Acrostic Poetry [The Darling Files 006]

In April 2021, I took a Poetry course offered by Callie Feyen and Exhale Creativity. Many of the poems I drafted in that course have been sitting in my files ever since. Since April is National Poetry Month, I thought it was a good time to pull these out of storage. Written when we were returning to church for the first time post pandemic, they remind me that hope and beauty can come out of pain.

The Acrostic is a type of poetry where the first letter of each line spells out a word or phrase, which becomes the title or theme of the poem. Have you written any acrostic poems? If so, I’d love for you to share them in the comments below!

She slips into the pew quietly. Having been
away for over a year, she’s 
not sure it will be 
church like she remembers—
there’s no singing, no choir, no people to hug—
usual communal offerings now threats. Her heart 
aches for the missing—for what is lost;
raising her hands she whispers a prayer
yearning for God’s peace.

Beloved faces gather 
remembering people who have gone before;
each person around the table sharing
abundant love,
knitting stories together 
into a beautiful tapestry
never before seen; a work of art
generously gifted in community. 

Breaking hearts assemble
reflecting on 
extraordinary loss;
ancestors gone before us sharing faith in knowing
death brings new life and beginning.

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This post is part of The Darling Files, a project initiated by my friends Rachel Nevergall and Callie Feyen. You can read more about The Darling Files from Rachel here and from Callie here.

You can read more of The Darling Files here.

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The Beauty of Motherhood: A Book for Every Mother in the Trenches

Today, my beautiful friends Kim Knowle-Zeller and Erin Strybis have given birth to a book every mother needs. The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions For the Early Years is a book of 84 short devotions, each comprised of a Bible verse, a short reflection, a practice to fill your cup, and a prayer.

I’m no longer living in the early years of motherhood. My kids are eleven and eight. There’s not a day that goes by that I look back on those early days and wish for them again. I loved my babies dearly and I’d do it all over again to bring them into my life, but those early years felt damn near impossible. This book is the very book I searched for and could never find.

All too often devotion books offer hidden judgments or prescriptions. “If you do this, then God will show up.” This book has none of that. It won’t tell you how to parent. It won’t tell you it’s better to to sleep train or co-sleep. It won’t argue that breastfeeding is better than formula. It won’t give you answers for all the questions you have.

Instead, Kim & Erin offer encouragement to see God in the midst of the struggle that comes with motherhood. They lift up the beauty hidden within the mess. From the earliest days of considering pregnancy to the milestone of starting school, this book holds all mothers with tenderness and love. It shares grace with us. It reminds us that we are good enough. That we are the exact mother our child needs.

I am so grateful that my friends have brought it into the world today.

This book will sit with you in the muck of sleepless nights, of lonely times, of seasons of grief, loss or infertility. This book is more than a book. Its words are a gift from God.

You know what else I love about this book? You can get it on Kindle. When you’re up late, or early, or not sleeping much at all, and you’re sitting there rocking the baby back and forth, you can read it without having to turn a page. I read so many books that way when my kids were babies!

Happy release day my dear friends! Thank you for sharing your gifts with the world.

Included links are affiliate links.

Remembering Todd

I’ve heard it said that sometimes God sends people into our lives for a specific season of our lives. Todd was my friend in one of the hardest seasons of mine. The Droegmillers moved to Griffin when I was seven or eight years old. I have this vague memory of their first Sunday at church. I had never seen a family full of redheads before. Well, except for Mr. Pete and Todd. Although there were a few kids older than me at St. John, Sally, Melissa and I were the only three around the same age. When Todd came, he turned our triangle into a square. 

I wish I had specific memories to share about our childhood together, but the truth is they are really all just a blur. The best thing about Todd was that he was always there. Always at worship on Sunday. Always at church camp. At all-state events. At Happening. Always with me at LYO. Todd was always there. Always willing to lend a helping hand.

We went through Confirmation together, wrestling with questions like: How do we really know God is real? Why does Jesus even matter? And the one that made a lasting impact on all of us: What does it mean to be saved by faith through grace?

Todd was a consistent presence in my life, especially in our teen years. When I struggled to put words around the many emotions I felt, Todd was there to make me laugh. He taught me that there are good men in the world. Men that are honest and kind. Men that believe God walks beside us in the good and the bad. When my parents got a divorce, he walked beside me through the hurt and the pain, and also the joy that I felt over beginning a new phase of life.

I hadn’t seen Todd since I was seventeen years old.  Now I’m forty-two. You can do the math on how long ago that was. It’s far too many years than I care to admit. My family moved away from Griffin my senior year of high school, and he went off to college. It was a time without cell phones or social media. A time when it wasn’t as easy to keep in touch. He grew up and lived his life, and I grew up and lived mine. 

I never have considered him my “best” friend. But Todd was one of those people who held space for me when life felt too hard to bear. Todd’s constant presence, his joy, and his love of life taught me more about God than I ever realized—until now.

When my friend Kate texted me with the news, my heart sank. No, it can’t be true, I thought. Someone has to be playing a cruel joke. Todd and I had connected over social media in the last several years. He worked in Boston occasionally and we promised to find a way to get together the next time he was here. Next time will never happen; we’ll have to meet up in heaven instead.

I can’t imagine a world without Todd in it. We may not have been close, but he made a lasting impact on my life. Time and again, he showed me glimpses of Jesus. There will forever be a Todd-shaped piece in my heart. As Ally Condie once said, “Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.” 

To his family — Marilyn, Pete, Scott, Tami, and Keri — I wish I could be there to hug your necks. I wish I could whisper in your ear the promise of resurrection in the midst of pain the way you whispered in mine on my Confirmation day. As you grieve today and in the days, weeks, months and years to come, may you remember the vast impact Todd made in the world—far more vast than any of us will truly ever know.

To Harper and Aubrey—Your Daddy was a special person in this world. I know you will miss him every day of your life. Lean into those who love you. Let them help you carry your grief. I pray God sends you a constant friend the way God sent me Todd so many years ago.

Todd, I imagine you are in heaven looking down on us, wondering if you can play with the lights in a way that makes us all laugh. I bet you’re singing your favorite songs at the top of your lungs—you know, Backstreet Boys and Indigo Girls, and whatever else you listened to as you got old. I’d hope you’ve asked God all those hard questions we never had answers to, like why some people die young. Maybe you’re a little early to the party, but in some ways, you’re the lucky one—you get to experience just how good the Kingdom of God really is. 

May you rest in peace my dear friend. You will be deeply missed.

Until we meet again,
Crystal

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I fly to Georgia today to celebrate this life that ended too soon. I struggled over whether or not to go—I hadn’t seen Todd in more than twenty years. But Todd was someone who played an integral part of my faith life as a child, and in the end, I couldn’t imagine not being there to celebrate his joining the saints in Heaven. Before I made the decision to go, I wrote this post as a way to process my grief over losing a childhood friend and also to honor Todd’s life.

I’m not sure there are any words that fully express how awesome Todd was, but you can read a little more about him here. I know his family would appreciate any prayers you say on their behalf.

100ish Things I Love

I love the ocean. I love watching waves move back and forth. I love the sound waves make when they crash along the shore. I love the feeling of warm sand between my toes. Or cold sand. Any sand will do.

I love bathing suits in summer. Cozy sweaters in fall. Silk long underwear and snowsuits in winter. Lightweight scarves in spring.

I love the way snow clings to pine trees. Or to empty branches. I love waking up to freshly fallen snow; looking out the window makes me feel like I’m living inside a snow globe.

I love getting into a bed made with freshly laundered sheets. I love turning down a fluffy comforter and singing I know I’m gonna like it here. I love snuggling under my L.L. Bean heated blanket when it’s so cold I don’t even want to move.

I love the smell of clothes dried in the sun. The way the towels get stiff they almost scratch your skin.

I love pulling a bunch of ingredients out of the fridge and figuring out how to create a delicious meal. I love when everyone is surprised they like something they’ve never had before.

