dismal doorways

Courting ourselves
through dismal doorways
with whispered steps,
we paint the shadows
in shades of blurry rays
framing us in hindsight regrets.

On the other side
You walk beside us—
close as the air.
Darkness dissipates
and we're held in Your care.

Behind our worst moments,
death may await.
But it's precisely there
where we see new life to trace.

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My book of paradoxical poems and prayers, Both And, is available! Whether you are grieving, swimming in beauty, or barely clinging onto hope, Both And is for you.

May God meet you warmly in its words.

Find the paperback version on Amazon, wipfandstock.com, barnesandnoble.com, and anywhere books are sold online!

Get it for only $17

hidden green

Oh how quickly changes comes for us—
killing off what we held so tightly.

And yet, in this death,
the slow hidden green
stirs with elation
as it surges and sprouts
through calloused soil.

This must be true. If not,
this recipe of cosmic cruelty
and clumsy choices
gets one out of five stars.

hidden green was first published in my book, Both And, by Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers.

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buy me a coffee

My book of paradoxical poems and prayers, Both And, is available! Whether you are grieving, swimming in beauty, or barely clinging onto hope, Both And is for you.

May God meet you warmly in its words.

Find the paperback version on Amazon, wipfandstock.com, barnesandnoble.com, and anywhere books are sold online

Get it for only $17

I wrote this poem with Easter on my mind and ended up presenting it as a “spoken word” piece in an Easter worship service in 2025. It’s not perfect (none of my poetry is), but the process of writing and presenting this was exactly what was needed to crack my heart open to deeper creative desires. I was a full-time pastor for 9 years and nothing brought me more anxiety than preaching—I knew I was good at it, but it wasn’t good to me. Writing this poem, re-writing this poem, and presenting this poem brought me very little anxiety, if any. Does this mean that anything you do that brings anxiety should be avoided and considered bad? Absolutely not. If anything, it’s an invitation to slow down and be curious about the anxiety. For me, it felt like I was slowly being killed over those 9 years of pastoral anxiety (I need twenty articles and hours of your undivided attention to unpack that previous statement).

But poetry

and prayer

and creative expressions

and practice

of both poetry and prayer

in light of Kingdom reality

and God fully revealed

in the crucified and risen Jesus…

LIFE came pouring into my heart.

To this day, I blame and credit this poem for the creative life I now embody more fully.

Enjoy my poem, Behold our God, below.

Behold our God—
stepping out of His heavenly space, 
into our very own neighborhood,
face-to-face.

Fractured creation and fractured hearts,
but it all must submit to His cosmic plan 
from the start.

King of the universe,
wrapped in humanity.
Drawing close to every tear, 
every groan, every fear.
The Great Empathizer,
the Wounded Healer.

Behold our God—
announcing to all with ears to hear,
"The Kingdom of Heaven is near!"
Sin, death, disease, injustice:
intruders in God's good world!
Scattering into oblivion,
by the power of His word.

Behold our God—
The Way, the Truth, the Life.
Pulling back the curtain,
exposing the human heart,
and sin saturated DNA.
The Great Physician,
the code re-written,
a true work of art.

The enemy’s influence fading,
heavenly reality revealed.
Wandering souls no more,
resting in the love of our Savior,
our Shield.

Behold our God—
never to withdraw His presence.
God with us, abandoned by us.
Upper room dysfunction,
garden deception,
courtyard denial,
rising tension to a moment beyond vile—
the execution of the Author of Life.

Selah

Behold our God—
by His words, life came to be.
By our hands, we stole His heart's beat.

A killing device by the Romans
for the Man of Galilee,
crafted for excruciating pain.
Paradox of brokenness and victory.

The cross revealing beastly claws
dug deep into violence, greed, and power.
Yet, this Divine disruption
became the very means 
in which sin, death, and Satan
were disarmed that very hour.

The dominion of the sword 
shattered by the foolishness
of the cross.

God with us,
taken from us,
by us,
because of us,
for us.

