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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.

Renewal
Alivia Gladden

she inhales.
allowing the breeze’s murmurs
to envelope as an intimate embrace
she strokes the grass blades
fresh dew purges winter’s grasp

she closes her eyes
each gust melting frosted grief
she knows His promises are true,
anticipating the coming season
the promise of spring

she no longer overwhelms herself
with thoughts of the past
she is tranquilized
welcoming the unknown
reclining in the green

she exhales.

R.J.
Tayla Vannelli

Even the windshield wipers know this meeting is going to be a useless disaster. They swipe back and forth, creaking as they go. The two of them settle back down, the rain pounds the window, and then they tiredly rise to wipe it away once more. Whatever visibility they create will just be covered by more rain, but they rise again and again, just like we go to meeting after meeting.

We pull into the parking lot, and my husband sighs in relief. This relentless thunderstorm forced us to drive 20 mph on the freeway for an hour. I tried convincing my husband multiple times to turn around. The sky is telling us today is doomed. If we were going to receive good news, then there would be clear skies with the sun shining down. I know there won’t be any sun today.

We walk into the office and sign in. All of the closer parking spots were filled, so we had to walk in the downpour. I swipe away the drops of water tickling my forehead as they slip to my cheeks. I want to think that today can’t get any worse, but I know it will. It always does.

We step into the agent’s office, and my heart misses a beat. In this office, we were assigned us our last child. Her office brings back all the memories of paperwork and long phone calls filled with desperate pleading.

We’ve been trying to adopt a child for five years. After the first few failures, you learn to harden your heart and shove hope down the drain. This last time, our stubborn doubt wasn’t quite stubborn enough. We were cynical the entire time during the pregnancy. We were skeptical when we heard the baby had been born.

But then… we actually held the baby. Little Andrew even came home with us. He lived with us for a whole week. He was our little boy; we were sure of it. Some legal things still needed to be finalized, and we were aware of the laws in California that gave the mother time to

revoke the adoption, but those things were far from our minds. We were parents! We happily lost entire nights of sleep for that boy. Our friends and family met Andrew. He had his room set up in our house. We became a family of three.

Forever is a stupid hope. Forgiving Andrew’s mother is a goal I won’t ever achieve. She ripped him from our home. She willingly gave Andrew away for a whole week. She left a room in our home empty and depressing. She stole my baby away from me.

“Mrs. Torrin?” I look up. “Are you alright?”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. My husband is squeezing my hand over these firm, uncomfortable chairs. I look up at the desk where our new adoption agent sits. She looks terrified, and rightly so. Our last agent quit after the trauma of our last fiasco. We are pitied in this office, and I have not missed the murmurs of people who are questioning why we haven’t given up yet. I pretend to not hear them, because I don’t have an answer myself.

“I’m sorry… Angelica,” I reply, noting the name standing on her desk. Richard squeezes my hand and looks at me with concern. I turn away. “What were you saying?”

She shuffles her papers nervously. “I was merely expressing my sympathies for your last case.”

I nod. I hate that Andrew is referred to as our last “case.” He didn’t feel much like a case when he was crying in my arms.

“I understand that you are both probably hesitant to put your names on the adoption list again.” I roll my eyes in response. “In saying this, I do have a potential child for you.”

Richard finally shows his aggravation. “Of course there is a potential child! There’s almost always a potential child. This means nothing.”

“How far along is she?” I ask, my voice surprising me with its calmness.

“Well that’s the thing…” Angelica draws out. “The child has already been born.” Richard and I look at each other. “The original adoptive family decided against the adoption in her ninth month, and the mother is desperately trying to keep her child from having to go into the foster care system long-term. She’s signed over her rights to revocation, and the child has been staying with different foster families every night since he was born four days ago.”

My hand clasps Richard’s so tight that it begins to slightly shake the chair. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying there’s no chance of the mother taking the boy back into her care?”

Angelica shakes her head. “The mother had already been deemed incapable of providing sufficient care for the child, and she signed over her rights completely. The child is a ward of the state.” “And the father?” Richard questions.

Angelica shrugs. “Signed over rights months ago.”

I narrow my eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”

She sighs. “There is one small thing.”

