“WHAT COLORS ARE YOU (YOUR VISION, YOUR SPIRIT, YOUR ATTITUDE) REVEALING TO OTHERS?”

---

Fran Westwood is an emerging Canadian poet writing from Toronto. She writes poems that help her pay attention, often on finding belonging and bridges in diverse landscapes.

Fran’s work has been published by Contemporary Verse 2, the Poetry Pub and For Women Who Roar. She has pieces forthcoming in Prairie Fire, Inanna's Canadian Women Studies journal and in a 2021 collection by Flying Ketchup Press.

LENT: WHEN I'M NOT FRANTIC

For lent
I gave up caffeine—
my drug of choice.

Somewhere
I had decided that life was
too hard
to live without caffeine,
so I kept slurping it down.

Oh God, now I have to feel!
Now I know when I’m tired.
now I can’t blame my heart racing,
my body aching,
on caffeine.

Survival had become easy.
Two hours of sharp brain function
to four hours of survival.
How blunt everything feels now,
how dull and commonplace.

How dirty the floor,
how gusty the wind,
how hot the sun,
how slow the day crawls
when I’m not frantic.

Slow. Slower. Slowly
the pace of my life returns
to humanity.

Shorn, my prayers are angrier,
my meditation melancholy.
My laughter lavish.
My emotions acute.

A sharp brain for two hours a day
trapped my senses
in a cage of survival.

Why do I hate being human
so much?

---

“IN WHAT WAYS DO YOU FEEL ‘TRAPPED IN A CAGE OF SURVIVAL?’ WHAT ARE YOU USING TO NUMB OR DISTRACT? CAN YOU ALLOW YOURSELF TO FEEL WHAT’S REALLY THERE?”

---

Sara Cassidy is a wife, mother, college student, and writer from Oklahoma.

LENT: PROPHET I & II

PROPHET I

it’s steep scree
a quick journey back down 
to dry plains
to a desperate mind—

this soul opened,
is starving

where is there raw grains
and heat

a clear river and 
new wine as the 
ancient words say?

this heart stood,
bared its courage—

spoke fire
shattering muddied glass
and marble walls 
so bodies could 
breathe

now where is Presence
with mighty wings

where is a Mother’s beak
that knows exactly how 
to feed?

PROPHET II

a small wing
sandy cries, suspended
echoes in endless air—

until, after sleep
feathers of grace

a beaded beak stoops low
to touch my mouth,

quick to fill
fresh loaves over new fire

singing brooks to 
my desert soil 
and skin—

earth and belly
still enough
to receive

the feast of
closer than
breath

---

“IN WHAT WAYS DO YOU LONG FOR THE SPIRIT TO HEAL AND NOURISH YOUR “DESERT SOIL AND SKIN?””

---

Fran Westwood is an emerging Canadian poet writing from Toronto. She writes poems that help her pay attention, often on finding belonging and bridges in diverse landscapes.

Fran’s work has been published by Contemporary Verse 2, the Poetry Pub and For Women Who Roar. She has pieces forthcoming in Prairie Fire, Inanna's Canadian Women Studies journal and in a 2021 collection by Flying Ketchup Press.

LENT: dust

It's on the days
it flashes by in feeds
that someone else has left us;
on the days
we remember 
all those woven into eternity,
a tapestry of the never-forgotten,
the always-loved;
on the days 
we debate over
who's lives really matter;
on the days
we forget it all
or cannot stifle the 
memory,
so we suffocate silently
beneath our coffin lids.

The end is always present
in my flesh and in my blood,
like the burgeoning beginning
behind each closing eye - 
a familiar tingle up the spine
when silence falls
around me -

but it's ever-presence 
doesn't make each passage
any purer.
No, it's all just slowly staining
like the wine within the glass,
licking up the sides
until it spills.

So I grieve again,
I grieve. For what is earth
except to teach us
how to grieve?

---

“LAY OUT BEFORE GOD A LIST OF THINGS THAT BURDEN YOU, AND GIVE YOURSELF THE SPACE YOU NEED TO GRIEVE WITH HIM OVER THEM.”

---

Simone Bailey Campbell is a Jamaican born, New Jersey-based artist and product designer. Her creative practice is influenced by the bright colors, flora and fauna of her Caribbean upbringing and the urban life and fashion of her life in Miami, Florida, New York City and New Jersey. Although her formal training is in design, her visual art grew from self-development and a need for a more fluid and looser form of expression. It has carried her through many difficult periods of her life. It is Simone’s intention to use her artwork to do the same for others, that is to uplift, soothe and add joy to your life.

She currently uses watercolor, acrylic and latex paint, ink, wood, found objects and beeswax to create mixed media, works on paper and sculptural candles. Murals have become a natural extension of her creative practice. It's an opportunity to expand all the things she loves about creating art as well as interacting and implementing community ideas.

In addition to artwork and murals, Simone co-owns and runs Mahogany Blu Design with her spouse, Campbell.

Chris Wheeler is a poet and storyteller from northwest Indiana. He receives inspiration from the rural landscape of Indiana, his experiences as a father, and his faith. His work has found a home at Barren Magazine, Fathom, Kingdoms in the Wild, The Rabbit Room, and Foundling House, among others. He recently released his first full-length book of poetry, SOLACE: POEMS FOR THE BROKEN SEASON, and posts micropoetry regularly on Instagram @solace_poems and other writing on www.chriswheelerwrites.com.

ASH WEDNESDAY: WITH THE MARK OF DUST

Amy Seidlitz. “Ash Wednesday.” Digital illustration.

Remind us
with the mark of dust
how quickly all we’ve done
will fade away

Remind us 
with the mark of death
how little we can do
to save anything

Remind us 
with the mark of destiny
how our beloved mess
is becoming

Remind us 
with the mark of daring
how a descent 
into the tomb
will change everything

---

“WHERE ARE YOU BEING CALLED TO DESCEND?”

