Second Saturday in Lent

“You hate those who pay regard to worthless idols,
     but I trust in the LORD.” Psalm 31:6

i could gather up
all those trumped up
promises and re-sell them
online, knowing the fortune
i would make.
i could keep reading
the latest books or
attend the newest seminar
or follow the influencer
everyone else does, convinced
my church will triple in numbers.
i could market bumper
stickers from all those
platitudes preachers let fall
on peoples’ ears each week.
or
i could simply keep trudging
that long obedience
in the same direction
even if everyone else
thinks i am the only fool
to give it a try.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

Second Friday in Lent

“Seek the LORD and his strength;
     seek his presence continually.” Psalm 105:4

it’s a mystery, God.
we can be drawn into
an online argument about
something we know little about
started by someone we don’t know,
but we’re going to jump in
feet first, all in—
but take the time for a breath,
to listen carefully to another,
practice that more needed now
than ever before peacemaking?
it’s a mystery, God.
even though
you’ve warned us time and again,
we keep turning down
Grudge Alley, hoping the bullies
will jump out and pummel us,
so we have an excuse to keep returning—
but stand there trying
to understand Jesus’ words,
though failing to realize that
forgiveness is not a math equation?
it’s a mystery, Lord,
how, where, why to seek you
but you have given us the clues
of grace, love, peace, justice
and so much more to solve it.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

Second Thursday in Lent

“Do not cast me off, do not forsake me,
     O God of my salvation!” Psalm 27:9c

when our cruelty bruises your mornings,
when creation sighs under our abuse,
when fear turns neighbors into strangers,
do not toss us aside,
God, whom we weary.
when we become more skilled
at building detention centers
faster than warming shelters,
as we so casually mistake
noise for today’s truth,
don’t give up on us—
but keep walking beside
the weary in hospital corridors,
listening to mothers in shelters,
sitting Shiva for dreams of justice
which die at the hands of indifference.
teach us to listen once again
not just with our ears, but hearts—
for the cry of the forgotten,
the persistence of peacemakers,
the songs of hope you plant
deep in the souls of little children.
as even our wilderness seems
to have become more barren,
gather us up—
our ashes as well as our anger,
our faults as well as our faith,
to show us the way into
the bright light of your love.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

Second Wednesday in Lent

“A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, "If you choose, you can make me clean." Mark 1:40

it is a hope as old as dirt—
‘if you choose, you can make me clean.’
so, what will it be—
that careful distance allowing us
that safe place from the
those folks who make us uncomfortable
or a risky touch bringing healing
to a person standing in the dust
of brokenness?
will we keep silence which gives
injustice just the breath it needs
or dare we step bravely into
the challenges of our days?
should we keep those habits
who do nothing more than
numb us into insensitivity
or we kneel down, listen closely,
offering mercy to the forgotten?
as we walk the edges of ordinary days,
our hands cupping fear,
cramming worries into our pockets,
may we realize that love
can still reach out in these
confusing, terrifying, overwhelming
moments and perhaps
our small choice will become
that simple holy touch
that changes everything.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Tuesday in Lent

“Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” 1 Corinthians 1:20

when ash is drifting down on us,
and the bitter wind carries away
all our well-memorized answers,
do we need the smartest person
in the room,
or the one whose pain
is etched on their face?
when our hearts have crumpled,
every argument tossed aside,
with only a deep ache remaining,
do we need a summa cum laude
or the person who has had
a hope transplant done by the Spirit?
when we are made speechless
as we stand at the edge of the Skull,
truth splintering into pick-up sticks,
do we need a by-God spellbinder
or a little child with simple words?
like bread torn apart by unseen hands,
like light pouring into those
cracks we never notice,
gather up our knowing, God,
and unmake it by your grace—
peeling away that brilliance
blinding us to justice,
unraveling those Gordian knots
made of anger and arrogance,
turning our self-righteous piety
into fools gold with no value—
so that in our Lenten wilderness,
we might realize you are not
as dumb as we think you are.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Monday in Lent

