The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
I have been conforming to the world rather than the Word.
I obsess over society specific standards of beauty rather than the beauty of my soul. I have cares more about pleasing the world than pleasing my husband. I have focused on my looks (weight, fashion etc) more than on God.
I believe in charity, in Christ’s call to give to the poor. But lately I have not given enough. I am well past due for a donation to one of my favorite organizations – St Jude’s.
I have not been a good steward of the time that God has granted me. I fritter away my time on social media.
This past weekend I fast it again from social media like I used to, and I think it was good for me. Social media is still good for many things, and as a housewife it can be an important way for me to connect to others around me. But too much time spent on social media is a waste. It could be put to better use educating my child, cleaning my house, reading a good book, or creating poetry. There’s so much more I could do than scroll Facebook or Instagram.
I need to be open and comfortable with how I look. I need to fully adjust dressing modestly because it’s what makes God happy and what makes my husband happy. And I think it reminds me to die to the flesh a little bit. I need to give more, whether it is of my time or money. With mental issues being the way they are it can be difficult to donate time just because it’s hard to make a long-term commitment. But I need to find some way to give of myself to my community.
The last of the rain
hides under the chipped bench.
In a burrow ten feet away,
Summer and her bulimic brood.
Children stare at their faces in puddles,
faces framed by the
rainbow slick of motor oil
in the water.
What hallucinogenic heat
pushes a woman to the docks,
makes her surrender in
the family boat named
SS Hypatia?