---

Amy Seidlitz lives with her family in the southern Philippines and serves missionary families through teaching at an international school and encouraging a deeper walk with God through spiritual direction. Writing, especially poetry, has been a life-long spiritual practice and creative outlet. She uses a computer program to play with colors and images and create contemplative art that accompanies her poetry.

DECEMBER 26TH | IN THE VESSEL OF MANKIND

Tiny Savior, your perfect body even now contains

     the glory of the Father in the vessel of mankind.

Tiny hands that skillfully shaped the heavens and earth

     will one day be scarred as they shape the souls of men.

Tiny feet that have already stood and walked in the Garden

     will one day stand and walk to the cross.

Tiny heart filled even now with both the Father's love

     and the aching weight of our sin.

Tiny, fragile blue veins on your temple, already pulsing with

     the blood that will be payment for the huge debt we owe.

Tiny Savior, your perfect body even now contains

     the glory of the Father, in the vessel of mankind.

Poem by
SUSAN RICHMOND

Artwork by
ROONEY ONG JING REN - “Him, Tedd.” Charcoal and pencil on paper.
www.rooneyojr.com

DECEMBER 25TH | ARRIVAL

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them,

““DO NOT BE AFRAID. I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS THAT WILL CAUSE GREAT JOY FOR ALL THE PEOPLE. TODAY IN THE TOWN OF DAVID A SAVIOR HAS BEEN BORN TO YOU; HE IS THE MESSIAH, THE LORD. THIS WILL BE A SIGN TO YOU: YOU WILL FIND A BABY WRAPPED IN CLOTHS AND LYING IN A MANGER.””

— Luke 2:4-12

---

The newborn king, heralded by angel armies,
Lay without pomp or ceremony 
In a feedbox, surrounded by scents 
Of hay and dust and manure,
Cattle and afterbirth and blood.

Israel’s Great Shepherd was greeted
Not by her high and holy ones,
But by a band of literal shepherds,
Smelly and earthy and common,
Full of faith and wonder and praise.

The king’s virginal mother sat nearby,
Grateful to be far from Nazareth
And the vicious whispers of neighbors.
She smiled at the shepherds’ amazement;
She, too, had known angel-awe.

Her husband, discreet and righteous,
Quietly rearranged her bed,
Working to provide more comfort
For the wife who was his
And the child who wasn’t.

Thus the Maker came to live
Among the creatures he had formed,
And He shared their form:
Tiny, helpless, humble, poor, weakness born
To shame the things the World prized most.

Poem by
MICAH HAWKINSON

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Happy Birthday, Jesus!

The good news of your birth announced by the angels was not just for the shepherds gathered round the manger or the Kings who found you by following a star, but for all humanity. On the day we celebrate your birth, I thought I’d write you a letter to tell you how much you mean to me. 

You came into this world as an infant who depended on your mother, Mary for all your needs. She was not much more than a child herself on that night long ago, but she knew that God had touched her. I wonder what she thought as she held you for the first time. Did she see the man you would become? Or did she only see her son and feel a mother’s love? Maybe she wanted to hide you away and protect you from harm. Did she wonder what God had in store for the beautiful boy that she held so close to her breast. How could she fully understand what the future held or how you would fulfill your destiny? 

You were fully divine and fully human, but when she kissed you for the first time, Mary touched your divinity with her humanity transposing divine love into human expression. For years, I did not understand the love Mary felt for you. Nor did I understand God’s unconditional love. The revelation came forty years ago, when I gazed upon my newborn baby girl for the first time. As I held her, joy and peace filled every fiber of my being. In that moment, your divine love for me intersected with my human frailty. I finally understood that your entrance into the world as an infant demonstrates that intersection. You were divinely conceived but born to a woman. Humanity and divinity united to bring salvation.

On this day of celebration, I rejoice knowing you remain steadfast and that your love never fails. I rejoice knowing that your divine love still intersects with humanity. What began 2000 years ago in a manger, still brings peace to the hearts of humanity. 

Your adopted sister,
CHARLOTTE THOMASON

DECEMBER 23RD | BEARINGS

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary.  The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

“THE ANGEL ANSWERED, “THE HOLY SPIRIT WILL COME ON YOU, AND THE POWER OF THE MOST HIGH WILL OVERSHADOW YOU. SO THE HOLY ONE TO BE BORN WILL BE CALLED THE SON OF GOD. EVEN ELIZABETH YOUR RELATIVE IS GOING TO HAVE A CHILD IN HER OLD AGE, AND SHE WHO WAS SAID TO BE UNABLE TO CONCEIVE IS IN HER SIXTH MONTH. FOR NO WORD FROM GOD WILL EVER FAIL.”

“I AM THE LORD’S SERVANT,” MARY ANSWERED. “MAY YOUR WORD TO ME BE FULFILLED.” THEN THE ANGEL LEFT HER.”

— Luke 1:26-38

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How do we bear your promise into this world, 
(barren, bleak, our destitute situation!)
Carry banners far too noble for our lowly station?
The hours push against our hope, unfurled,

Time’s fullness rising, too late, too soon, all swirl’d;
She scales that heavy-wait anticipation
Virgin, bearing marks of sin’s cessation,
Holds court, raises oath sworn on her crown impearled

Like Mary, we without spark to conceive,
A plot that plants the fruit to bear the tree
Watchful witness to such a plan, our suff ‘ring to relieve;  
Flyer, both brace and bearing corps d’esprit
No Word from You will ever fail- that we believe- 
This Banner raised and carried, pow’r: Paraclete

Poem by
KARISE GILILLAND
Contributor at An Unexpected Journal