“The LORD will keep
     your going out and your coming in
     from this time on and for evermore.” Psalm 121:8

whether on the open road
or negotiating a narrow path,
you trace our footsteps,
Compassionate God,
from sunrise to sunset,
cradling our comings and goings
in hands covered in dust and dawn.
we can’t help but wander
chasing after noise, jogging with fear,
hoping to find illusions of power,
while you watch from the edges of life,
that quiet observer when we forget
how you hold us in your arms.
sometimes our doubts are like
pebbles in our shoes as we walk
through this Lenten wilderness,
yet you stay by our side, slowly,
faithfully, as if each step was a prayer
when we dare to leave the familiar
you are waiting in what scares us.
and when we limp back home,
you are sitting by the window with a lamp
to keep us honest when we go out,
have mercy on us when we come in,
guard all those small journeys—
turning toward forgiveness,
walking away from cruelty,
taking the long journey to grace.
from the very first breath you gifted us
to the final one we will give back to you,
be that gentle rhythm under our feet,
that home we never leave.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Sunday in Lent

“Happy are those whose strength is in you,
   in whose heart are the highways to Zion.” Psalm 84:5

society rushes by,
distractions bring paths to a standstill,
whispers of hope are drowned
by the noise of every moment,
so blessed are the weary feet
of pilgrims walking through Lent.
for in the companionship of others
we find strength for this journey,
hope echoes in our hearts
with every step we take.
for we are not just marching
to an empty tomb in a garden,
but through that slow realization
of the presence of God’s grace
in every pothole of our lives.
we might miss the quiet joys
of this silent season of wandering
as we focus on frenzied posts,
but in the simple act of pausing
in the spiritual discipline of discovering
the gifts in the unnoticed corners,
but if we walk with faithful caution
in the light of the promise
that in our mortality, even
as we trail Jesus down those
dusty roads leading to death—
we are blessed.
for this is not a sprint to win
some sort of medal,
but that slow, tender pilgrimage
to the heart of God.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Saturday in Lent

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

soul-weary,
hearts battered by news,
shoes covered with debris of cruelty,
hope so thin we have trouble breathing—
no wonder we whisper,
we are not enough
and we are not . . . by ourselves.
but then, slipping into our fatigue
like light through the closed
slats of window shutters,
comes a quiet resolve—
not loud, nor boastful,
just persistent as grace.
it is Jesus
that troublemaker telling stories
of people standing together,
that friend who does not leave us
crumpled in the rubble of doubts—
but never stops nudging us
to keep crafting justice, just
one small act of fairness at a time
to always choose compassion
no matter how attractive snark becomes,
to wrap others in the bands of grace,
just as we are swaddled in it,
to dare never give up hope
because
resurrection
is planted in the garden of weakness.
perhaps we are not enough
as the cosmic powers tell us—
but we are not alone
and companion by companion,
pilgrim by pilgrim
witness by witness,
we become that doorway
through which the strength
of love steps into the world.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Friday in Lent

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.” Philippians 4:4

in moments when we tremble
with worry and our nights hum
with the uncertainty of tomorrow—
we rejoice in that quiet courage
you plant deep in ordinary hearts
when we walk down crumbling sidewalks
to sit beside the forgotten
in the shadows of dimming justice—
we rejoice for that grace-shaped song
you teach to weary lungs, reminding us
that hope still has a heartbeat.
when the influencers walk red carpets
woven from bitcoins and idolatry,
when the wealthy want bigger developments
and an end to discussion of affordable housing—
we rejoice that you do not step away
but choose them impenetrable days
to be where love is made incarnate
once again.
where brokenness is mended
by the gentle touch of a stranger,
where sorrow is given respite
through the laughter of children,
in that promise you made
from the beginning that we
will always be held in your heart,
we rejoice that you are as close
to us as the breath we take,
that we are becoming evidence
that your Beloved Community
is still unfolding in our midst—
and our rejoicing
becomes our resistance.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

