Frail, faint images of what once was and might have been,
are painted in front of me.
My eyes lingering,
fingering for a rock to steady my loose hold.
Torn apart when tide turned into flow
and I now know
that what was will never be again.
And as quickly as I ran,
those ghosts are haunting me and I’m still serving as their host.

I escaped almost
but the story of brokenness as my tenderness shattered
won’t stop like everything did
when my feelings froze;
shocked dead
by the cold hold of an almost living hand,
of washed away sand
in my memory still vivid
and then the slow return of the detested liquid.

My hand is holding yours
as death and destruction
like a turmoiled ocean come crashing down,
turning my hearty laughter into a frown.
WE had nothing yet my head was still holding a crown.
A crown of joy, hope and happiness,
washed away leaving a whole lot of emptiness.

Those ghosts of fainted memories draw a picture in my head of what could have been,
if only that dreaded ocean night
would have warned me with a thundering light,
that nothing will ever be the same.

My today still circles around that moment
of my hand holding your almost living one.
Feeling the cold seep in and the warmth
making place for it.
That moment when crowns became tear-filled frowns
and my happiness a mere memory of what once was.

My heart is still filled with those images, I can’t get out.
Ghosts running after me, even though I run.
Trying so desperately to find the sun.
Searching my future in the past,
mixing some sweetness into that salty water that changed my life forever.
Deciding to never look back again,
as I began to shut out those images,
trying to see the beauty in black and white.
Trying to see the future in my hand.
Trying to forget your hand in my hand,
but sometimes like lost melodies, those ghosts appear again.
Even though I ran, sprinted even,
waited for someone
to make that cold hand warm again.
Waited to see my frozen heart turn into water, a part of the ocean I dreaded.

But those frail images of what could have been
are trailing behind me and are still not seen.
I am so keen on forgetting,
on letting it all go,
that I even try to shut out those memories
of long forgotten, beautiful melodies;
of shelves filled with pictures,
images of us before your hand was colder than mine.
Memories of hearts bursting of love
and peace sinking into the deepest part of my soul,
longing to fulfil our call.
Because every time I look at these, the ghosts of other memories are just a thought away.

Images are powerful and yet I seek to find a way to distinguish them.
Out of fear or mere anxiety.
I’m fighting against ghosts that are stronger than me,
against darkness that the light has never seen.
But I am too weak and I begin to sink
as frail, fainted images of a hand almost living
and an ocean almost turned sweet by your last words,
begin to sink in and it hurts.
But it prevents me from drowning,
because of the memories I try to forget I am standing here,
the ghosts have found me and instead of imprisoning me,
these memories have set me free.

Faint, brighter images are visible at the edge of the earth
at the horizon of my own little world.
And I know that hope was never lost,
even though it is not a crown anymore.
A little diamond out of the beautiful diadem I wore,
wasn’t swept away by salty tears and dark fears
but it was there, where I last expected it.

It was in the wet sand,
in the memory of your almost living hand.
And I pick it up, your last gift.
The gift of hope that will carry me
when I turn around and walk,
away from sandy shores and towards the future hoards,
still hidden behind high boards
but I’m walking hoping on the Lord.


Dear Body of Christ

Have you been sleeping lately? I feel like you’ve tried many times to hide your failings and your torments, but how could the head not know what is going on?
Dear Bride to be to the most glorious husband,
why are you standing in shame and not preparing yourself for his return? Get your beautiful clothes and your jewels out, he is coming! He once told us to be ready but most of the time we are not, I am not. I’m revolving around tiny problems, little errors and my sin instead of remembering what Christ did. And who he is!

I wrote a spoken word to the body of Christ, asking it to speak up again, to start living as the body of Christ and not of another head. Asking it to use the weapon God has given us, his word! We are called to speak and to read it, to inebt it into our souls and yet we’re forgetting. We’re trying to be cool, be everything this world is, but we’re not what Christ called us to be. He called us to be a unity, a light for the world to see, he called us to be different, he said we’re not from the world, so why are we trying so hard to fit in? He called us to call on to him in our darkness and to rest in his arms. He gave us, each one of his deciples, the call to go out and minister to the nations, yet we’re rather hiding and saying religion is something very personal. Personnally I agree, we don’t have to shout the gospel out, but we have to learn how to live after it ourselves. Let us learn once again, who our head is and who we are as a part of his body! Let us remember his name and let us lay down all the wrong images and gods we’ve made for ourselves. Jesus, please come back, be our head once again and show us what it means to be your child, what it means to be a part of your church, show us Jesus, please.




The love we share, is artistically spoken a masterpiece.
Full of basic colours and highlights, shadows and rainbows.
Its depth is obtained by layering colour on colour on colour.
By spending time.
By waiting for each layer to dry.
By stroking with different brushes.
By using various techniques.
The depth and richness of this masterpiece is created
by the hand,
that is doing all of this.