Selah

God's bloodied tree,
our doorway to eternal communion
with Holy Trinity.

Behold our God—
soaked in darkness,
color drained from His body,
pulse extracted from His veins.
A gut-wrenching tragedy.

Kings conquer, they don't get killed!
A Ruler wins, they don't lose!
A Savior rescues, they don’t abandon!
Light of the world snuffed out,
locked in a prison.

But the darkness did not understand.
Stone rolled,
tomb empty,
angelic announcement,
"He is risen"

Behold our God—
death defeater
grave robber
love embodied
grace giver.

Behold our God—
resurrection now forever embedded
into the fabric of creation.
Reversal of the Genesis devastation.
No more condemnation.
The world aching with anticipation, 
holding onto the Christ proclamation,
“I am making all things new!”

Selah

"Follow me" says Jesus.
Yes, through death you will go.
A cross you will bear.
But behold our God,
resurrection is everywhere.

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Colossians 2:13-15

¹³ When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, ¹⁴ having canceled the charge of our legal indebtedness, which stood against us and condemned us; he has taken it away, nailing it to the cross. ¹⁵ And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.

Resist death at all costs.
It is the great enemy
in God's world teeming
with luminous zeal.

Though we decay,
we do not assist
its morbid agenda.

When it comes for us,
we push back,
dig in our heels,
and hold on to dear life.

Death was made a spectacle
on that Cross.

By living,
I will do the same.

My poem, spectacle, was first published with Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers, in my book, Both And: Forty Poems and Forty Prayers.

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My book of grief and hope-filled poems and prayers, Both And, is available!

Find the paperback version on Amazon and Wipf & Stock

Buy it for only $12 here before the price increases to $17

I’m going to keep this simple—I'm giving away THREE free copies of my book, 𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘈𝘯𝘥: 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘗𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 (with some special goodies) and will provide the steps to enter the giveaway toward the end of this article.

But first, a condensed version of the book’s story…

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Find Both And here!

Both And, unknowlingly began its formation in July of 2025—the start of inner turmoil I was experiencing as some unhealthy and confusing things began to develop in my life: emotional attachment, co-dependency, isolation, and depression. After being let go from my workplace of twelve years in October of 2025, all the poems I was writing (mostly in secret) began to increase rapidly. I discovered that my former ways of prayer and communion with God were not what my heart, mind, and body naturally wanted to do—it was as if the grief, anger, and disorientation wouldn’t let me. Instead, I would meet God in my writing of poetry and prayers. It was a dark and beautiful time that I never intended to turn into this book, but was aimed in that direction in late December of 2025. I continued showing up to my prayer spots: outdoor benches, my backyard, my basement corner, and many times at the desk of a teacher’s classroom I was filling in for as the substitute teacher. Poems and prayers flowed out of my heart in the same way that a mountain stream has to flow into a glacial lake. Though many of those raw poems and prayers found their home in this book, there are many, many, writings that didn’t make the cut. There are simply some poems that are never meant to see another’s eyes, but are to find their home in God’s presence alone—I’m learning to be okay with that.

With each poem and prayer in this book, I was grieving the loss of friendship, community, my job, my identity, my dreams, my desire to live, my hopeful self, my financial comfort, and three months of vulnerable connection with my wife.

So much death, so many endings, and yet there was life stored away for me to discover as I showed up to my grief alongside God’s loving presence each day. Many poems in this book leave out hope and beauty because that’s where I was at the time. Many poems integrate hope and beauty because I began to open myself back up to Good News, or in other words, the Good News was penetrating my heart in ways it never had before this “rock bottom experience”.

As I continued to confess and name my sin, pain, grief, and wounds in the Light, I began to walk more hopefully in the reality of God’s love.

I was seeing in new ways.

I was showing up in my friendships in new ways.

I was showing up in my marriage in new ways.

I was seeing myself in new ways.

I was seeing God at work in new ways.

I was seeing God in others in new ways.

I was going on neighborhood walks in new ways.

Yes, death was everywhere. But so was life.

Both and.