First Thursday in Lent

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
I will exult in the God of my salvation. Habakkuk 3:17-18

though hope withers in our streets
and the leaves of grace
curl in on themselves,
though our mornings are numbed
with wars, and storms, and children
struggling to cross hunger’s border—
still, you are here
Planter of quiet seeds.
when our pensions fall like temperatures,
when despair stitches our nights,
when grief refuses to take the hint
and get up and leave from our rooms,
and justice is rationed like famine’s bread—
still, we turn to you,
leaning like sunflowers to light.
for you do not walk away
from drought-scarred fields
nor hold your words as
you walk in the dust of dreams
you are the faint heartbeat
which stirs the ashes of life,
that whisper with a stronger life
than angry shouts.
so, until life returns,
we will sing with hoarse voices,
we will dance on uneven ground,
we will dig furrows in fields of fear
planting small seeds of mercy,
Joy which is present even
when the world says you have left,
remembering that you
are that harvest we are always
waiting for.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

Ash Wednesday

it is as if it is too shy
to want more attention—
smaller than you thought,
a smudge someone might mistake
as dirt from working in the garden,
or a playful mark from a child.
as you go through the day,
you might forget it is there
until you see someone’s eyes
turn soft as they notice,
the fast-food clerk pauses,
compassion touches you in
the simple silence of a stranger.
you see, ash remembers what
we think we can dismiss—
that in our ending is our beginning,
that even all the good we tried
to do will dissolve into dust.
ash also remembers the fire
of love, burning bright enough
so this trace can help us
to remember.as those ancient
words confront us once again:
we will return.
it is not a threat, but the promise
that nothing given in love
ever goes to waste
this day is not about shame,
but honesty marking our souls,
standing still just long enough
to admit that while fragile
we are beloved above all else.
it will disappear,
a quick mix of soap and water,
a soft cloth, and . . .
but the softer soul,
the silent heart
that whisper of love
reminds us of how dust
is always cradled
in the hands of grace.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 17th

“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.” Philippians 3:7-8

they are like heirlooms
i collected over the years—
achievements and honors,
titles before and letters after my name,
the applause from others (but
hoping for a standing ovation).
they were my portfolio
my security blanket
they gave me my credibility.
then
you picked up my ledger
where I had recorded each one,
tearing each page out and
putting them into the shredder.
for you measure me
by the simple standard of mercy
your calculator is based more
on grace than any so-called gains.
so—
put the trophies into recycling,
erase the old names like chalk,
for in losing,
i find your heart much closer,
in letting go,
i hold what i will never lose.
everything we call treasure
is valueless compared to you,
as i discover the joy
of losing all i once held dear
as cradle me in your love.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 16th

“God has taken his place in the divine council;
     in the midst of the gods he holds judgment:
‘How long will you judge unjustly
     and show partiality to the wicked?’” Psalm 82:1-2

they long to be our idols,
those tiny gods who want
to capitalize their names—
the hot breath of angry mouths
would seek to move over
the living waters of hope
until they become boiling springs
of bitterness,
the false messiah calls
the uber rich and those
who gorge on power and
want another helping to follow
down the roads where potholes
never appear and trash is always
picked up before it hits the curb,
the dragon sheds its scales
of lies and boasts, in hopes
they will cover the dust from which
life focused on empathy and
seeking justice for others was shaped.
and we look around wondering
where we might find
an emergency room
for our souls.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

Transfiguration

“Then he said to them all, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.’” Luke 9:23

unfortunately (for us),
it is not on that comfortable
shine-Jesus-shine mountaintop,
where we are challenged
to live out that faith which costs
us more than we think we have—
but in the valleys where grief runs
not burbling streams of joy,
in the hospital rooms where
we bathe the faces of loved ones,
in the streets where the forgotten
live in the shadows of loneliness.
unfortunately (for us),
it is not the chocolate, fast-food,
lack of exercise, or other such
trivial excesses we are asked to deny,
but our privilege which masks
complete indifference to injustice,
our self-righteousness which
covers-up our hoarding of grace,
our refusal to see God in the face
of those we look at through fear—
those are the crosses we are offered.
fortunately, for us, Jesus shows us
how it is done, if we dare but
follow.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 14th

