The Crossings


March 2018

The Story

by Dr. Bryan Isaac


Creator’s might
Crafts our delight,
His works reveal His nature.
The land, the sky,
The birds that fly;
Our planet’s every creature.

Then humans came,
Born in His name,
God’s plan? With us, relate!
But we said “no,”
Our way we’d go:
Rejecting God, our fate.

Ties to renew,
God chose a few;
Through them all nations blesses.
He led this race –
They’d see His face;
Gave Law and Scriptures, precious.

Long years passed by,
Their faith ran dry,
God’s favored were cast out.
Yet David’s seed,
God’s Prince of Peace,
By love would win: no doubt.

God’s only Son
To Earth did come,
The perfect Incarnation.
He came to die,
Then rose on high –
The needed resurrection.

So now God dares
To call us heirs;
Through Christ we are forgiven .
With Him we’ll live,
All praise we’ll give,
Abide with God in heaven.



An Ode to My Childhood as a Carnie

by Rebekah Miller

See the July night, red-white striped tents,

 lights from rides’ mounts.

Smell the cotton candy pink and popcorn buttered.

Stationary horses whinny

as they go round and round.

The street’s full of clowns and

painted faces and ice-cream and churches and

jeeps and tickets and laughter and


The Guardians.

Carnival, you wouldn’t be complete without


Parents who love their offspring so much they

don’t mind injuring someone else’s.


The fuming height sticks make houses of



Do you like what you see, Carnival?


Do you miss my crawls through moonwalk innards?

The claustrophobia as playful walls

cast their eerie crimson light?


Carnival, are you Fair?

Amidst the balloons and bubbles,

I see your teeth.


Carnival, the daughter of the Ferris Wheel Operator

has become her own Strong Man.


I walk my tightrope with no

net to catch.

I don’t hide my face behind your

bulbous red nose.


I have found the courage to choke down the sword

and breathe fire flames.


Carnival, you are no longer the ringmaster.


I will shoot myself to the stars

out of your old, rusty cannon.


And as I soar my wings in flight,

far, far below

will be the tent You built crumbling down

in the flames I set ablaze.

Fallen Cherub

by Susan Miley 

A little girl in a Baptist Church

might’ve fallen from Heaven.

Her fluffy eyelashes

and paired wings flutter,

as she beams under the glances

of the other church-goers.

In her white tights,

she giggles quietly.

Her golden curls

bounce and bounce

as her black Mary Janes

click and click

She says please and thank you;

she smiles bashfully behind

her mother. She’s like a lamb,

but instead of green meadows,

she lies still in the

orange velvet pew.

The ladies with pearls and powdered faces

leave red kisses on her cheeks.

The deacons invite her curiosity

at meetings, sneaking her candy

under the conference table.

Adored. Praised.

She is cast in every Christmas play.

She earns a 4.0 in Vacation Bible School.

She never misses a Sunday.

On Easter, wrapped in a

pink dress and topped

with an elegant hat,

her devil tail and

devil horns poke,

hidden from the preacher.

After service, her family

slides into the Cadillac.

Suddenly, her dress is too itchy.

Her baby sister is far too close

and there’s no place to put

her dolly.

She cries, “I’m so cold!”

but soon wails, “I’m too hot!”

She complains that she’s hungry

but not for that restaurant.

“I want what I want!” she thinks,

“Isn’t that what Jesus wants?”

Her mother glares into the

rear-view mirror.

The little girl frowns,

folding her arms across

her chest.

“What?” she asks in surprise

to her mother’s reflection.

“At least I’m not like the

loud kids from the bad neighborhood.

Mommy, they never bring their Bibles

and they don’t know John 3:16!

They wear dirty jeans

and tennis shoes to church, Mommy—

to church!”

She plops her head

in her hand with a pout.

“I’m a good girl,” she remembers.

“Jesus loves me,

this I know!”

Yes, she sings.

Jesus loves the good girl—

the Bible tells her so.

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