No turning back. Every day, every moment, despite weakness and shortcoming, we will do:  the Holy Spirit in me and I.

The nearness of God is my good;
I have made the LORD God my refuge,
that I may tell of all Your works. Psalm 73

To the Cowardly Revolutionary

I thought myself alone.
When you are
tempted, don’t.

See this crumbling
empire, clinging
to Fisher
Price power.
When you do good,
see it as treason.
though their eyes
follow you to the
guillotine from your

house, and you drag
your arms, atrophied
from the chains, all
the way.
See yourself both a
loyal and an infidel;
you act toward
both empire and
your King.

–Oh God, you could return,
restore, take away this
wretched choice, lying in
hands of wretched women
and men. And He answers:

“Patience, for now,
rejoice that you, daughter,
are free to decide.
Remember Me.”

We plead, remember me.
“Always,” says the King,
“and I will remind you,
until your holy rebellion’s
no longer necessary, and

your righteous loyalty’s
eternally secured. I will
lift you from revolutionary
to royal heir
at My side.”

Oh at Your side,
we whisper, my King
at Your side; That’s
enough. Our King smiles: “Yes. Yes, always.”

[crumbs of truth] The Opposite of Mourners • Ten / Forty • Growing in Faith, Falling in Love, and Other Strange Maybe-Decisions

The Opposite of Mourners

  • Rejoicing voices rose through my bedroom floor, so I couldn’t drift to sleep. What a glorious insomnia. I watched Jimmy Fallon on my phone until the voices slipped away. One of the celebrators had handed me a chocolates flavored peppermint in cellophane, and it is lying somewhere here in my bedroom. What I wouldn’t give to keep this crowd, and live in this occasion forever. My patchwork heart nags me to remember a Groom arrives.

Ten / Forty

  • You are in my window, and I’m at my wit’s end, thank God, in reaching you. I wish I could see you, the all of yous, some who seem closer then my elbows, and others more remote than even my imagination. No, I know I have no excuse, and shame Him with every one of the 1300 for whom I justify away my silence, my absence, just like I let the Jerusalmites and Samaritans slip through my fingers like pistachio shells. And yet I hear God is reaching yous. I will never consider marrying from across the road of the Good Samaritan’s wounded man again, no matter the sparkle of his priestly sash

Growing in Faith, Falling in Love, and Other Strange Maybe-Decisions

  • I almost forgot joy, or at least to wonder if this pleasure is it. I’m nearly always convinced.What I don’t know is like wet shorts. I want so much to find a secret garden here or there, but not if it has a secret monster.

I’m really hungry and I’m really tired. God is good. Thanks, ladies.

what we are – Ephesians 4

a speck of reflective dust

i am, and not much

more. flipping, spinning

in sunbeam with

siblings who become

friends, strangers who become

family. there’s camaraderie in dirt.

in the spotlight, well, here we are:

can’t escape each other’s grainy eyes.

can’t help rubbing down my elbows

against your crumbling knees and

crying out.


and now a word from our Father…

John 2:23-25

New American Standard Bible (NASB)

23 Now when He was in Jerusalem at the Passover, during the feast, many believed in His name, observing His signs which He was doing. 24 But Jesus, on His part, was not entrusting Himself to them, for He knew all men, 25 and because He did not need anyone to testify concerning man, for He Himself knew what was in man.


This passage puzzles and intrigues me. Mainly because of the word in bold above:  “entrusting.” I see that Jesus is doing signs. I see that people are believing in His name (If I understand correctly:  name= authority, status as Son of God; believed= trusted, depended on for rescue), and I understand that Jesus has His ways, because He is different than us. He knows exactly what we’re made of (He made us) and what’s in us (He can see into us).

What I don’t understand is what Jesus was not doing, “entrusting Himself to them,” and what that means for His character. When I looked up “entrust” in my Strong’s NASB Exhaustive Concordance, I found a word in the Hebrew side that was, no joke, “meh,” and meant almost nothing.

And as I was writing that paragraph, that’s when I realized… the Book of John wasn’t written in Hebrew ^_^;

But now that I’ve read the Greek translation–“entrust,” “believe,”– it still doesn’t resolve it for me. This will be a fun passage to mull over today.


Scrape the Rust, Oil the Joints

There is some bad poetry on this blog. There’s some decent writing. This is a legitimate time capsule of Jaclyn, sampling a limited selection of moods and phases.

I wish I’d kept better track of this metamorphosis. My intent is to return to my early ways of consistent written disclosure, especially about myself. You could call it narcissism. Since I don’t have a chubby, dribbling baby to photograph and swoon over, why not reminisce over my own awkward (and far less cute) spiritual, emotional, professional, artistic, cosmetological growth? (gosh, do I like words)

But, for both our sakes, I hope this isn’t narcissism. I hope what I do here is actually the opposite.

I want to write like I did in high school.

When I “got an idea” as a teenager, I didn’t as much “get” it, as the idea GOT me. It possessed me, descended on me like a dove. Its silky, shimmering image–of the idea, you see–would move and grow. Not just in my mind, but in my every sense. It was as if worlds grew from seeds, and something I’d eaten of this world had contained a world-starting seed, a tiny embryo that was sprouting and unfurling inside me.

It probably sounds pretty weird if you haven’t had this kind of experience. Don’t worry– it’s about to get weirder.

See, once the seed of a new, imagined world starts to grow, it needs a bigger and bigger place to live. The space inside one little human isn’t enough. The baby world seedling needed transplanting. For me, the next viable plot was my laptop. Ahh, my high school laptop. In the early 2000’s, mine was sidewalk gray, and about three inches thick. It was awesome, this tool I used to lay down fresh, green thoughts.

Here’s the Twilight Zone part, unless you can relate. As I typed, I never really knew what my story was going to be about. I might have a character or two, and a setting, but that was about it. Writing revealed to me the story. It never felt like I was “creating” or “crafting” anything, like we always say we’re doing as English undergrads or highfalutin bloggers.

Writing became like reading for me. I had been a voracious reader growing up, and could never seem to find books long enough (until I picked up Atlas Shrugged), and I especially loved stories that surprised me (though I still have an affinity for Animorphs and Garfield comics). To write was like reading the most suspenseful, unpredictable story. There were no book summaries to give everything away, or paragraphs further down the page to woo my eyes and spoil the next turn before I’d finished Jo March’s monologue. And best of all, the story could stretch on forever.

I marvel at how unknowingly close to such a great Truth I was so long ago. If only I had remembered. It would’ve saved me such angst and anxiety as I scrabbled for an existence of my own. I fought, and tried, pretended, and strove. I cried when I should’ve laughed, and laughed when I should’ve cringed.

The Truth is, stories are Given. Even my Very Bad Stories, the Andalite fanfiction and A:tLA roleplays, they came on me in the purity of inspiration. It’s not the stories’ fault my mortal kiddie hands muddied them up.

Yes, writing is work, and takes disciplined practice to get good. I’m not at all implying that creativity can only be achieved by “creatives” with muses whispering in their ears. What I do mean, however, is that there is a Voice whispering in the ears of all of us. I mean that we are not so much creators, as creations.

And creations do what they were created to do, using the stuff they are given.

Hence my effortless, one-dimensional stories. There are others that were better that I’d say experienced this process, but the hour is already altogether too late, and it’s this creation’s time for sleeping.


In my next post I’ll talk about spaghetti machines, and bring this post full circle by explaining why I wish you had a more full-bodied written account of my awkwardly insectlike metamorphosis.

Thanks for reading. Noodle-loo!

The Mystery Verdant

that night the jury rolled back in,

our courtroom was dull, like a tin


can after rains. faces were condensed.

words bolted through, and flashed–

then the rumble all around.

we sat

still, no shelter. storms keep coming.

they’re always coming, never going.

did you feel a drop? did you feel it

sprinkle? i wondered quietly:


are rainbows ever tired, and do they

stretch out down here,   in the gray?