“Now when Jacob saw Rachel, the daughter of his mother's brother Laban, and the sheep of his mother's brother Laban, Jacob went up and rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the flock of his mother's brother Laban.” Genesis 29:1-10

somewhere, a little child
longs for someone to roll
away the stone of past due
envelopes on dusty tables
so joy might run free.
somewhere,
an immigrant needs the stone
shadows of fear and angry words
to be pushed aside so justice
can glimpse their face and welcome them.
somewhere, a weary widow
leans against the stone carved
from the hollowness of not needed clothes,
wondering if anyone will sculpt it
into hope which will call their name.
and so, God of where grace meets
the parched throats of pilgrims,
send us as stone removers—
compassion strengthening our backs,
grace callousing our hands—
until every well is opened
and every thirsty soul drinks
from the well spring of your love.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 13th

“Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, "Surely the LORD is in this place — and I did not know it!" Genesis 28:16

from the slipping out of bed,
grabbing the coffee,
checking notifications,
stepping into the day of sirens,
lights flashing their commands,
emails demanding answers,
we whisper, ‘just another day
in just another place.’
but grace waits
in that doorway we rush past,
in the immigrant we dismiss,
in the silence we try to put at ease.
and
in the slow moving lane going home,
on sidewalks covered with ice
or beaches too hot to walk on,
in cities overwhelmed by fear’s grief
and in those houses where ache
quietly closes the drapes—
we find the Holy right beside us.
for like great-great-great grandpa Jacob,
we blink rapidly at the light
hidden in plain people
in even plainer places—
in her breath, his heartbeat,
the world’s brokenness—
and we whisper in shock,
‘wow! God is here,’
and we never notice as we
sleepwalk through life.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 12th

“Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.” Romans 12:12

scrolling through years of war,
wildfire, sirens down midnight streets,
and the empty chair grief pulls up
at far too many tables, joy
has lost its childlike innocence.
and yet—
it dares to look for the dawn,
not that the world is growing
kind, but because God always is.
anxiety hums like power lines
beneath our souls, and patience
walks barefoot on the shards
of shattered prayers, yet we
will continue to root ourselves
in the slow language of trust,
learning the grammar of waiting
which heaven whispers hope.
we will keep struggling to be
faithful in prayers, showing up,
hands wrapped around warm mugs,
cheeks carved with tears,
entrusting our brittle alleluias
into the callused hands of Jesus.
for hope is not a hashtag
but the heartbeat of
quiet resistance, allowing
our hearts to sync with God’s.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 11th

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God — what is good and acceptable and perfect.” Romans 12:2

ah, dear friends,
let us not fill our hearts
with trending fears,
with that outrage crafted
so it fits our thumbs.
our lives, these God-lives,
are not to be measured
in likes or shares or emojis.
those filters offered to us:
smoothing the edges of injustice,
seeing cruel rhetoric as the
natural heirs to Shakespeare,
Neruda or Angelou,
the lies seducing us that
we are what we display—
only drag us deeper into
that pit of unknowingness.
so, let us step out of doom scrolling,
let God rewrite those codes
of rivalry and covetousness,
as God reboots our souls
with tender compassion.
may we shut down all those
glowing screens and sit
in the still silence of that
Light which shows us the way
to that life where we do not
become more inhuman,
but are renewed by grace.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 10th

