Krissy Mosley Ministries

Sometimes we are the “worst and best” of ourselves. The best of friends and most cruel enemies inside this industry of the mind

so the next time someone asks – How are you? 

I believe instead of caging all my raging feelings – I shouldn’t shout I’m fine – because I’m not. Yelling up a lamp post. Talking to myself.

When hugging trees are not enough, and spirit animals haven’t solved any major crimes.

lately, I’ll square off, let my shoulders down, close down the deep dark circles in my head

I pray you’d hear me, then I wouldn’t be telling “nobody but God”

I’d say- I wasn’t feeling the warmth of sun today, I couldn’t quite grasp the sound bluebirds singing through the trees.

louder than the first whispered prayer of the morning-  a faint voice- replied:

“it’s okay, anybody ever -tell you it’s okay”?

kindness sis Krissy

 

On the days I’ve laughed so hard-

my sides ached and cheeks are sore from falling

into a honeycomb of goodness,

feels like church, feels like- Hello Sunday

I’d respond with all my teeth in the sky. No more pain, no more suffering, No more stuggle, no more tears only tears of joy only sweet, sweet melodies in the waters.

 

kindness sis Krissy

Step one – vulnerability

sometimes when you think you know the way- you should go

I find myself catching the bus at the end of the line

two- when I am exposed beads of sweat roll across my forehead, all I want to do is bury my lungs in hot coffee

Three- on being a writer- contending – I don’t write love poems –

I don’t write love poems

I repeat

I don’t write them

By now I’ve grown down to the point of a pencil,

and now I’m ready to start again. kindness sis . Krissy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Prayers in the blood,” she said couched over I could see, the pain piercing through her eyes – beholding the mother of Jesus on the cross and for several hours we waited. The light in the bedroom was dim, the small lampshade flickered while the sun caught the latter glimpse in the afternoon. The dust settled over her collection of bibles. “Thompson Chain reference”, “Schofield” “Amplified” the list goes on. 

when she was ready she led her final prayer- for ninety-three years prayer had been her way forward in every season. Her manifesto on survival –  “God you get the glory”  she’d say when things went wrong and even when they went the way she wanted.

“Get glory to your self  O’ God”

One word of prayer links a lineage of prayers that have gone before us, and long after our feet should walk upon the earth. The prayer of faith remains like blood.

with slanted eyes, her lips gave out- Father we thank you- You’ve been my cup, my oil, “my lifter of my head” “you’ve seen me through every change in my body and now that my body has one last cord to give, I’m still thankful,”

and the rest she prayed in her language a lost tongue, no longer spoken- but I’d heard that sound growing up.  I’d seen this smile of rest, sitting over her face, the gentle white midst, appearing “like a vapor”

Prayer is never lost, even when we’d stop praying.

“Prayer is in the blood”

Mother Arnold is dearly missed but her prayers live on.

Kindness sis, krissy

 

 

 

 

     

In my world, that is the world in my head,

the construct of race isn’t a thing, the fear of others isn’t a thing

it isn’t pushed and pecked – punished by the shade of its skin ,

it isn’t less chosen- what is the aggravated difference between midnight and twilight in its degrees of sparkles

the pendulum of color has its swing –

has its summation – brought about death and life all on the same swing

such fear of truth,

such resurrected friends

such urgency of humanness to smile at oncoming traffic

the leaves are slowing waking – the warmth of September winds

in my skin- all the world is beautiful

Kindness sis Krissy

 

 

 

In my head

the world’s a better place.

Rowing alone in the dark, where the forest bares it alms in the dark-segregated but fixated -finding the light in the dark. Blindly knowing hope-

what privilege of hope is to conjure up a march, when your body can longer move,

what privilege to hope, to  believe beyond a massacre, beyond home,

what privilege to make it home at night in the dark and find your body in place -where you last took off your shoes and slipped on your slippers.

what privilege of hope to use your grandmother’s prayer closet -when she herself is no longer of this world, but her hope, her prayers still pray for you beyond the grave

What privilege of hope to taste – mama’s cornbread pudding, in grandma’s green bean casserole on a Sunday

What privilege of hope for children to play alone in the dark,

make it back inside and watch the sunrise.

kindness sis. Krissy

 

Beyond the great- by and by, I hear the sound of rain marching through streets, marching onto roofs and houses, accompanied by the sky, bitten-by its thunder. Flashing -the glory of the morning. Swinging in the branches, tapping on the power lines. Beating out the rhythms of fall. Whats’ to come. What is to love of love itself.

Undoubtedly the potential of love in all its glory

kindness sis. Krissy

Often it is said with such desperation, there is a surge of danger- lurking, gasping in the dank air between two worlds of their’s and mine. In my world, I knew a warmth only the sun gives, where many of the saints are living elders sitting on their porches, spitting wisdom through their full cheeks.

I knew a path where the children’s’ wardrobe is “Dapper Dan” in bulletproof uniforms the lastest school dress code, so that no kids, not one are taken before their time. I knew the names of the saints’ closely watching over every child, Marry-Ann, Carla, Rosa-Marie, and June.

Ah, sweet June had come to give her peak – virtually rising with stillness in her wings, permeating summer’s fruit red with sweetness,

restoring the faintest soul, from “A raisin in the sun” to the “moonlight through trees”

winds to blow, a world so free, children so full, laughter ricocheted from belly to belly

kindness sis. Krissy

 

 

She is not a woman who has fallen into depression and dug -deeply to get out

She is not the kind of girl that was so green- life has compelled her to see God

She is not a lonely girl, sitting all alone, and not dealing with her loneliness

She is not the wannabe survivor, pretending everything is alright

She is not the little girl making mud-balls into planets without dreaming

She is not the kind of woman standing behind a man.

no, she is all of this,

conquering, conquest after conquest

visioning, chancing everything

falling and getting up

setting aside the old only to starting over

throwing out the negatives just to have

a tiny piece of her story

Kindness sis, Krissy