Reflection:
I am a steward of words. My writing is not mine to hoard. It is a witness. It is a mission. It is my offering to the world.
Poem:
I write toward the ends of the earth,
toward the unreached—the unseen—the unheld.
Where no microphone reaches,
let a metaphor carry.
Where pulpits are forbidden,
let poetry be permission.
Because Jesus said, “Go.”
And my going begins
with ink.
Some people paint.
Some people sing.
Some build. Others break.
But me?
I write.
Until even my silence
feels like a stanza.
