Author: Alexis Chambers

Totality
Eva Cruz

How long has it been since the Sun
and Moon enjoyed each other’s love?
Only smiles and glances to keep them
satisfied. The moon twirls to her
lover as fast as her orbit lets her.
She covers her lover’s
face so the world can’t see his hot,
blushing cheeks. They marvel in each other’s
beauty and embrace for a
brisk hug that leaves the world dark.
How dare we invade their privacy?
They cast a ring in the sky to show us
their love.
It’s too much
for our naked eyes to bear.

The Lightkeeper
Taryn Cyncholl

My eyes are blinded
Spinning light in the tower
In a flash it’s gone

Sailors’ assistance
They shall not be led astray
Ships navigation

He watches over
The wandering boats below
Now out of harm’s way.

The Midnight Recluse
Griffin Smith

He sat on a bench by a street corner, just a few blocks from Albany Ct. The streets were submerged, yet the sidewalk escaped its clutches by mere centimeters. The piano, with wood soaked and rotten, served as company, for he wasn’t fond of being pestered by annoyances. He rotated his right hand in the air and settled it upon a note. A beautiful, yet bleak, sound rung among the streets. He pressed his index upon another, then one more. He was always told to follow his passion, yet he felt unconcerned about his future. There was nothing left for him. He missed her. With a swift inconsistency, a sedan’s violent movement caved the skull of the one he once believed to be his first and last love.

He couldn’t tell if he was weeping, or if the rain was targeting his right cheek specifically. Nonetheless, he pressed another key. His soul was fulfilled again, but temporarily. He missed him, his only son. With an extended period of suffering, the motion became motionless, and the malignancy in the brain was depleted into black. He no longer suffered. Another tear trickled down his cheek, this time his left. He remained seated in his bench, without a motive to press another key. He glanced down to his opened briefcase and noticed 3 coins, organized similarly to the family he once cherished so. He was without purpose and decided to make his way to the ocean-like street, while the rains fell upon him like an onslaught of liquid arrows, piercing his skin from the icy consistency.

He sat in the water, then proceeded to lay down. If he didn’t drown, surely a roaming vehicle would assist in his endeavors. Minutes passed, and the water didn’t submerge his face. The sound of a moving vehicle never approached. Instead, the sound of footsteps gradually emerged from the darkness. He attempted to make out the figure but could not do so. Closer and closer, the figure approached. He began to realize it was another man. Walking on the sidewalk, the man glared down at him insolently as he passed. There is no “good” in the world, he thought. He desired a simple kind gesture. The man was not aware of the deed I am about to do. He continued to rest on the flooded ground until he heard the slight hum of an oncoming vehicle, growing closer and closer until he saw black, then light

The End of the Tunnel
Dannielle Greisemer

The train had been moving steadily. Sure, the driver took a turn or two faster than what would have suited me, but I was not afraid.

I had never ridden a train before, but I liked them. I remembering walking to the station with my father when I was young. I watched the trains start and stop. I liked the sounds, smells, and sights. But now, at seventeen, I was actually riding one. Not under my ideal circumstances, however.

My father had been drafted. My sister marries and moved away. My mother got sick and died last autumn. My home was invades, and we are all refugees now. Refugees riding this train to the good Lord knows where.

This 4-4-0 American Standard steam locomotive had been traveling at fifty miles an hour. We entered the tunnel, and our speed dropped. They turned the head lantern on. I could see he light bouncing off the walls.

The ride had been smooth, up until that moment. The train bumped violently and ground to a halt. The coach swayed. I braced for impact and awaited shattering glass. Nothing. The train stopped safely.

We waited. Surely this train would start again. The longer we waited, the more we risked. The army told us to leave, so we did. How long before they changed their minds? Before they hunted us down like the Egyptians after the Israelites? Where was God now? Murmuring began on the train. Talk of a trap or a conspiracy. The enemy never intended us to leave peacefully.

The conductor flung the door of our coach open. “There has been a rail twisted off the track. Our engine has derailed…” Panic began to spread. I tried to listen closer. “We’re not sure

how far to the next town. This is not a regularly scheduled train. No one is expecting us to pass through. The driver, fireman, and I have decided we can continue on foot from here. “If everyone will please step off the train. We can safely leave this tunnel. Help will come from there.”

Groaning and complaining commenced. “You can’t make us walk!” “I will not be leaving my seat.” “We could be walking for miles.” “This can’t be safe!” “I didn’t wear my walking shoes.” And so on.

Someone had to make the first move. So I stood up from my seat. I gathered my small handbag and made my way to the door. The conductor offered me his hand. I gratefully took it and stepped to the ground. I felt the gravel under the thin soles of my shoes. I pray this is not a long walk. My thick leather boots had been taken by the army.

“I’m going too!” I heard a boy yell. I turned and could just make out the boy jumping from the coach. One by one, other passengers stepped to the ground. They all carried small bundles and bags. Mothers held babies. Fathers carried small children. The first boy stood beside me and offered to carry my bag. God please deliver us from this darkness, I prayed softly.

The conductor held the lantern high and guided us along the train. We could clearly see where the engine derailed. It made for a tight squeeze between the engine and the wall of the tunnel. The tunnel was entirely dark except for the conductor’s lantern. The driver and fireman stand with the engine, hoping for help to come. They had kept the other lantern.

So we twenty odd refugees crowded behind the conductor. No one could afford to be left behind. We were all that was left of our little town. All the eligible men had been drafted. Many young women had volunteered as nurses or married to get out of town. An influenza epidemic then took out more of our town. Those of us in the tunnel are all that is left.

After twenty short minutes, the children started complaining. The elderly asked to pause. “Conductor, how long is this tunnel?” I asked. He was leaning against the cave wall examining the lantern oil.

“Not sure ma’am. I’m not all too familiar with this line. Could be a mile, or three.” He shrugged. Alright God, we need Your strength to get through this. Our small band started walking again. No food, no water, we were going to make it only by the grace of God. We had to keep moving.

A young mother began to fall behind. I slowed my pace and offered to carry her baby for awhile. As we picked the pace back up, I noticed the conductor’s lantern seemed dimmer. God please deliver us soon, I prayed again. We stopped again after another thirty minutes.

“I regret to inform you all that our lantern is nearly out of oil.” The conductor said loudly. His voice echoed all around the cave. Fear and panic arose. They were tired and thirsty. An hour had passed since we left the derailed train. The children were tired. The elderly were sore. But we couldn’t stop, not yet. We needed to keep going.

I stood up first once again. I addressed the cross nervously: “Friends, we have to keep moving. We are too far in to turn back now. Our God will not forsake us. He delivered His thousands from the hand of the Egyptians. So too will He deliver us from this darkness.” The panic seemed to quiet down. “Where is your faith and perseverance?” I made my way to the front of the crowd, still carrying the child. I looks down the length of the tunnel. It was dark with no end in sight. I was not afraid. I started walking. With one hand on the cave wall, I slowly moved out of the dim lantern light.

It was not long before the conductor and the others began moving again too. The light enveloped me once again. We began moving steadily. Fifteen minutes later, our lantern sputtered out. “Everyone place a hand on the wall and keep walking.” The conductor said calmly.

Trying not to panic, our group kept moving. Suddenly up ahead, I see what looks like a light. Am I imagining things? Perhaps my eyes are playing tricks on me. “Mama look!” Shouted a young girl from further back in the crowd. “I see light! God saved us.” Everyone in the group started to see it too. It took every bone in my body not to run. I was still holding the baby. The pace of the whole group definitely increased.

We finally made it to the light. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the outside. I began to make out shapes. Figures moving. People? For the first time since we were embarked on this journey I was filled with fear. Was this a trap all along? Because these are definitely soldiers outside this tunnel.

“Papa!” One of the young boys yelled and ran out of the tunnel into the arms of a uniformed soldier. Almost immediately the rest of the group ran out as well. These were our men! We really were saved. God has delivered us. That’s when I see him in the center of camp. Sitting at a desk, scribbling in a journal. I handed the baby I was still holding back to his mother and ran. I haven’t run like this since I was a kid.

