Krissy Mosley Ministries

Dear Hope, I’ve been extra careful not to use your name in vain. Or become too spirited too soon. Mama’s always said not to be getting my hopes up. Although I’ve often seen it come alive in little children. I think it’s because they’re closer to God than all of us. All I know, we could use a spell or two, even use Emily’s Dickinson’ “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all. ”

A dear expectation, of all this good. All that is miraculous. Drinking from fountains, flowing from the vines of healing trees. Fill our cups, God…

Hope for the nations
Hope for the homeless soldier
Hope for the abandon
Hope for the immigrant
Hope for the lonely
Hope for the friendless
Hope for the shut-in
Hope for the mothers
Hope for the motherless
Hope for the childless
for the dying
for the living
for the school teacher
for the police officer
for trauma victims
for social workers
for you and me
and those who have no hope ~kindness sister Krissy

For the first time in forever, I appreciated the silence. The humming heater gently soothing the cold air. The front door wide open, allowing the foggy steam to blanket a warmth to the door.

Meanwhile, daybreak went rogue. Stretched across all the shadows in the night  Then the soul-people gather themselves together huddled through tapered curtains of flesh.

A prize to be alive and not know it. Prize- dreams for the soul-people, dreams that die and are born again. Dreams, staying up all night. Dreams that turn souls into rivers.

rivers bursting through the cracks.
strong, lighthearted, genuine, persistent,
gullable steep, shallow memories.
walking rivers joined at the hip.

standing bodies
what’s eating these waters
in gutters bursting
half skating skeletons

American dreams eating us,
spittle down seeds something
we can grow
rivers, I suppose
un-used rivers
cold, chemicalized,
calculated tides but
what’s a river
with all our old shoes
torn, crunchy cereal boxes
tires, bloated fish
oil spills, garnish
sacred, holy prayers

rivers gotta run
gotta flood out ~kindness sis. Krissy

God is both all of it and nothing of it. In essence, all of it. Then the mind can have none effect on the infinite God that lies within. None of it, known or will ever know, such great tender-fields that holds a mind, a world inside a world, beneath such beauty, in the midst chaos, inseparable stillness.

then I am  whole,
then I embrace,
then I exchange,

a little ” i ”

ignited,
endowed

“I am that I am.”
~kindness sis. krissy

Loving myself, for myself…

In running for my very life. I’ve run from some things that didn’t need running from, only to wind up running again. Although the hills have laughed at me for some time now. I have not forgotten the lesson in climbing.

The hills have a message of its own. The temperature of the hills has pushed me back to the beginning. And I still climb, contending with its pressure. I pull. I ache. I met force with stumbling limbs over here over there.

All my life running is what I knew. To run out of my pain into fear. Run out of that into pressure. Running for my healing. Running to keep out the voices. Running the distance for my life.

Then I got tired sat still on that hill and I listened. Its glowing winds surpassing. Even the rocky steps relaxing, with green grass so sweet.

I could measure this small distance in defeat or finally,
I conclude the hills are me~kindness sis. Krissy