Krissy Mosley Ministries

There is a door blue with yellow trim. Down in woods, where the tempest rave. The pollen is laden with glimmers of dust. Embedded in the middle of a hush-down, sits a little wooden church. Fervently stamped at the end of a dirt road. The Jasper floors are hearty – vibrating with birdlike arms leading the morning’s song. A small oasis easily replaced the tiresome-few in-jovial spirit. Moved by a higher benevolence to offer what little suffering they’d put aside.

A gentle heap of summer swept clean across Kankakee River. Broadening every heated stroke through stain glass. In the sanctuary, there are stilettos, platforms, sandals, flats and classic pumps.

What would the church be without its shoes? Succumbing to futile service -less creatures straddling between Pharaoh and the Red Sea, If only parting the waters brought Jesus of his cross.

Perhaps such perfection did not blind the sightless, willingly lead foes by the neck, rather it harped a pageantry of weary -doted believers far beyond the altar. A pair of pillar-doves protected the outer cusp of Magnolia Holiness. Deeper-knowing, that life was more about the green olive fruit than the twig itself.

Upon the balcony, the relics appeared unrivaled in view, The monarchy of virtue, methodology, and discipline.“A little slumber, a little sleep, folding of the hands,” tragedy did not destroy resourceful ordinary folks.

A temple born out of watch night.’. Sinners, grandmothers and children alike came for the slightest of affections. To be -well, prayed for, loved, welcomed and at the very least accepted. written by~Krissy Mosley

Excerpt from the upcoming Short Novel: “Churched Out” Photo Image by Pixabay.com

I’ve waited… listening to the sky split itself into thunder like the emblem of a mighty nation…
A gentle melting – a thousand journeys’ of hurt- strike something like resurrection -lightning

The wait is not white picketed -waiting rooms or houses of Molden moth.
yet it is wanton through watery blues- prayers… and the song is the soul’s gate

Hand-me-down love in the need holding
Hand-me-down hope in trying
Hand-me-down a father for the sake of running home
Hand-me-down visions in the middle passage
Hand-me- down heavens of heavens -forward… breaking burdens like these~Krissy

Here is the audio version slightly different – many blessings

And the bird whose lost her wings cannot fly. Flying is but a temporal port. It is soaring, eternal both ordinary – quite exquisite… deeply marked into being on plane…. wigwam/bip- and fly.~Krissy

Dear God…. you know the voices of many- in urban jungles like this. The concrete stays inflamed. Her heat is without satisfaction. Lonely musicians harp cords into galley- ways.

Afar off the city writes letters to the dead. Why haven’t you come home? Why haven’t we made this place home? Who’s left to shed blood? Whose smiles are forgotten?

Who is now to abide … Tribulation, degradation, violations, so what is…. what is…. alleged convictions of twisted morality, “Our fathers sit on benches” with their submissions in toe…~Krissy  (photo taken by my personal camera this past winter)

Dear God, preserve our very lives.-Krissy

Finding myself, in a quiet place early in the morning. While the trees relieve its sap. The never sleeping squirrels nibbling on acorns. Summer showers and sun-rays fashion bows across the sky. Looking beyond: it has aligned us to be here, to be – alive, to feel its warmth and know – heavenly eyes are upon us.~Krissy♥

Image photo: pixabay.com