“Daddy!” I yelled. He stood up and held his arms out. Finally, we were all safe. Thank you, I prayed to my heavenly Father as I stood in the arms of my earthly father.

The Edge of the Cosmos
Griffin Smith

The endless void
Vast, silent, and serene.
Tangential to a world unknown.

Sitting at a desk, a man of old age.
Tall and lanky, and not a hint of rage.
But passion
flowed through his veins.

Standing on the edge of the plateau
in the endless valley of silence,
the man veered his gaze into the abyss.
Nothing. Darkness. It was beautiful.

He inhaled, as his breaths were not competent, and his mind was all too clear. His legs felt like feathers and down his face rolled a tear.

He found his heart among the stars,
and his mind within the dark.
She never loved him,
and it’ll always leave a mark.

Tan Line
Tayla Vannelli

The sun and I, comrades for life
His blinding rays force me to squint
To see a white ring circling my wrist
Marking the passage of sun over time

He may have gone for a while
But he always comes back
In Georgia, it’s around April
When my friend returns from his trip

This souvenir from his time in other lands
Reminding me of our winter spent apart
My dark golden skin, evidence of his return
A pale loop reminiscent of our long goodbye

This friendship bracelet on my wrist
The culprit: a ponytail holder

Sweat Dripped
Dannielle Fairbairn

Sweat dripped down my back pooling at the hem of my skirt. The cows lowed outside and I watched my feet as I walked down the aisle of desks as to not trip over the dog who had taken up residence in my classroom. Although I cannot recall the grammar lesson from that day, I remember it was like any other day teaching and living in Southeast Asia.

It had been a long semester, the most difficult in my four years overseas. In a matter of a few months, I had suffered through family sickness, chronic insomnia, visa issues, funding problems, family death, and anxiety attacks. I would wake up in the morning asking myself “what else go possibly go wrong?” Which the world seemed to take as a personal challenge proving to me that something else could and would indeed go wrong. Trial after trial weighed on my shoulders. There were days all I could do was my very least, when even the thought of driving to school exhausted me.

It was not always like this though. Life in Asia had been going pretty well. I was learning and speaking the language, my relationships with locals were thriving, and though I never planned to be a teacher, I found that I loved being in my classroom with students. God was also working powerfully and answering prayers over students and the local church despite the restrictions that came with living in a Communist country.

Living in a restricted country, my co-workers and I act cautiously in how we speak and share our faith with locals and therefore developed ways to creatively integrate God’s truth and word into our lesson plans. At the start of the semester, we began working with a new technique known as teaching it slant. We developed a curriculum of stories from the Bible making minor adjustments

to better fit the culture of our students. While a priest became a monk and a wheat field started sprouting rice the core principles of the story remained the same. We used the stories to teach vocabulary and critical thinking also leaving time for personal journaling and discussion. My students enjoyed these lessons and I enjoyed knowing they were learning the Good News of God even if they did not yet know it.

Then that desert season came. I no longer felt like as if I were thriving, but instead spent my hours desperately asking the Father to get me through the day. My apartment which was once a revolving door to students and neighbors was now a desolate wasteland with me as its only resident. Overwhelmed by bad news and terrified to look at my phone or check my email lest I be met with more. I jealously watched my co-workers continue to serve how I wish I could still serve and felt guilt-ridden that I had nothing to offer. I was knocked down for the count.

Deep into those months of grief as the sweat pooled and I tried to drown out the sounds of cows while also avoiding the dog at my feet. I asked my class if they had any last questions and concluded the day’s lesson. Turning to leave a student called after me. “Teacher! I have to tell you something!”

He began by explaining that he had been absent from our last class because he had gone home to his village to visit his sick father. He then recalled a story we read in class a few months earlier about a man with a skin disease. This story was one of the slanted Bible stories. It was the story of Naaman who was told by the prophet Elisha to wash his skin disease-ridden hand in the river and he would be healed. I asked my students if they believed such miraculous healing could

really happen. They all agreed it was not possible, that they did not believe in miraculous healing. Every student agreed but one.

That one student stood before me now telling me how he and his animist parents begged the spirits to heal his dad, but the spirits did nothing. He told me how he remembered a story I shared in class about miraculous healing, and that I said I believed in miraculous healing. He told me that he remembered I was a Christian and he told his parents all this too. He told me how they decided to try praying to my God and when they did his father was miraculously healed.

I stood dumbfounded as my student went on to share how his parents wanted to know more about my God. In the darkest days of my Southeast Asian life, God was still working. On the days grief overwhelmed me and fear overtook me His power withstood. This student who had never been to my apartment even back during the lighter days, who had only heard a slanted version of the Gospel, and knew nothing of Christians other than his teacher calls herself one was seeing undeniable evidence of the work of God’s hands.

Is that not what I had been longing for since the day I stepped off a plane onto Eastern soil? For God to show up in the lives of the local people. The sweat still drips down my back and I still must watch for stray animals who lurk in my classroom. The days still often feel dark, but God continues to remind me the light is still there even when I cannot see it. Even when I am overcome and have little to give His power is made perfect in my weakness.

Stone, Dust, and Redemption
Leah-Joy Smith

I don’t know how
They found me.
How they knew.
They always find out,
Always know in the end.

They are empty robes
With open, hollow mouths.

Basket on my tired hip,
They marched like Roman
Across the market to me.

Pulled across cobblestones,
In the middle of stares.
Forced to face His brown eyes.
Mid-sentence of a lesson
In the temple courts.

The robes wished for stones.
For me because of what I’d done. Stones
For Him who had done nothing.

Finger moving in the sand
My mind could not tell
My eyes what He wrote.

Arrows flew from hollow mouths
Nicking and pestering,
Pelting my hurt heart each time.
Seeing Him as a bear,
My mess was their bait.
The Lion rose.

Let anyone of you
Who is without sin
Be the first to throw
A stone at her.
He put his finger back
To the dirt.

The Robe released my elbow,
Let loose my hair,
Swallowed a dose of defeat.
I was left alone
With burning eyes,
With rattled insides,
With Him.

I froze, like Lot’s wife.
He stood and lifted His eternal eyes.
Well, little sister, where’d they go?
No stones?

No, sir.

His tool calloused hand on my shoulder,
Then I don’t have any either.
Go live free and leave
Your life of sin.

That was when it started;
The turning.
From adultery, climbing out
Of a trench so familiar on the rope latter
Of my Father’s love, perseverance
One rung at a time.

Then I met him.
He listened, I listened.
My story came out.
I opened my heart like an age
Old manuscript: slowly,
Every sentence uncurled, read,
And accepted.

No judgment, hollow lies,
Or stones. Instead,
Hope, love, and home.
H plays tag with the girls,
Tells me to rest.
Sometimes, he reminds me
Of Jesus’ Nazarene father.

Song & Dance
Hannah Hannah

Don’t you know that God wants to sing to you?
In the mundane,
in the washing,
folding,
unfolding,
repeating everyday-ness of life.

How does God sing to you?
In the laughter of an old friend,
in the mourning dove that’s visited your kitchen window the past two days,
in the percolating of coffee,
the swirling of the spoon
and its clink on the rest.

Don’t you know that God wants to dance with you?
In the joy,
in the new job,
long awaited reunion,
warm sheets fresh from the dryer,
big and simple happinesses of life.

And in the sorrow.
In the loss of friendship,
the pulverizing of trust,
and abandonment of hope.
He wants to dance with you in the crushing loss of life.

How does God dance with you?
In the curling of steam over your tea,
in the morning light that trickles through trees and flickers on your bed,
in the monarch that circles you three times before flying off,
in the wind that tosses your hair and breathes a chill down your neck.

God is big enough to care about the small,
light enough to cast out all the dark,
good enough to love when it hurts.

Will you listen when He sings to you?

She Walks
Anna Lundy

down the beach
holding her hope in her hands
a cup of chai tea
like it could save her life,
her light twinkling like the stars
but as fleeting as a wave upon the shore.
the big dipper in her teacup,
causing a constellation of steam in the
chilly night air.
her feet are sandy
as she searches for a light at sea.