journal, image by artmew on Pixabay, modified On Losing a Journal All my frustration with the doctor’s orders to wait before getting pregnant: gone. All my questions about 1 Corinthians 11: gone. Somewhere in a hotel room at El Tropicano in San Antonio, Texas, maybe, or in the city’s largest convention center, or anywhere between here and there. All my fears about money and my husband’s business, all this pregnancy’s memories, such as the moment I first felt resista

Painting: bright pink, purple, and coral flowers fill the frame, image by DWilliam, on Pixabay, modified Rosary in Hands Godmother Rosette wears it well, the scent of joy masquerading as wild rose. She sits in her wicker rocking chair, the white paint peeling off in corners of the wood where the squeak is heard. She has rocked for decades casually with a rosary in hand, sitting in sunlight, welcoming the breeze. Her sun hat sits at reach. Her hair, the shimmer of s

fields and sun, image by Milena M, on Pixabay, modified Undefeated (Inspired by cheerleader Brooke Walker) The story airing on the news caught my eye; I listened intently as the telling unfolded. The loss of a foot – devastating to most – but even more so in one so young, seemed immeasurably sad as I sat and watched, her future dependent on the need for two, enabling the ability to jump and vault and lift, the absence threatening to end prospective plans, stalling her m

abstract, image by Prawny, on Pixabay, modified Child of the Father I am fire-purged, Grace-fashioned, Love-enfolded. I am overshadowed, Much-delivered, Spirit-borne. I am sorely-tested, Not forsaken, Footsore but still climbing. I am found sheep, Emerging butterfly. I am my Father's child. *

"Jonah Under His Gourd," by Maarten van Heemskerck, 1561. Utterance (after "Jonah Under His Gourd" by Maarten van Heemskerck, 1561) Thy will be done, O Lord, I pray, Since Thou art God, the only One, And who am I to disobey? Thy will be done. With vine or worm, each with its run, Thy might is rightly on display, And I must trust in shade or sun. Whatever Thou shalt do or stay, Thy plan is not for man to shun; On this and any other day, Thy will be done. Jane Blanchard of Au

image by rihaij, on Pixabay, modified Fog This morning the treetops emerge from the marine layer that rolls in at night, bringing a scent of the sea inland, misting us as one. I step outside with my morning cup on a deck high above the street, as the light brightens between fingers of a pine, its curved green needles parting the haze. At first the sun is tentative, dancing forward and back, the way I hesitate to disperse my confining memories, those imprints of ruin tha

wild daffodils, image by Erika Varga, on Pixabay Crow's Nest, Andalusia, Alabama No daffodils in the driveway of this BBQ spot. There's a 4-year-old toddler who blurts out, "A happy day to you," every time the front door squeaks open. Order 12 comes up, and she chirps, "Number 12, Southern Belle, Number 12, Southern Belle, NUMBER 12, SOUTHERN BELLE!" and who knows why, other than it’s the same reason bluebells peek out early in spring, their own form of down-home music. Grand

police cap, image by OpenClipart-Vectors, on Pixabay A Boy Who Has Earned His Angel Wings In honor of Devarjaye “D.J.” Daniel Since we first saw him at the State of the Union, he has captured all of our hearts: a fighter, a dreamer— a boy battling— brave and stalwart. Diagnosed with Stage 3 brain cancer, told he had five months left to live— he found meaning from his father teaching him how to serve and give. Inspired by faith and godly wisdom, with resolve far beyond his yea

mountain lake with boat, image by Monika Iris, on Pixabay, modified It’s gonna be alright It’s gonna be alright, I know it for sure. As day comes after night, All sorrows have a cure. Don’t be afraid to dream, That is how souls speak. God is always on your team When it’s His will you seek. When sad, upset, or sick, Believe: “This too shall pass.” Your faith should not be weak, That’s what I learned at Mass. Be good, polite, and kind, Go out of your way

popcorn, image by Bruno, on Pixabay Sometimes Sometimes I think I can write poetry, words dancing in my brain, imagery popping like a jack in the box. Surprisingly scary. Other times I look at words on canvas, dreams blending hues of sapphire with silver and the gentlest of star light. Everything is beautiful. Sometimes there are emotions bursting like popcorn waiting to be caught and joyfully savored. Memories smudge with the writing; they soften

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