I can feel you.

Let Me LIVE!

I hear the sound of your voice,

walking on my insides

around the words I see your face-

Paint me into place!

I can feel you press against my conscious.

The enormity of you, and I am afraid.

Can I give you the life you are begging for?

Will my weak attempts at breath leave you asthmatic?

Congested? Fatigued?

Will I see the sadness in your countenance

as you gaze into the pools

dismayed at your reflection?

I am only made in the image and likeness.

I am no god

I am no creator

You place a single grain of sand into my hand





Morning Has Broken

I awoke to an old Cat Stevens song released in 1971. I was one year old. I too was new to the world, to the light, to the beauty of first things, and the power of resurrection.

 As I grew dawn would fascinate me. I would often rise to my bedroom window and gaze to the east watching the deep darkness give way time and time again to the ancient decree:  “Let there be light!” This declaration would hold me anchored to hope, when my own darkness would refuse to yield.  How kind of God to set before us a promise and a hope before we ever took our first breath.

As the sun continues to rise, darkness will continue to yield-the pain is not forever, the whispers are not forever, death  is not forever. We don’t have to be afraid of the shades and the shadows that cling to the walls of our imaginations. There is light promised.

I wonder if that great conversation between God and Ezekiel happened while darkness still clung to the earth in the predawn primordial dark….”Can these bones live?”

Did he survey the vision and speak his response as the golden elixir of life burst upon the horizon touching the bleached bones of the plain. “You alone know…”

I feel myself standing there in that space. I feel that question asked of me in the early hours of morning.  I hear the rattling of the things that long for life to be spoken to them, waiting for me to prophecy the truth. Spirit stands with me in the darkness of my unknowing and asks. “Can you live?” I whisper back to him….”You alone know”

What are your bones? Marriage? Finance? Children? Health?

Morning has broken….speak to the bones.


Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass

Mine is the sunlight
Mine is the morning
Born of the one light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise ev’ry morning
God’s recreation of the new day

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Speak To The Waves

There are words, ancient-wise.

Words that speak of seasons, and times for all that is under the sun.

Words that give us breath-pause, eyesight in the darkness of pain.

Words that can create in us space for the life we have been given.

Words that can take back the lie that we are only randomness and replace it with truth-

We are purpose.

We are rhythm as old as the first spin of the blue planet.

Do you hear them?

Are you quiet enough to understand the sound of your heart that manifests wet upon your cheeks. The blood of your eyes, for the rending of your heart. Do you know the season of deep listening?

Our lives belong to seasons: Birth, death, planting, reaping, killing, healing, destruction and building.

Seasons of weeping and laughter, wailing and cheering.

Seasons where we are lovers, and seasons of abstinence.

Times when we embrace, and time when we let go.

There are moments when we must rip apart and times when we must carefully mend the threads of our lives. 

There are seasons of voice, and seasons of silence, seasons of war and seasons of peace. 

Do you hear the resonance of The Why?

The vocation of our lives is to live! Fully aware and present, dressed according to the places of our sojourn.  Dancing shoes, widow’s veil, poor mans cape, rich mans cloak.  We carry within us the grace of transition. We hold eternity in our hearts.

Move then fellow sojourner. Allow your body to feel the churning, turning, aching depth of your soul. For there remains a promise in the crashing darkness -A Spirit filled hovering, that awaits to create from the chaos a beautiful meaningful life.

Speak to the waves.


A Sojourner Of Grief

I will place this here.

Like, seed for the weary feathered ones travelling home.

Like, water in a dish for the long walk around.

Like a moment of beauty captured in the break between storms.

A word for those making their own tear soup, from a companion gone ahead of us, who has made his.

John O’Donohue’s poem on grief

By: John O’Donohue

Posted: June 13, 2016

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you becomes fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

John O’Donohue


Father: Unknown

If you had been there,

In the shadowland of childbirth

between life and death,

Holding her hand through the blood and the tears

As she brought forth your seed-

Would you have stayed?

If you had gazed a little longer

Into the innocent slate of my soul

When you finally did come ‘round

To count fingers and toes-

Would it have moved you?

Would you have given me your name?

If I had wrapped my fingers around your thumb

And smiled…

Your smile, slightly crooked, and crooning

Would you have taught me your songs?

Would you have made room for me on your knee?

With the others?

I found you too late.

Too late to ask you face to face.

To gaze into your eyes to see my own,

To hear your voice

To understand my place in your life.

Would you have told me the truth?

If I had found you,

Just a little sooner-

Would I know the smell of your cologne-?

The weight of your walk,

The sound of your voice?

Was your favorite color green?

Did you dream of Ireland?

Did you dream?

I think you would have liked me

Loved me even.

If only we’d been given the chance to try.

If only.

Father Unknown is what it says on my Birth Certificate,

Next to two tiny inked foot prints

And the name of the man who wielded forceps

ripping me from the womb.

She was too proud to be unwanted,

She thought she could be enough

For the both of us.

She tried.

But the siren song of belonging

Pulled me to the cliffs

Desperate for the sight of you.

Always on the horizon of my questions,

My penny fountain wish-

If only I could reach you.

You were lost to me.

Lost until spit in a jar and  DNA code

Became the lighthouse.

When I least expected it,

When life was barely breathable and all was lost

When the foundation was smoldering

And the roots exposed,

She found me.

This sister of blood and pain

Led me to the cliff walls

Tracing for me the hieroglyphics of your presence,

Teaching me you.

In her smile, in his voice, in their laughter.

The family you left behind is my inheritance-

Maybe it is better this way.

You left me the best of you.

A treasury of discovery

As I look for you, in them,

You, in me,

As I look, I find I am a little less lost

A little less undone.

As I look at them,

I am finding you.

©Christina Dammerman 2017



The Slipping of the Ring

I watched a covenant rip. I heard the slow tearing of the promise of two hearts and I felt the desperate reaching of my fingers to mend the frayed edges of two lives- fall short against the ragged edge.

We were all bleeding in the end.

All that remains now is the violence that comes from ownership.  “Mine, mine….this IS MINE.”  Like seagulls tearing apart a washed up meal upon the shore…all that is left is bones.

I do, became I -don’t -know, became I can’t, became I wont, became…goodbye.

She ran to her faith, he ran to himself and the work of his hands.

They both ran. I watched the dust ascend as the taillights signaled their separate ways.

I longed to call them to the table one more time, to set before them the feast that forgiveness brings, the joy in the cup of reconciliation, to sing to them the hymn of unity, but their eyes had already gone dim, and their ears could no longer hear.  ” NO ” had taken hold of their heart as “Yes “left with the slipping of the ring.


Those Moments

Those moments when you can feel the spirit like the breath of a lion pushing you to the edge of real and tangible, panting and gasping for the supernatural more real than breath.

Those moments when you know what you know by the Divine in you, the essence of truth, the light that hasn’t faded, the rich vastness of eternity telling you what you see with your naked eye….is not all there is to know.

Those moments when prayer ascends like a baby descends. Gripping writhing agony of purpose and destiny. On behalf of another. For another. For life. For hope. For the promise that awaits in the holding.

Those moments when you find your voice is not alone. You are surrounded by a chorus of keening tears lifting  you by the strength of individual sorrow shared in community. Those moments.

Those moments when your faith is something more than a declaration of creeds, it is a life moving in tandem with eternity.  It is real, in those moments when you feel prayer leave your lips and kiss the face God.


Healing Family Trauma

My Soul Care

“With new discoveries in epigenetics now making headlines, many of us are asking an important question: What are my children really inheriting? Can my baggage, the unfinished business I don’t deal with, pass on to my kids? Without knowing it, could I be hurting them?”–Mark Wolynn

If you have asked yourself these questions,there is an answer!  Check out Mark’s article on his blog here, then come back and schedule a free 30 minute consultation and lets visit about how Soul Care can help in healing family trauma.  Step into 2017 whole and living intentionally.


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Of Baling Wire and Tailpipes


I journeyed down the frozen mountain to lend my paper wrangling skills to our local charity children’s gift program, enjoying the camaraderie of my Angel Friend Sister “J”, and wrapping mounds of presents destined for needy families.  It was a splendid afternoon, the kind that Hallmark movies like to pan to at the beginning scenes of movies about little miracles, and Christmas encounters. I was basking in the glow when I headed out on old Hwy 12, going through the list in my head of the last minute necessities to make Christmas Day dinner a success…when I heard it.  That screeching, scraping, dragging sound that said my tailpipe had come loose and was clinging by a wire to the main frame.

I whipped into the closest turn off, which happened to be our local cemetery and examined the damage. Sure enough….it was the tail pipe…dragging on the ground.  Frustration changed my rosey glow to a darker shade of red when I picked up the phone and dialed the Gardener. He was working way out of town and was unable to be my champion, but with patient directions instructed me on how to wire it up with baling wire to get me home.  Now, did I know of anyone who could bring me baling wire on a cold Thursday before Christmas, afternoon?.

Baling wire.  From deep inside I heard an old, familiar chuckle.  The kind that came with piercing blue eyes that laughed and danced with the telling of a good joke.  A smile broke through my lips as I realized where I was.  The cemetery, literally a stone’s throw away from Mom and Dad’s resting place.  I imagined the conversation:

“Hey Ma, look, the kid needs baling wire.  Didn’t I always tell her not to go anywhere without it?”

“Yes, Bunk…you were right…when will she ever learn….”

I laughed out loud as I dialed the phone to my beautiful Sister J.

” Hello!” Came her friendly, never too busy to talk to a friend voice.

“Want to come rescue me?”  I asked, still laughing at the predicament of no baling wire to be found in my car.

“I would love to come rescue you…..where are you?”

I laughed as I said, “the cemetery…could you bring some baling wire and cutters?”

“Oh My God….are you ok? Was the response followed by….”We are on our way”

I sat in the stillness of the afternoon, and felt my Dad’s arm around my shoulder, and the weight of his laughter filled rebuke.  “Don’t leave home without it!”

“Oh Daddy.  Merry Christmas.  I miss you. I hear you…I get it, thanks for the gift.  I won’t leave home without it. “




Fox Holes

The Light-Bringer and the Brown-Eyed Girl were cold.  The Gardener and I braved the snowy river road saw in hand to cut them a jog of wood.  It was in the midst of splitting and stacking, teaching the Brown-Eyed Girl the way to load a pick up and not lose a stick that we remembered the fox holes.

My Daddy was always about getin’ wood.  Winter we scouted while looking for the perfect Christmas tree, Summer we spent weekend after weekend hauling in the loads to feed the ole Blaze King wood stove that would burn non stop by the first week of October.  The Fall was considered a success if the wood shed was perfectly stacked floor to ceiling with just the right length of pieces to make the armloads we carried in worth the effort.  He taught all of us kids the secret of a well stacked cord of wood:  “No fox holes.  You stack each cord with each piece fitting snugly, no gaps for the ‘foxes’ to get through and your pile will stand sturdy from the bottom to the top.”

Song of Solomon 2:15 Catch the foxes for us, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom.”

I thought of how easy it is in relationships to leave gaps-fox holes,  where the enemy can get in and destroy love, by being sloppy or inattentive to the ones we love.  It struck me how important it is to construct defenses of love around  my marriage and friendships, that leaves no openings  for the foxes of offense, envy, jealousy, pride, selfish ambition, striving, wrath, gossip, greed, perversion, lust to enter and destroy the vineyard of my heart.

We loaded the black truck to the top, and sent them home with the tools for heat.  I began to pray that the lesson of the fox holes would find it’s way into their heart, and that love would bloom, and grow in safety and they would discover for themselves the places where the foxes had entered, and catch them and build for their hearts a place of peace.  I gazed at the Gardener and wondered at our own wall, lovingly holding his hand back up the river road I poked around the walls of my heart, and looked for foxes.