“When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her." And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground.” John 8:7-8

they draw in closer, ready
to cast their verdict with
those stones harder than
their hearts clutched tight
in their hands—
but you stand there,
not to argue the case
nor to defend her, but simply
offering that challenge that
none of us want to take on,
and suddenly, the hand-sized rocks
become Sisyphean boulders we keep
trying to push to the top of Mount Judgment.
and as the silent wind
carries away all the accusations,
you remain kneeling on the ground,
shaping new life for her,
and all who release
their grip on self-righteousness,
from the dust of grace
which is always ready
to rewrite our stories.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 9th

“How long will you judge unjustly
   and show partiality to the wicked?” Psalm 82:2

gripping the gavel with white knuckles,
you lean forward from the bench
to ask us the question we hope
you will never ask—
‘how long?’
how long will we dress power
in fancy suits and black robes
and claim it is justice, while
the forgotten hear the sound
of the doors clanging shut behind them,
while truth is removed from
the courtrooms by masked agents?
how long will we keep tilting the scales
until the weight is sufficient for our needs
simply because evil flatters us
with names a lover would use?
how long, God asks,
not with thundering judgement
but in that heartbroken voice
of parents who see their kids
choosing shadows over
the unrewarding work of being light
how long—
before judgment remembers mercy
and the arrogant learn to kneel?

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 8th

““You are the salt of the earth; . . . You are the light of the world,” Matthew 5:13-14

listen, it is not a bumper sticker—
salt doesn’t shout in our ear,
it simply sticks around,
protecting what is precious from going bad
when we sweat fear through the day
and when truth is left out
on the kitchen counter.
salt has that quiet faithfulness
like folks gathering to bear witness
in places of worship and in streets,
like those hearts which refuse
to lose the tang of gritty grace.
listen, it’s not a slogan—
light refuses to debate the shadows,
it simply walks as far into it as needed;
a candle in a cellar as the missiles
land all over their neighborhood;
a porch light turned on
for the wayward to find home.
listen, they are not meant
to be commercials for sporting events—
Jesus didn’t say, ‘try to be’
he challenged us, “you are!”
already glowing like hope
in the shadows of despair,
already to be poured out
into the lives of God’s precious ones
so season today with grace
turn on a lamp for the weary.
the world is exhausted
the shadows seem to expand
and God has trusted us
to never let the light go out,
God has poured the cost of justice
into us so it might not decay.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 7th

“O God, you are my God, I seek you,
   my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
   as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” Psalm 63:1

like a dog
with a tail wagging
fast enough to light a house,
waiting for a snowball
to be tossed, convinced
that this time it will not
explode into nothingness
when it is caught in its mouth.
like a cat who slowly
stalks the string being trailed
behind it’s servants back
as they play the game
they have done so many times.
like a kid
with money clutched
in its hands, shimmering
as the line moves
as a snail’s pace to the cashier,
so she can pay for the final book
in the series she has been reading
for years, and can’t wait
to see how the loose ends are tied,
that is how much
you long for us, dear God,
to want to find you.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 6th

“I have not hidden your saving help within my heart,
   I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation;
I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness
   from the great congregation.” Psalm 40:10


in a time when people
keeps saying we should close
our hearts to empathy just like
we close borders, may i
keep opening mine wider and wider
so your grace can embrace
the vulnerable around us.
in a world where many wonder
how many family, friends, neighbors
might turn their backs if they dare
to speak out for justice, may
i have the courage to never stop
reminding folks of your partiality
towards those who are forgotten.
in a place where folks distort
your words, even claiming Jesus
didn’t really mean most of what
he said and did and lived,
may i keep trying to follow him,
even if others think i am just
another reed bending
in the wind.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 5th

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,” Hebrews 12:1

grandparents praying through the night,
friends who refused to step aside,
young people who left school
to ride buses to sign up voters,
saints who would burst out laughing
if anyone called them that—
they ran their race in kitchens
as well as in courtrooms,
while crossing bridges knowing
what awaited them on the other side,
who saw that justice which endures
while so many others were blind.
weary folks in scrubs,
kids in school uniforms,
check out folks in grocery stores,
bus driver watching kids get home,
all who put on their weary shoes
so they can keep running
when faith feels so thin,
who give up pride to forgive,
whose trembling hands cup fragile love,
whose whistles are held tight
in their hands, ready to be used.
they all lean toward us,
surrounding us with courage
and whispering hope—
‘toss aside those heavy fears,
keep going, don’t stop,
you are never alone.’