I love picking up food from Springdell Farm. I love the way Farmer Jamie makes me feel like family. I love sitting in the adirondack chairs in the freshly mowed grass, soaking up the sun as I watch the sheep graze in the field.

I love feeding people. Especially when they have dietary restraints. I love how the extra challenge of not being able to use certain ingredients gives me a way to love them a little harder.

I love homeschooling. I love sitting on the couch reading out loud. I love hearing my daughters’ thoughts about a book we’ve read. I love watching them internalize the world around them. I love the way their brain makes connections between the books we read and the life we live.

I love how David makes me coffee with frothed milk, brings it up the stairs, and sets it on the coaster on the table by my bed. Every single morning. I love how the girls climb into bed with me with their books and consider it a snugglefest.

I love a movie so good it makes me cry. I love books that make me feel as though I’m living in a different time or place.

I love a smooth-writing pen. I love watching ink appear on the page as I move my hand along the paper.

I love the smell of a pine forest. I love the smell of snow clouds.

I love being at home. I love a clean house. I really love being at home alone in a clean house.

I love the sound of childhood giggles.

I love a cup of hot tea. I love chocolate cake. When I have both at the same time, it’s a love explosion.

I love visioning for ministry in the church. I love leading teams, asking questions, hearing people’s dreams, and helping plan to make those dreams a reality.

I love thinking outside the box. I love remembering why the box is there in the first place.

I love my mom. I love the way she always trusts me, always loves me, always hugs and kisses me.

I love my aunts. I love my sisters. I love that I was raised by strong women who really don’t have a clue just how strong they are.

I love the surprise of rainbows. The way they always remind me of God’s endless promises.

I love love LOVE my book club. I love that what started as a spark of an idea has taken off and become the most incredible group of women that sit around and drink wine and tea and talk about books together.

I love getting messages from people I haven’t heard from in a long time, sharing something that reminded them of me. I love when a reader emails me to tell me my words matter.

I love painting my nails. I love a good nail polish—the kind that goes on smoothly and evenly. I love the way my nails shimmer and shine after they’ve been painted.

I love warm and cozy socks. I love soft slippers. I love a good bathrobe. I love buying gifts for people. Or making gifts for people. I love giving gifts.

I love dancing in the kitchen. Especially to music I loved when I was a kid. I love when songs from my teen or young adult years come on and I can still sing every single lyric. I love when the lyrics make tears fall down my face.

I love deep intimate conversations about love, politics and theology.

I love smooth legs and a smooth face. I especially love it when they happen on the same day.

I love David’s blue eyes that gaze at me every day as if I’m the most beautiful person in the world.

I love a bath so hot it makes you sweat, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a waterproof Kindle in the other.

I love the ELCA Lutheran Church. I love how its theology grounds me and how its people challenge me. I love how God continues to speak truth in grey. I love Holy Communion. I love Baptisms. I love big organ processionals and festival services. I love old hymns. I love contemporary Christian music.

I love youth ministry. I love listening to tweens and teens talk about what’s happening in their life. I love walking alongside them as a faithful adult.

I love tacos. Any and all tacos. And enchiladas. And chips and salsa and queso.

I love a good pizza.

I love hiking when the temperature is not too hot. I love the way nature always surprises me. How there’s always something new to discover.

I love baking sourdough bread. I love the way flour and water mix like magic to create yeast. I love the heat of the oven on bread baking day. The way the bread crackles when it comes out of the pan. The smell that permeates the house.

I love learning. I love my writing group. I love my editors—even when what they have to say is painful to hear. I love the way they believe in my stories. How they encourage me and challenge me to keep at it.

I love a good writing prompt. I love an unexpected theme. I love a planned theme. I love making lists. I love that once you start thinking about what you love, you can’t stop at just a hundred.

A Letter Written to my Beloved Church Community

I recently served as part of the Transition Team and Call Committee for our congregation. The Council President asked me if I would be willing to write the Summer Letter to our congregation. Although I have played around with pieces of this letter for the last several months, it feels like the letter as written deserves a home here, on Soul Munchies. It has been edited ever so slightly to protect the privacy of those people I individually named in the letter.

Dearest brothers and sisters in Christ,

As I write this, rain gushes down the side of my house just outside our living room. It sounds like a waterfall flowing down my window. Because it’s been so wet the last few weeks, we didn’t clean our gutters before this latest round of heavy rain. There’s no room for the water to flow. The water cascades onto our rhododendron bush just outside the window where a robin built a nest and laid three eggs earlier this spring. Every time we stepped outside the house, mama robin would screech and flit away. It’s possible we were as scared by her as she was by us. One day, we noticed she was gone. And so were her eggs. This discovery prompted quite a discussion at our dinner table that day. We watched the nest closely and never saw any babies, nor did we find any remaining eggshells. We began to wonder: do robins move their eggs when they feel threatened? Where is their new home? How could we have better protected this mama and her babies in their most vulnerable days? I can’t help but ask myself how we could have been a better family to this nest of robins. 

Since moving to Massachusetts five years ago, there have been many times I felt like this mama robin. I’ve wondered if we brought our babies to the right place, far from family in Georgia. When we moved from Atlanta, David and I agreed if we found a church community to call home, we could make life in Massachusetts work. When we found St Paul, we found the family we so desperately need to thrive here. You have become our parents, our grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins too. You are the most welcoming congregation we have ever been a part of.

Over the last six months, our congregation has embarked on an incredible journey together. One where we walked through memories during our Online History Event, listened to honest opinions through the Congregational Assessment Tool (CAT), and dreamed for the future in writing our Ministry Site Profile (MSP). Because of the pandemic, our Transition Trail was completely virtual, and you stepped up and participated as fully as you would have in person. 

Time and time again we heard that St Paul Cape Ann is a family, deeply committed to loving one another and the greater community. I have been blown away by the way this community loves and supports one another and I am truly grateful to call you my church family.

Within the last few months, we also said goodbye to Pastor Luther Ziegler, who did a wonderful job of pastoring us through our transition journey. We said farewell to our Director of Family Ministry, as she stepped into a caregiving role with her family. We secured Pastor Elyse as our summer interim to provide continuity in worship. We tiptoed cautiously and excitedly, back to in-person worship, following safety guidelines far longer than required, to ensure that each one among us feels safe and welcome in this place. 

Thank you for all your hard work through our transition journey. 

I’d especially like to thank all of those who served on the Transition Team and the Ministry Site Profile Writing Team. A special thanks to our consultant who gently guided us through a process that felt overwhelming at first. With her leadership, we found it to be manageable and spirit-filled. And thank you to those willing to serve as part of the Call Committee during this next stage of our transition.

Our transition is not over, but I know God is at work preparing someone to be our next pastor. Please continue to keep the Call Process in your prayers. Pray that God sends wisdom and discernment to our Call Committee and to any prospective candidates. Pray for peace to all of us as we wait patiently to see what God is up to in this place. We are a congregation full of dreams and I can’t wait to see where God takes us next.

In Christ’s Hope,

Crystal Rowe

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash.

There's So Much Work to Do

A boat rocks like a cradle rocking a baby to sleep. Twelve men

stand around the One who calls—

“Come away with me,” He says.

Tired and weary, they climb

into the boat. He takes them to a wild place.

A place of loneliness.

A place of healing and of rest.

The boat approaches the untamed land;

a crowd of people appears.

He longs to return to the boundless waves;

out of compassion, they take deep breaths

and step out of the boat. A brief moment of rest.

Now there’s work to do.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Gather the Broken

Gather the broken 
pieces
unidentifiable and seemingly worthless
deserted and left to rot

Gather the leftovers 
thrown away 
by the ones who have stuffed 
themselves full

Gather the trash 
on the ground 
abandoned by those in a hurry
for something else

Gather the scraps
in the bowl
usually tossed 
to the earth for compost

Gather the broken-hearted 
the injured
the lonely
tired and worn

Gather the fragmented pieces
so that nothing
may be lost.

Inspired by John 6:1-13.

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Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash.

When Christ Comes Near

Four little outstretched hands
wait patiently in the church pew
as the body of Christ comes near.

For the first time in over a year
voices of people
unite together in prayer.

Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
Christ will come again.

We are given
God’s grace and love in a bland wafer
that tastes like hope;
manna straight from heaven.

Our once empty souls now filled,
we are sent out into the world
to love as extravagantly as we have been loved.

When Home is Where You Are

I park on the street by the newest coffee shop in town and step out of my car, reminiscing about the house we tried to buy a few years ago just down the street. I notice the owner of the shop on the sidewalk talking to another customer. I hear him say he doesn’t want to compete with the Amazons of the world; he wants to be celebrated for what he is. He stops his conversation to say hello and offers me an elbow bump, telling me I’m looking especially fabulous today. That green of your shirt is so beautiful he says, and I say thanks, today just felt like a green day. I think to myself, “He is my people” and I open the door, catching a whiff of cardamom as I walk in.

The minute I enter, I’m reminded of my favorite coffee shop back in my beloved Grant Park. I would walk there a couple of times a week pushing the girls in our bright blue double Bumbleride stroller, treating myself to a coffee before taking them to the zoo to play for a few hours. I miss that neighborhood every single day now that we live in Massachusetts, but this new coffee shop reminds me that places like this exist everywhere. I just have to be on the lookout.

I order a cardamom bun and a latte, and add a loaf of focaccia at the last minute, thinking it will be a good surprise for lunch after I’ve picked the girls up from their pottery class.

My hands full with the goodies I’ve purchased, I head back outside and see the owner walking back towards the shop. He stops me to say hi again and asks how I’m doing on this beautiful day. The way he asks the question feels genuine, like if I wanted to tell him about really crappy things in my life, he would sit with me and listen for however long it took. I don’t, because in this moment, all is mostly right in my world. Just the fact that this stranger is genuinely interested in my answer makes me feel a little more at home. He asks what my plans are for the day and I tell him I’m not quite sure; my kids are in a pottery class, and I’m not usually alone. “Oh how fun!” he exclaims, “So you have some chill time. Go! Enjoy your chill.”

I’m smiling from ear to ear as I unlock the doors to my grey minivan and climb inside. It’s not often that I get time by myself, and this morning’s encounter feels like a gift. I drive down the street and see the ocean in front of me.  The sky is bright blue dotted with cottony white clouds. This view will never get old, I think to myself, and I continue my drive home.

I walk in the door and put the cardamom bun in the microwave before grabbing a notebook and a pen. “I’m going to the ocean!” I call out to my husband who is working downstairs. I share a bite of cardamom bun with him before I walk out the door and climb back in my grey minivan. As I back down the driveway, I open the sunroof and let the brisk air fill my lungs.

It takes six minutes to drive back to the ocean. I lived without the ocean for so long, but I can’t imagine a life without it now. I sit on the sand and watch the waves lap gently along the shore. I can feel the cool wind upon my neck and my troubles disappear into the water like tiny grains of sand. In these rare moments of solitude on the beach, I find myself praying prayers of gratitude that God always shows up in this place. 

I woke at 2:30 this morning, tossing and turning like a boat on rough ocean waves. The wind roared outside my bedroom window and as I lay there unsettled, my thoughts went to my Mom. It was November when I last saw her and my heart aches at the thought. It’s always in the middle of the night that I wake up thinking of my family. Three in the morning seems like the best time to wonder if we should do what it takes to move back home to be closer to my family. 

It’s always when I’m lying in complete darkness in the early morning hours, unable to fall back asleep, that I cry out to God wanting him to make a way for me to go home. It hasn’t happened in a while, but the last year has made me miss my family more than ever. It’s been a year of solitude, a year of sacrifice, a year of feeling alone. It’s been a year that could have been filled with so much more happiness if we had just been within driving distance of these dear people of mine. 

