The moon wasn’t dramatic that night. No omen. No silver prophecy hanging in the sky. Just there. Unbothered. Still doing its job. I remember thinking how unfair that felt. How everything in me was fraying— and the moon kept showing up like nothing had changed. I was tired in a way sleep doesn’t touch. Not sad exactly. More… emptied out. Like I had carried meaning for so long my hands forgot what it felt like to be open. Giving up didn’t look like despair. It looked like efficiency. Like finally setting something heavy down and calling it wisdom. The moon said nothing. But it also didn’t turn away. It kept its distance. Didn’t rush me. Didn’t try to convince me of anything. Just stayed in its place— quiet witness to a man learning how to disappear. I noticed how it reflected a light that wasn’t its own. How it didn’t apologize for that. Didn’t pretend to be the source. Didn’t disappear because it wasn’t enough. It simply received. And gave back what it could. That’s when it hit me. Maybe endurance isn’t loud. Maybe faith isn’t certainty. Maybe survival isn’t about finding the strength to shine— but about staying positioned long enough to reflect what hasn’t left you yet. I didn’t feel rescued. I didn’t feel brave. But I stayed. And sometimes that’s the holiest act there is. Later, I’d remember the Scripture that says “The moon will not harm you by night.” (Psalm 121:6) Not because it explains anything. But because it names what I experienced. Protection doesn’t always feel like intervention. Sometimes it feels like being kept when nothing else is holding you. The moon didn’t save me. It didn’t have to. It just reminded me that even borrowed light is still light. And that night, it was enough.

I remember your smile that Saturday morning. We were standing at the edge of the water, the kind that looks patient no matter how early you arrive. The air was cool enough to keep our jackets on. You handed me a cup of coffee from the thermos— no comment, just passed it over like this was already understood. We cast our lines. The floats landed crooked, too close to the bank. You laughed once, quietly, at how little it mattered. The sun took its time coming up. Mist hovered just above the surface. A bird cut across the water and disappeared into the trees. We didn’t talk much. A few comments about the current. A question about whether I had baited the hook right. Nothing that needed remembering— except the way you smiled when you reeled in an empty line, unbothered. Hours passed without a bite. We shifted our feet on the rocks. Adjusted the lines. Drank the rest of the coffee. At one point you said, “Well,” and shrugged. That was the whole sentence. When we packed up, our hands smelled like river and metal. The bucket was empty. The cooler untouched. As we walked back, you nudged my shoulder with yours— light, deliberate— and smiled again. We didn’t catch anything that morning. No proof. No story for later. But we stood side by side long enough to notice each other breathing. Long enough to let the quiet hold. That’s what I remember.

I didn’t rise with a roar this morning. I rose in a whisper. Not sure why I woke up before the sun. It wasn’t rest. It was something else, some quiet stirring under the weight. The house was dark, the kind of dark that usually presses against my ribs. Same walls, same stillness, same memories pacing the edges. But today… it all felt a shade lighter. Not much. Just enough for me to notice. I went to make coffee again. Black. Strong. Another ritual that usually sits untouched on the counter. But this time I drank half of it before it went cold... Half a cup... Doesn’t sound like much, but it felt like a statement. A small, stubborn way of saying, “I’m still here.” I stepped outside barefoot. Concrete chilled my feet. Air met my face with a gentleness I wasn’t expecting. The sky was just beginning to open, a thin line of gold cutting through night’s leftovers. And for the first time in a long time, my breath didn’t feel like a fight. I stood there, not knowing what to call this feeling. It wasn’t joy. Or healing. It was more like… a door cracking open. Just enough light to see that the room I’ve been stuck in isn’t the whole house. I felt Him again too. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not fixing anything. Just there. Close enough to notice. Close enough to steady me without saying a word. Psalm 34:18 drifted through my mind, uninvited but welcomed... “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit.” I’m not “saved,” not in the storybook sense. I’m not fixed. But today, I felt the nearness. And sometimes that’s the first step a man gets. Half a cup of coffee. A breath that doesn’t hurt. Cold concrete under bare feet. Little things. Quiet things. But they’re mine. If you asked me what my rising looks like right now, I’d have to answer with a single word. Beginning.

In 2024 I joined The Tupelo Press 30/30 challenge. Write 30 poems in 30 days. I decided to start with one line and then write each successive poem adding another, based on the day. The first poem began with 1 line. I figured I'd share it given how close we've gotten to the moon.

The Marine Corps taught me how to survive. How to steady my breath in the middle of gunfire. How to hit a moving target at 500 yards without a scope, like death was just math and muscle memory. They trained my hands to solve problems before my mind could panic. Trained my eyes to scan every rooftop, every shadow. Trained my voice to stay calm when the world turned to fire. But they never trained me for Gethsemane. They never showed me what to do when the enemy was inside my own skin. When the battlefield followed me home and pitched a tent in my chest. No one said that stillness could feel like danger. That silence could sound like war. That peace could feel like betrayal to a system built on survival. There was no manual for 2:17 a.m. in a kitchen dim with refrigerator light, where I stand barefoot and haunted— my daughter asleep, my soul still scanning rooftops. They taught me how to fight. But not how to hold a child without flinching. Not how to answer the door without imagining breach and clear. They taught me to survive the fire. But not how to live in the absence of it. Not how to sleep in a bed that doesn’t breathe danger but still wakes me up soaked in sweat, gripping grace like a last weapon. Jesus didn’t give me a drill manual either. But He met me somewhere between memory and mercy. He didn’t bark orders— He knelt beside me. Didn’t flinch at the blood on my hands— He showed me His. He didn’t say, “Get over it.” He said, “I was wounded too.” He didn’t rush my healing. He just stayed. Stayed when I couldn’t feel my own pulse. Stayed when the scripture made no sense but the silence between verses did. I came home with every limb intact. But sometimes I look in the mirror and can’t find the man who left. Sometimes I still wear my boots around the house— not out of nostalgia, but because peace still feels too soft, and I don’t trust softness. But He’s teaching me. Not how to forget— but how to carry it differently. How to unclench my fists without losing the strength that got me through.