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 4th

“Come, bless the LORD, all you servants of the LORD,
     who stand by night in the house of the LORD!” Psalm 134:1

tonight, we find them,
blessing the Lord—
not in cathedrals nor halls of power,
but where late-night nurses rinse
their hands under dim lights,
where families count the slow
breaths in hospice beds,
where immigrants sleep
with one eye open for cruelty
trying to creep in during the night,
and the other gazing at hope
sitting in the corner, watching
over them when they can’t sleep.
bless the Lord, servants of night hours—
standing guard over the vulnerable,
holding the line when fear
links arms to approach them,
singing songs of hope when faith
grows as thin as the sun in winter.
for God, who never sleeps,
especially as the world exhales
and shadows stretch toward us,
listens closely as our quiet devotion
grows like nightlight in the hallway,
and turns to the darkness and
simply says,
you do not get the last word.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 3rd

"By faith Isaac blessed Jacob and Esau in regard to their future.” Hebrews 11:20

it is so hard to see tomorrow,
much less that dim future,
when our streets are iced over
in so many different ways,
when our times are marked
by rivalry and regret, like siblings
that jostle for blessings and inheritances,
when nothing seems to be as sure
as the fact that uncertain days
fill every date on our calendar.
yet our ancestors in this mystery
called faith, left us with some hints—
dare to hold our hands open not clenched tight,
trust that God keeps bending us toward justice,
believe that mercy is never far from us.
so, when we fear that tomorrow will be so heavy,
we might drop it and shatter our fragile world,
may we, by faith,
offer blessings and not curses,
speak life rather than fear,
plant seeds we may never sit under,
choose love over cynicism,
trust that God weaves hope
into the messes of our lives,
and leave the future up to God,
knowing it is not ours to control.
may we be blessings of hope,
grace, love, peace, justice,
inclusion, and wonder,
by faith.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 2nd

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Hebrews 11:1

Faith
has nothing to do with
answers clutched in our hands,
it is that gentle weight of hope
cupped in our palms.
it is there, just at the edge
of the future, with nothing
but a promise and believing
that is more than enough
to keep our knees from knocking.
it is learning to feel
the invisible breath of God
in all our ordinary moments—
cleaning bathrooms and
making grocery lists,
in knocked-to-our-knees
grief that keeps showing up,
as well as the joy which
takes our hands and holds tight.
it does not demand proof,
but simply sits with us
waiting
listening,
leaning its whole life
toward those whispers of love
lingering all around us.
Faith is gentle persistence
to live as if the light is real
even as shadows surround us,
trusting that what we hope for
is already wrapping its arms
around us.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

February 1st

“Abraham answered, "Let me take it upon myself to speak to the Lord, I who am but dust and ashes.” Genesis 18:27

ankle deep in the dust
of Abraham’s words, the ash
of that audacious hope in our throats,
we dare to speak our shattered hearts.
yes, we are insignificant, as others remind us,
but grace is burning at the edges,
justice is bent like a bruised reed,
mercy is shouted down by violence,
cruelty keeps jotting down names,
and fear creeps into our souls
like winter’s chill into arthritic bones.
yet, we dare not keep silent,
not so much out of dogmatism
but because silence is simply giving up.
so in those faint echoes of that ancient voice
may we have the humility to know who we are,
the courage to confront who we refuse to be,
and the persistent hope to ask
who we might yet become.
if only a remnant dares to speak,
if only a fragment of the faithful
can begin to make a difference,
then start with us.
our lives becoming questions
to challenge the powerful,
answers which will not turn to futility,
songs which keep walking
the streets of mercy,
and prayers taking one shaky step
at a time, but never backwards.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman