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.

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