image by Steffi Ihrig, on Pixabay, modified My grandmother taught me how to pray right before sleep. She’d stand in the doorway— me in the bed with my cousin who had cerebral palsy, and the room’d be lightly painted with shadows, and she’d have us repeat the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Our stumbling. Giggles, how we’d be embarrassed at our mistakes. I’d think: who art in Heaven. How beautiful a phrase is that? I’d think of art in Heaven. Of course, there would be

image by Bianca Van Dijk, on Pixabay, slightly modified Merry Christmas! And I hope our Jewish friends had a Happy Hanukkah! As I prepare to introduce this issue of Spirit Fire Review, again I'm inspired by the words of our contributors as they tackle pain, sorrows, and tough questions of faith. When we cry out, “what doesn’t fall apart?” (Nicolas Reynolds) If we are like "a girl on the verge of not believing, in God or herself,” (Rebecca Watkins) or “when hope is far from u

drawing of Mother and Child, by Hannah Palmer, also known as Chicken Palmer " Children are a blessing and a gift from the Lord" (Psalm 127:3). self-portrait of Hannah Palmer, also known as Chicken Palmer Chicken Palmer is a mother and Christian artist who lives in regional Australia. She lives with her husband and their two young sons. When she is not busy taking care of her family, she is writing or sketching. Her written works can be found in Paulett Golden’s anthol

Laura Deschenes photo, "Fire and Ice" The embers     Bent over the manger, a nova fire smiles, Softly stoking the embers of one infant child— One cold night born to rebind us, reweave our lives In cosmic lines: Jesus our Brother, meek and mild.   Softly stoking the embers of one infant child, The Fire he wields sets the world on a new path. In cosmic lines, Jesus our Brother, meek and mild Speaks to all to revive, renew, and bear the wrath.   The Fire he wields sets the world

forsythia, image by Hans, on Pixabay into forever forsythias burn like wildfires in my thoughts of you… your warm smile radiates the sky — a million rising suns! your voice whispers my name in the gentle call of a waking wood thrush and blushing buds paint pastels of your kind eyes on tender branches soon savory yellows slip beneath sweet purples… to the music of a sleepy brook chantin

image by Sabine van Erp, on Pixabay, modified Miracles   If we didn’t see the miracle, does that mean it didn’t happen? If something occurs so often that we fail to even notice, can it not still be miraculous? We say what a miracle life is when we witness a birth, but the miracle of life occurs each time we breathe, each time there is thought, each time a heart beats, each time love brings someone to tears, each time a tiny cut heals or a broken bone mends, each time a bird f

image by Layers, on Pixabay, modified You didn’t know     today he was told        you’re getting          older           certainty is a           lie                 her condition is          inoperable   and    oh, you didn’t know about your other half-sister?   where’s the center that holds? what doesn’t fall apart? ______________________ Nicolas Reynolds  lives in Northern Virginia with his wife and their cat. His graduate work focuses on literary aesthetic history, with

The Creation of Adam - Michelangelo, c. 1512, modified Invigoration     The Sistine painter understood so well The bond between divinity and man. It is amazing how a fresco can Portray in splendor what mere words but tell In truth. Beneath Creation, I am spell-   bound as I lean to look upon the span Of arms extended to fulfill God’s plan For one designed to stand until two fell.   As God drew Adam out of primal dust, He pulls man still from mires of sin and strife To walk, t

porch light, image from Pixabay, modified Glass Underfoot   I watch the rain etch lines down the window, each drop tracing what I never said. The house holds its breath now— your slippers still by the door, your chair still warm with absence.   The world hums on, silver and bright on the outside— but I walk beneath it like glass underfoot, cracking with every step.   Laughter spills from passing cars, distant and hollow, like church bells rung underwater. I try to catch it—th

image by Mukhtyar Hussain, on Pixabay Ode to the Obscure     Let us not sing praises for the famous for most of them will be forgotten in time… and what really is fame other than a name many know for a time?   The being, the soul behind the name is not known, not truly known— few know even themselves and then never completely…   No, better to praise the obscure, to laud the hidden, to sing of the secrets carried in the edges of life—the spaces between heart and mind, mind and