I was originally going to self-publish my book, but was given a healthy nudge by my father to shoot my shot with a publisher. My father was right in that discussion. I needed to risk rejection, put in the effort, and go for it—otherwise, I may regret not trying down the line.

I put in the work, pounded out a proposal, wrote up a new resume, filled out all the paperwork, and clicked ‘submit’.

In March of 2026, Wipf and Stock Publishers accepted my proposal and published 𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘈𝘯𝘥: 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘗𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 on July 30.

Thanks dad <3

What I’m giving away:

• a signed paperback copy of Both And (unless we all get lucky and the hardcover becomes available by the end of the giveaway)

• a special designed print of a selected poem with the help of my friend, Bobbi Gaukel (the artist behind the cover)

• a hand-written prayer on the inside cover

How to enter:

• restack this article (5 entries)

• subscribe to my page for free (1 additional entry)

  Subscribe now

• follow me on instagram @ryguyfromsodak (1 additional entry)

  • send me a message on here or instagram referring to this article if you decide to follow me on insta

    my instagram

Note: giveaway ends on September 1

Happy giveaway friends! You are a gift.

May you walk in the reality of God’s love today, tomorrow, and forevermore!

Ryan 💚

No light
but beams of my car
cutting through the night—
coming face-to-face
with every creature
that slithers and scatters,
as they zig zag toward
the very thing that puts an end
to what matters.
Curious behavior—
to flirt with death
and throw yourself into the arms
that will steal your breath.
I'm not talking about animals.

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My book of grief and hope-filled poems and prayers, Both And, is available!

Find the paperback version on Amazon and Wipf & Stock

Buy it for only $12 here

Does a baby tree know
what will become of it?
That its shrunken stature
will slowly stretch
into fortified tower—
hope in the wind
waving hands declare
and emerald eyes get lost
in heavenly blue up there.

Does a baby tree know
what will become of it?
Of course not, it's a tree.
We, too, know not 
what we will become.
That's not fully true.
We can know.

To be held by God
is to be in the care of One
who sees us through
not only to the end
but in the in-between.

With each
step, 
stretch, 
stumble
and full force face-plant
into patchy pavement,
God finds a way 
to breathe life
between the cracks 
where we fall.

The painful moment
can try and rob us
of knowing
but the gift is assurance
that we're growing up
into the crowned trees
God has always known.

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My book of grief and hope-filled poems and prayers, Both And, is available!

Find it on Amazon and Wipf & Stock

Buy it for only $12 here

I go back to that bench
and God sits with me, 
a wretch.
I can’t be the only one
to tour through heart’s halls
in places marked with grief.

I simmer under sunshine.
God seems to toss it in abundance
to jerks and beggars alike,
but I just want it to be mine.

The resolution I desire
will never be acquired,
and yet this bench 
becomes a rest stop
to be human—
even for a breathing moment.
To remember,
accept,
cry,
grieve,
give thanks.

Search me as I search myself,
O God.
Propel this restless love forward
and plant it deep deep deep
enough to grow and dance below
until it shoots up up up
into something beautiful
that keeps giving until that Day
when our mind’s cloud fades
and we see You face-to-face
and we see one another
as we are.

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Tree fingers reach out 
scooping up the glow 
of swirling orbs framed 
in the fade of gradient sky—
ancient wooden anchors
curiously fiddle and play
with star-laden soup,
a wonder on display.

A child, too,
sends their fingers diving
into bowl of edible letters
forming unknown poetry—
heart's pour of creativity
calling every living being
to swim in playful pools
of Creator's loving mystery.

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A fire,
sure and secure
of its potent nature
swelling with truth
and warmth.

Proximity to the blaze–
witness as illusion fades
and reality remains.

Refining light
passionate force
and in the searing
a mercy so bright.

There is no use in asking a fire
to temper its own heat,
and I would never want her to—
she is my beloved,
my chosen heartbeat.

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hurried lives, hurried desires

a poem

Am I alive if this breakneck chase
blurs the beauty of Your face?

Heart stutters to the tick tock
of machine’s clock—
grabbing power by its horns
dancing with the dazzle of spotlight,
keep Your crown of thorns.

tick tick TICK
Step three of five to attain
trinkets and treasure
oh the pressure
keep going, keep moving
you have an image to maintain.

tock tock TOCK
enslaved by machine’s clock
clock out pockets filled
with the wages of hurry.
I'll get around to it,
don't worry.

But oh how I aspire to free my desire
and trace Your Grace to the pace 
of a Love that shatters the clock
and calls me by name on our slow walk.

a short reflection on hurry and the life we want

Remember that story Jesus told about the rebellious brother, the envious brother, and the generous Father? Yeah, that one—the prodigal son story. I get that it’s an over-preached passage, but C’MON people its powerful. Maybe this story continues to read the hearts of us who are honest about our disordered desires and realize our everyday dependency. My prayer for you and I is that Scripture would always confront our hearts and nourish our souls. This particular story never gets old for me because:

1. I often do and say and think and want in destructive ways

2. I often don’t do and don’t say and don’t think and don’t want in the Way of Jesus

3. God just keeps getting better the older I get and this story prompts the prayer, “Who are You that You love me?”

My favorite part of the story is when the Father says to the eldest son in Luke 15:31, “all that is mine is yours.”

If that statement doesn’t stop you in your tracks, I don’t know what will.

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And I can’t help but wonder how much our hurried lives blind us to the “all” that the Father says is yours. I’ve been listening to (breathing) Paramore like I’m a teenager in 2007 again and their music is stupid aware of their own patterns of self-sabbatoge. Are we?

I wonder how much our hurried lives contribute to experiencing a life we don’t actually want. Ironic right? We hurry because we think that’s the best strategy to get what we think we want and need: comfort, control, power, money, our own hand-crafted image, attention, admiration, thrills, etc. So we enter the chase and never step out of it even when we’re exhausted and cramping up and heaving. Why? Because how painful is it to give up on the desires you think will bring you the “good life”? To kill off what we once thought was good is deeply painful.

But to live with God in His Kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, is a life of many deaths. Take heart, God isn’t cruel and is not entertained by our pain and these deaths—each death, though not necessarily orchestrated by God, is a doorway to new life. A life that may just reorder our desires and allign our head, heart, and hands with something better.

But what if the better, the “all” that the Father has for us is a life that invites us to slow living—where forgiveness, grace, beauty, hope, and connection bloom all over the place.

You can’t hurry your way to the depths of being known and knowing another.

You can’t hurry your way to a life of cruciform love toward friend, enemy, and neighbor.

You can’t hurry your way to a name and a face.

You can’t hurry your way to a humanity grown in the soil of grace.

Stop the chase, break the clock, and slow down to the unhurried pace of Love where all that the Father has is yours.

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Like me, I wonder if those who have experienced this feel so alone, that they convince themselves the best strategy is to pretend and burry the pain. This strategy makes sense for many reasons, especially if part of your story includes unfaithfulness or another “moral failure” that fell short in light of love toward God, self, and others. But the relief of that strategy is short-term and cannot be sustained in the life of freedom, connection, and abundance that God desires for us.

Tension. So much tension.

And yet, it’s real. For many people.

My hope, is that through some of my poems and writing, people would not feel so alone in these deeply painful and complicated experiences. If my candor is not your cup of tea, that’s okay. As I now step into 9 months of detachment (in multiple ways), I’m convinced that the more you and I walk in the light of confession, truth, and honesty, the more we can live in the reality of God’s love every waking moment.

Shame thrives in secrecy. So as I write uncomfortable poems like this one, it’s an act of stepping out from the trees I often go back to as I hide from God and others.

Enjoy my poem. Thank you for being here.

The moon shifts the water,
but she forgot to move my hand
to write about her—
I didn't even bother.
My mind was occupied 
by swarms of glaring light,
and she wasn't one of them
on that numbing night.