I sink further into my chair. I knew it. This was way too good to be true. I knew it was, but stupid hope doesn’t tend to listen when the brain tells it to pipe down.

Angelica looks at our file. “You are listed as unwilling to provide care for a child with severe special needs.” My eyes widen. “The little boy has Down Syndrome.”

I exchange a look with Richard. We had talked years ago about how we weren’t sure we were capable of adopting a child with special needs. It’s a huge undertaking. But…

“While I understand how much of a commitment this is, I have never seen such perfect circumstances. The little boy could be in your home within 48 hours, and he could be legally yours within days. So long as you prove to be a suitable home within those first few days, and once the legal documents are processed, he would be legally and officially yours.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Emily…” Richard warns.

“No. I want to know his name.”

Angelica smiles warily. “Richard,” she whispers. My shoulders tremble and my breath catches. Tears immediately blossom in Richard’s eyes. “His name is Richard.”

***

Richard Jr.’s 10th birthday is a huge success. His smile is as large as it always is, and his family watches him with a palpable fondness. He’s not an easy kid, but he sure is joyful. Emily wipes tears from her eyes as she watches him from the corner. Those five years of being denied a child still weigh heavy on her soul, and she still misses Andrew every now and again, but she now knows that God crafted that storm. Without a season of storms, the sun is ignored and forgotten. Looking around the room at R.J.’s laughing cousins and beaming grandparents, she is overwhelmed with gratitude for her storm, because her son will never be forgotten or ignored.

Petrichor and Rainbows
Ashley Lassetter

The thunder shook the ground with a violent shock. Lily had never been in a thunderstorm before. She looked up at her mother and shouted, “Mom, the storm’s coming! We won’t make it through. All our petals will be ripped and torn. Our pleasant light purple shade will be no more.” She quietly observed as her mother glanced down at her without the faintest look of fear in her eyes. Her mother bent down graciously and replied, “It will be alright, trust me. We have to open up to the storm.”

Lily, frantically trying to hide under her mom, screamed out “But mom! Aren’t you afraid? Storms are dangerous, and we will get trampled by the weight of this one. It is sure to kill us. I can’t make it through this storm. What are we going to do?!”

Her mom floated over her, covering Lily with her own petals. She kissed her daughter as she replied, “Oh, but Lily, now is when we must learn to dance in the rain.” She braced herself for the storm to come. She straightened up from the bottom of her stem, peeled back her petals, and began swaying in time with the wind, smiling up at the sky as the dim clouds rolled in and the distant sounds of thunder peaked over the hilltop.

Lily marveled at her mom, seeing a beauty she had never seen before. She realized that no matter how severe the storm, she would stand tall, and no matter how many petals she lost, she would open up to the abrasive winds, for she wanted to be like her mom: delicate and fragile, yet unafraid of the storms of life, accepting each raindrop with such grace and strength.

Lily, like her mom, opened her petals and swayed in time with the winds. Lily smelled petrichor and felt the raindrops begin to fall, calm in the face of the certainty that this first storm wouldn’t be her last, and she would grow and learn to dance in the storm just like her mom. The storms came, and the rain poured, and Lily twirled in the storm and discovered that the most amazing things in life can follow a storm. Lily smiled as the rain stopped and the clouds began to clear. She opened her eyes once more and squealed with joy as she saw, for the first time, a rainbow bound across the sky in radiant colors.

“Maybe storms aren’t so bad after all, Mom,” Lily stated as she rested on her.

“No, Lily, it’s all in how you respond to them,” her mother said as she welcomed the first rainbow that they experienced together.

Onto the Dark Path
Fabrice Poussin

As if a blind babe she ventured on
An uncertain path drawn in haste
For the clock ran its course
And she too counted the hours.

Recalling so many eves
Before finally setting in motion
Events yet hidden from her sight
She hoped not to stumble again.

So many accidents before
Cuts and bruises from cruel encounters
Her body shivers in uncontrollable fear
Inside murmurs hesitate on their pursuit.

While all is still around
She is certain the road will clear
Although enveloped in its somber shroud
There is no need to see when one believes.

One more step to her destiny
Pale as if standing at the reaper’s door
She hides within the passion of another life
Unstoppable as a bright beacon shines within.