chapel, Faroe Islands, image by Eszter Miller, on Pixabay, modified A word about city conditions and coast riches   This city shows houses hiding in rain when  morning sails in. No mountains to hold sun,    the centre shows all roofs cold-new. Bikes jam, vans cut off canals. Distant. I move up    to the silent stretching sky, closer to the North Sea. Cargos hover outside a harbour’s mouth,   the stoney sailor’s wife's still at the Old Church,  staring for ever. He won’t retur

image by Elle Ritter, on Pixabay, modified Found   In third grade, we released balloons with letters we’d written tucked inside. We watched from our blacktop schoolyard,   dressed in plaid jumpers, faces upturned, as they became colorful dots rising over the steeple of St. Francis Seraph church   where twice a week, we shuffled into the pews with bowed heads, kneeled, clutched our hands, and prayed the words of children.   One day, a letter arrived in the mail, a reply to my

summer jasmine, image by Eukalyptus, on Pixabay, slightly modified Excessive   Too young to roll over and die Too old to keep working like this Too stubborn to accept change Too powerless to resist it Too broken to be strong Too damaged to be confident Too tired to fix myself Too wise to be ignorant   Dramatic pause You think it’s over. It’s not.   Too smart to do nothing Too passionate to not care Too loved to be empty Too blessed to not share Too strong-willed to give up To

watercolor, image by Layers, on Pixabay Praise God No Matter What     I asked myself: What actually is praise? It is beyond clapping, chanting, dancing, It is rivers of inner joy from man’s heart Destined for the inimitable divine heart.   It’s beyond what human minds can fathom, All about acknowledging His mightiness, Praise is not just spoken, feelings, not a spray of eloquence , but lifting up Jehovah, revering His magnificent nature.   Listening to Aunty Stella teach, I c

image by valter, on Pixabay, slightly modified Second Chances   Really, I don’t deserve His goodness and mercy. For all my times of rebelliousness and disobedience, He should just let me bear the consequences of my mistakes. But He doesn’t. At this point, I am experiencing love and forgiveness according to His mercy and grace. I am embarrassed to say, I feel like a spoiled, only child. Why does He love me so? I don’t deserve it, but He blesses me anyway. He turns my oops into

sunlit chair by window, image by Sasha Moroz, on Pixabay, modified Hiding Place     Early morning light peeks through the PVC blinds, gently waking me from sleep. I murmur, good morning, gazing up at the ceiling with half-shut eyes— this is all I can offer in the moment.   My lungs inflate with life at this acknowledgement. Stretching out my hand, I find a warm tuft of fur still snoozing Good morning to you, too. The cat does not bother herself so much with greetings.   A str

running, image by Gerd Altmann, on Pixabay Lazarus     I can't help but look back Sometimes And I wonder: Did Lazarus feel Such dismay  When he woke to find Burial cloths Wrapped around him, Clinging to his skin As I do  Today Seeing where I once came from?   Did his skin crawl From the smell of  Death Newly departed As mine does Remembering  The feel of violent hands?   How freeing To shed To strip Those rank and filthy rags To leave them behind in the dark And run Full-tilt

cliff and sea, image by Ida, on Pixabay Linger     Gnarled limbs gripped cliff, precarious. Watched migrants drift below on turquoise waves                   beneath a pastel sky.                                  Millions carried by time’s stream.    Did any pause—                                       hear wind rustle, taste sun—                                         linger, embrace the fleeting beauty of life?   George Chandy  is a retired physician-scientist newly embark

puddle with leaves, image by congerdesign, on Pixabay, modified A Prayer for Tadpoles    Ripples nip the curbside puddle, a strip of bile-brown bathtub clogged with leaves and shrinking under the sun’s scowl.   Tadpoles teem beneath the sheen: an inch-deep nursery drying daily as tiny-tailed bodies budge their brothers like bumper cars.   Orphans of this stagnant shoal, I pray that your amphibious crib may not drip down to Sheol.                           *      Golden Hour a

image by Heba S, on Pixabay The Ocean Doesn’t Argue   To argue with the ocean, how it climbs ladders, touches clouds and star. Fist to God is as if a battalion of words will cut, kill creation itself. The slit of earth does not listen, does not move. God sees the cluster of sand run through the vapor of hands. Salt in the eyes and the bubbling swell of defeated laughter. And he has not forgotten. Even— the ease of his head could turn, look at the beauty of his bare feet, yet