I was free 
from your luminous reach
for one fleeting evening,
but the ocean still rolls 
in submission to your gentle pull 
that claws into every heart 
that beats near you
until it's pulled apart.

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With a lightning crack
and wood splintering cry
the stitched up ball
struts through South Dakota sky.

Tender breeze and waving trees
join the chorus of youthful cheers
and momma's happy tears
and I'm a grown adult—
writing a poem on this remote bench
praying through fears.

I don't like baseball,
not even a little bit.
But I'm waiting for God
(passively, I confess)
to stroll through again
and hand me a mitt.

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I peeled back soil
scattered the seed
moved out of sun's way
and let the ground drink deeply.
I planned
decided
worked
gave.

And yet, the dirt remains still.
And nothing has broken through
since I've broken through
at a quarter past two.

Wild flowers don't grow on my command
(that would be a disgrace to their name).
The pace of God's tending love—
a hidden process, free from formulas of refrain.

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the sleepy sun throws my shadow
to the cooling cement
and though the cheap clone
hovers with my hips
and mimes my moves,
I don’t think it lays its head
next to mine,
reckoning with itself—
with all that was done
and remains undone.
Thinking is outside its realm
and I’m thinking that would be nice.
But then again,
shadows don’t get to dance
with God.
I do.
What's better than that? 

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My life was nestled
in glass palms—
guarded like an heirloom
planted in my mind
with pre-planned bloom.

Pale knuckles pried open,
fingers crack 
and shatter.
Like a mist,
today’s moment of control
evaporates into ghostly tomorrow. 

The sting of shards
scrape bare feet
as I wander my graveyard,
and I discover God
gave me Himself
instead.

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Hey there! Thanks for being here. This poem was formed from one of those cool chain poems where a new poem is created using the final line of a poem you got tagged in. The first line of this poem was the last line of someone else’s poem.

Enjoy my poem, learning again

The footpath for mending lay bare,
haunting steps behind
and spying steps ahead 
release their crushing weight.

Imagination wells in green eyes
and tears of survival caress
the wounded ground
with tender care.

Knocking on heart's door,
God asks if you want to play
with the flowers.
The tulips smile as you learn again.

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What if the poems,
the ones with sweaty palms
ridden with fear,
are B-team shed shovels
breaking through 
compressed soil
for God-green reality
to become the garden
someone lies down in again?

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Empty tables share intimate stories,
where slow eyes unfold its tales.

Stretched oak adorned with vase
showcasing floral stage of life—
one with honeymoon blooms,
another with drooping desperation.

Cold chairs positioned 
with posture of care,
not one facing the table 
it was marketed for.

Forks, spoons, knives—
instruments to play
the music of connection, now lie limp,
silent like proceeding moments
of symphonic stinger.
 
Beige napkins tightly rolled like tortillas,
now shaped as abstract art 
with new array of blotched color—
outcome of dining desires.
 
Like ornaments on a tree
and sandbox under canopy,
this table, too, bears the token
of familial luster.
 
Empty tables share intimate stories
and the crumbs of communion pile up
to a mountainous platter of grief.
 
Each crumb,
a sacred moment
building upon
a well-gathered story
sodden with loss, 
longing, and love.
 
No one leaves the table unscathed.
Its touch, indelible.
Its fragrance, clings to fibers
of your favorite sweater.
 
For where love is feasted upon,
grief abounds and swells.
So once more,
pull up a chair dear heart,
and leave a crumb or two. 

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Approached by some like 
a one-time opportunity
special occasion meal
to never be enjoyed again—
shy with each scarce bite 
while sorrow stains the smile
suspecting the end to linger
and stay a while.

But my wife
devours each provocative scent
and unravels carnal thoughts
in soft whisper as she dines
on the sight of eye candy
before a single touch.

Like a bright-eyed child
given their first bowl of ice cream
she scoops every drop of sauce
shoveling runaway residue with 
famished finger.

With baited breath
and glowing freckles,
she steps into the world
with grace still dripping
from grateful face
sure and secure
she’ll be back at the table
where enough never ends

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