Krissy Mosley Ministries

Last night, I took a mean fall down my basement steps. I tripped over my son’s shoes. Sliding, straight on nine remaining stairs. It was sort of funny the way it happened.

There were no flashing lives before my face. My family was safely sleeping. My husband was upstairs. He didn’t hear me holler out. For a split second, I felt alone. Helpless. Silly even for falling. And silly for laying down there laughing. I could feel the bruised throbbing on my backside but nothing else.

As I laid there,

I was grateful, just to have this miracle. I could have broken my neck. I could have severely injured my leg. I could’ve been laid-up down there until morning.

No. No. No. Who comes to the basement? Only I- to wash clothes for the children. Who would have gotten out of bed? To see what those crashing sounds were? Who would be there?

And that’s when I knew, the angel had come. In a moment, when it seemed, I was alone.

I said softly to myself. If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around to hear it. Does it make a sound? Oh great, I’m the tree!

I just laughed and laughed.
And then the fall didn’t hurt so much.

I could get up from here. And yes, falling trees sound like two brewing storms wrestling down over yonder. My grandma would say. So even in these moments,

I knew the Great Spirit of Light has come. To reach out to me. And lift me. Even watching over, us trees even in the forest.~your Kindness Sister, Krissy Mosley

( grateful to write the day after the fall).

There were these lost dreams on dreamers road. Stoned into the bank of the cove. At high noon the dreamers would come to gaze, to suspend their minds in imagination.

They’ve pulled out their ladders to reach God.
They’ve counted the distance between them.

Nailing their dreams in coffins.
Reviving them like Jesus – his resurrection.

Old dreams.
Bruised.
Syrupy Sweet.

Dreams on napkins, nappies and paper bags.
Misunderstood, what makes them fly what makes them sag?

The angel will come and we will wrestle
down over daybreak.

And we’ll place our dreams on our hips.
The angel to hollow through…

These dreams change our names.
And with every one, we, limp steady down the ladder
and stay away from dreamers road.~your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley

I’ll do most anything so my
little ones should know.
I left no path unturned.

With two pigtails to hold her curls.
Her heart is five. Her soul is old.

Mommy Anna says: let me tell you a story
about my doll Mr. Cranky

I think to my self: she’s probably referring to…

Anna: Mr. Cranky is getting old that’s why he’s so miserable.
He can’t eat eggs or cheese and please don’t give him a soda or he’ll pop. If you see him coming stay out of his way especially when
she’s writing poetry.

Me: Hey you’re talking about…

Anna: Mom you’ve gotta let me finish…
When she’s writing, it is like.
Mommy, poetry and write, like the wind and poetry
don’t bother me now. Poetry stop.
What’s that now? Po-etry again…

A little tale of truth from my youngest daughter Anna`your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley

Where have you found God?
Where have you found me?

I’ve been squatting installs.
Playing in the darkness.
In the old beat-up truck in my front yard.

Said the darkness to the deep.
Said the launch to the leap.

Going the distance.
They’ve been with me.

In the dirtiest of places
Underneath the seats.

Cardboards -walls.
Or plastic sealed-leaks.

Going the distance.

To the little girl in me.
To the mother of three.
To the fatherless seed.

To the lonely soldier on the street.
To the toil or the labor.
To the bone or the sum.

Going home to walk the
distance.

That’s God.
That’s faith.
That’s traveling.

Where God is…~you Kindness Sister KrissyMosley

I heard the raindrops on
my doorsteps.

Like metal tin cans.

Welcome home this gentle run.
Falling, searching, pounding on and on.

There is cedar in the breeze.
Birdies in the shower.
Muddy puddles for the children.

When I talk to rain.
O’ the world to listen.

Pull me afar.
Draft in the wisdom gull.

And when I return
I become blind that I may see.

I am rain.
I am thunder.
I am more now

than I ever was.`your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley

When you feel alive you know it. Surely you do! In a tip of a town. To forget all that’s sad, oh, that’s living! Don’t you forget, living too soon?

Taking-in the pain make it your own. It hurts a bit more than you want it. It smells like peaches and rain.

Although we’d rather be high. On chips and cream. Nothing is certain. We might win it all. With bets like this. When you feel young – you’ll be too old against the grey. No- such- a- thing as living too soon. And when you age above, every number there is..
finally, you’ll begin to play.

You’ll swing what you got left. Leave all that dirt for your shoes. Hold those hips and let them spin.

Glide in the calling of the wind.
Swoosh, Swoosh.
Down into the Delta see the boys on the stoop.

Step with the steppers of Chicago. Learn to do the Mississippi blues. Hold hands with the brotherhood, taste the cheese of the city.

Oh, even if, you never do these things.
Say, you’re a nun.
Say, you’re ninety.
Say, you’re a mum.
Say you’re somebody.

When you feel alive, you’ll know living.
It’s true!~your kindness sister Krissy Mosley

Imagine all the love there is; an infinite wonder of love.
Imagine all the stillness: stepping out of the shadows untouched, unscarred, unbarred…

Imagine when all the people go to heaven
there is no death there is no hurt.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful: when all hatred is erased.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful: if the homeless had shelter.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful: those without food would eat bread.

And all the brokenhearted their hearts would be repaired.

What a joy fulfilled.
What a love personified.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful…~your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley

In a gentle moment, take it all in.
The outside, sweeping winds,
Crisp blue skies and bright green trees.

In a gentle moment, hold it all in
and when we let go…

Let it a-ll go._your Kindness sister

My knees are made of candle wicks.
They smell of old chewed gum
I sort of like ‘em that way.

Every morning I take them out
For a walk, east of schoolyard
Around the old Willow-Tree.

The flowers are breaking.
The taste of rotten feet, get w-a-a-ay
Down in my mouth.

Here, the sidewalk cracks smiles.
I’d hold my breath and grit my cheeks.

When Sunday calls. I go home.
To church bells that no-longer ring.

And the alter-ed prayers make candles leak.
Although the empty seats are falling.

These wicks hold memory.
How hard the waters ring.

Heavy are the knees that kneel.
Crackling prayers against the knee.

Still, we’ll go home,
Waiting for Sunday.~your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley