When Resurrection Weeps: Breath

Section one of my Poetry Collection "When Resurrection Weeps"

Before we dive in—I wrote an introduction to this poetry collection that you can read here.

If you’ve skipped a few emails or are new here, welcome. I’m pausing my usual content to share a special project with you: my poetry collection,

When Resurrection Weeps

I’ll be sharing it in three sections over the new few weeks. Once all three are out we will return to our regular programming.

This collection is my attempt to make something beautiful out of something deeply painful. It’s a poetry memoir—a story told through poems—about my journey into motherhood: a traumatic pregnancy, an unexpected birth, postpartum depression, and the heartbreaking loss of our second baby. At times, I thought I had lost my faith. But maybe…I found it instead. (Read it for yourself to find out…😉)

If you’ve been through something similar, I hope these poems make you feel less alone. If you’re supporting someone who has, I hope this collection helps you witness with tenderness and compassion. More than anything, I hope you’ll get a glimpse of beauty from the ashes.

If this isn’t for you, feel free to stop reading here. I won’t be offended—I know how hard it can be to make space for heavy stories. For regular readers who want to skip this series but still want something to read, CLICK HERE!

If you’re here for the poems, I hope you enjoy…

When Resurrection Weeps

Section One: Breath

“Then the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground. He breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, and the man became a living person.” Genesis 2:7 (NLT)

Before We Named You

I tucked syllables in my pockets
for “someday”—
seeds that may bloom,
skin whispering at the seams,
maybe this body can hold
more than just me?

I made room for you,
waiting in wonder,
and like breath
becomes prayer,
…one day
(inhale)
you were there
(exhale). 




The Story of a Stretched Belly 

I am earth—
breath meets dust
beneath my ribs.

Footprints press
into softened skin—
the clay of my body—
marking and molding,
a vessel being formed
from within.

The skin of my womb
signed with the press of heels,
a soul formed in the dark,
a sacred jar.

When it empties,
memory will stay,
pressed into my sides—
the pressure of presence
sealed like scripture,
a life’s story written
in my skin.




Held Breath

I pace with heavy feet,
shifting, sitting, squatting.
Where do I put my hands?
Early labor, first time.
It’s unnatural and natural,
a dichotomy—music and
mystic, medical and inconsistent.

A pause,
tight turns loose;
they say,
don’t forget
to breathe.




Breath Prayer

They will have no fear
(inhale)
of bad news;
(exhale)
their hearts are steadfast,
(inhale)
trusting in the Lord.
(exhale)

             I’m sorry, she says,
             (inhale)
             we have bad news.
             (exhale)




The First Cut of Motherhood
(Birth by Unplanned C-section)

I.

My body quaked, but my mind
wondered, is this really it?
How can you recognize
a body you’ve never known?
I begin to transform.

Sounds slip out like an animal;
new movements created.
In a moment of primal panic,
dignity is lost—get this baby
out of me.

II.

Wrong; it’s all wrong.
My body was the first to know.
They say, it’s just hard; that’s normal.
No one can see inside of me,
but my hand grips hospital bed
in agony. One final check,
then alarm:
this is an emergency.

III.

I stare up at fluorescent lights,
my belly on the other side of 
a thin plastic sheet. This is my moment,
but I can’t even see—
the room is sterile,
everyone furrowed and focused.
this isn’t how
it is supposed to be—
not for me. 

IV.

Taking him out of me with
a knife and pull
felt like robbery.
A gloved stranger’s hands display
my baby boy triumphantly.

More hands, 
      more hands, 
              more hands.

Finally–
he touches me;
he is there,
then—gone.

V.

I wake up, drugged and drowsy.
Someone, please, I cry,
take me to my baby.




And Then, the Breath

A first act of life,
broken open— 
a torn, ruptured lung,
the rise and fall of a chest,
hills and valleys,
rhythm ruptured—music frozen.

X-rays show the hole,
but I see the spirit—
hovering.
It’s the beginning.
They can’t call it peaceful,
but still,
I insist,
it was holy. 




For Ira

We named you “watchful”
because I believed
you would see God.

I didn’t know then 
what I know now.

I see God
by watching you.




First Latch
(On Breastfeeding in the NICU)

The room fakes rhythm—
a chorus of beeps,
lights blinking, machines
trying to make music,
keeping time with
newborn breath.

Wires wander like roots
searching for soil 
around a fresh chest,
a newborn bed.

I am afraid to touch—
am I too soft, too hard,
too human?

Your mouth finds me.
Not gracefully, but urgently,
finally together again,
in a place of 
plastic and protocol,
skin to skin—
soil, breath, milk.
Here you root;
it’s time to grow.




To My NICU Baby

You passed the car seat test;
you’re eating enough too.
The hole slowly resolved itself,
and your breath found a pace
that felt like clouds clearing after a storm.

So we take our graduation photo,
then another in front of the hospital;
we tuck you into your car seat
(no monitors this time),
just two unsure parents—
driving into a world
we no longer pretend to control.

Your chest rises, both
a miracle and a mystery,
in the rearview mirror.
I have more questions than answers
but when I think of healing,
I think of you.




Who Will Hold Me?
(On Leaving the NICU)

I won’t miss the hospital pump
or the way breathing monitors scream
when I try to hold my baby.

I won’t miss the visitor’s rules or
scrubbing my hands or 
waddling down hospital halls,
almost sleepwalking.

But I’ll miss the lactation consultant
who watched with care saying,
you’re doing great.

I’ll miss the nurse who said,
you need some rest too mama;
I’ll watch him;
I promise he will be okay.

I’ll miss the midwife who said,
sit down for just a minute;
put your feet up;
you’re healing too.

At home, I can hold him without asking.
But I miss the ones who held me, too.




After Birth

A sudden storm
in middle Tennessee
rolls in with rain,
thunder, and flashes
of lightning. The trees
shake and shudder,
while inside,
I light a candle,
weeping.

I hold the weather
in my body—
new, unfamiliar—
my life turned from
woman to mother. 

I want to be rooted.

Can the trees teach me
how to bury myself deep?

When grief pours
and sorrow blows,
where can I go?




A Midnight Liturgy

My bare feet touch down on carpet,
quick to reply to midnight cries.
I’m here, I’m here, I whisper,
pulling your body close to mine.

The moon stands still, while I rock,
creating rhythm through the night.
Darkness surrounds us;
this tiny moment that is 
yours and mine—pure light.

I watch your face soften,
eyelids fall and hands unclench.
I did nothing but offer my body.
This mystery—that I am what you need.




The Maternal Instinct

I don’t think I have it.

A postpartum brain is a battlefield—

how many times did
the baby breathe?
Can I stay up all night
counting, watching,
or am I allowed to sleep?

The stairs—
my worst enemy.
What if I drop him?
Who left me here, and
why do I feel so alone?

I’m not good at this.
Crying, crying, crying—
not the baby. The tears—
they are mine.

Why didn’t they warn me?




Bleeding and Becoming 

If you weren’t ripped wide open,
if you weren't sewn back together,
if you didn’t get a scar, or
if you weren’t cut with a knife,

If you don’t have spit up stains
or milk stains or red swollen nipples,
if you don’t have blood clots dropping,
or if your body isn’t marked by little
jagged cracks or isn’t stretched
a few foreign sizes too big, then

I’m happy for you.

But if motherhood tore you to pieces,
left you hunting for body, spirit, and soul;
if your tears felt like 
a baptism
and your blood spilled like 
salvation;
if you’re made in a new image—
born again, unrecognizable—
and it took scars, stitches, stains,
swelling, stretching, and surviving…

I’m happy for us too.




Contact Naps

My body became a bed,
beckoning a baby to sleep—
a quilt of breath and heartbeat,
rhythmically rocking,
knowing this is not
all that I am, but
in this moment with
threads of skin and warmth
stitched between us,
I soften. Feathered as
an offering
is the best
I can be.




When the World Still Sleeps

The morning light shines
through the window,
while I feel lonely in my
lack of sleep.

All night, I sat in this rocker;
my gift—my body to nurture.
I stay alert, always ready,
in the quiet early morning.
I wonder, are there other mothers
who hold and rock at the ready,
awake with me?




A Song I Had to Learn

I try to sing my baby to sleep,
but no soft,
light melodies
find their way to me.

So I tell him how the moon sees us,
the way the stars each have a name.
I whisper about angels nearby,
silent but watching.

You don’t need to be afraid.

I watch his eyes grow heavy,
his head snuggles into me.
I stitch together a story
held inside just waiting,
ready to comfort him to sleep.

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