But just now, God has answered my prayers in a most unexpected way. An encounter with a new coffee shop owner who genuinely cares about his customers. The ability to drop my children off at a pottery class and catch a few moments of solitude on the beach. In the kind eyes of the coffee shop owner and the gentle lapping of the waves, God whispers to me, “Crystal, you are already home.” 

Vaccines and A Lipstick

I’m sitting in the observation room at the vaccination site just down the road from my house, waiting to make sure I don’t have any severe reactions. My arm starts to hurt a little when I feel an wave of emotion hit my heart and tears start to form in my eyes. I didn’t expect to feel emotional over this. I mean, it’s just a shot. I hate shots—so much so that I’m one of those people that doesn’t always get her flu shot—but this one feels different.

David and I were in the kitchen making tacos earlier this week when I asked, “Which one should I take?” Somehow I had found myself with three vaccine appointments to choose from—two appointments next week that require me to drive, and one appointment three weeks out at the site I can walk to—and I had a serious case of decision fatigue. Months ago I had informed him, “I will not get this damn shot until I can walk down the street”; yet as my newsfeed became filled with vaccine-selfies, I began feeling this overwhelming sense of being left out.

The truth is, I didn’t expect to be eligible until much later this month, but last week Massachusetts added being overweight to the list of underlying conditions. I never thought I’d be glad about those last ten pounds I can’t seem to lose. Now that I find myself on the list of eligible receivers, I want this shot now, dammit! I’m tired of being patient! But at David’s urging, I made the appointment at the site down the street. Feeling thankful that I had an appointment on the calendar, I decided I would stalk the website much like I did for beach tickets last summer, hoping for a last minute cancellation so I could get in earlier than three weeks from now. And then late last night, I logged in on a whim and found today’s appointment waiting there just for me.

And that’s how I got here: the observation room where I am squeezing back the unexpected emotion I feel. David and I have joked that this shot will give you superpowers. He’s hoping for wings so he can fly. I’m hoping for arms like Inspector Gadget—all moms need “go-go Gadget arms.” And maybe a brighter smile. I’m pretty sure that’s a positive side effect of this vaccine, so hey, sign me up.

This past year has felt so heavy. No one can seem to agree on the best course of action. Do we play a game of chicken with this virus in an attempt to build up our immunity?  Or do we wear masks, hoping they work at least a little, and when it’s available, get a shot of magic science and let our body do it’s thing artificially?

I am one of those crunchy, chiropractor going, essential oil loving, (mostly) natural eating people who did tons of research on vaccines when my babies were born. We delayed their vaccines, because I didn’t think my tiny babies needed all that much protection, but I have never been anti-vax. I think our bodies were designed to fight off bad stuff, but I also believe vaccines play an important role in keeping people safe—especially those who are most at risk. I also think the risks of most diseases far outweigh the risks of the vaccines, and who really wants to get sick anyway?!

But.

I also don’t love the way vaccines are made. Or the junk that goes into them. Or the fact that the CDC recommends tiny little babies be shot up with a lot of unnatural substances before they have any time to develop outside the womb. So, you could say I’m a middle-roader. My kids (and I) are fully vaccinated, but I also believe in healthy questioning of authority and true dialogue with your health providers. In short, I believe if you live a life of medical privilege, and your body can handle a vaccine, you should get it. Because many other people may not be as lucky as you. And your shot may help save their life.

I practically jumped into that building today. So much of the last year has felt helpless. There has been nothing I could do that would really make a difference in making this terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad disease go away. And today, instead of saying no to one more thing I really want to do, I got to say yes to something.

Sure, I got a shot for my own sake, because I am a homeschooling mama and writer who does not have time to get sick. Because I miss my friends. Because I want to visit my family without worry. Because I want to take that trip to Niagara Falls we had planned for last year. But mostly I got it because it’s a tangible way I can show my love for my neighbor.

After my observation time was done, I walked to Whole Foods across the street and bought new lipstick. Because one day soon, we won’t need masks anymore, and I’ll wear lipstick to mark the occasion.