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As she hides in this cold, damp closet,
     she hears his footsteps in the hallway.
Holding her breath,
     she prays that he won’t find her.
Black and blue and broken,
     with tear stained cheeks,
     she hears him stop,
     pause,
     and walk on by.
As she begins to cry once again,
     she hears his old Ford pickup rattle down the driveway.
He must be out of beer.

This poem © Kevin Walker. Published August 2012.
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When it comes to discipleship, churchgoers struggle most with sharing Christ with non-Christians according to a recent study of church-going American Protestants. The study conducted by LifeWay Research found 80 percent of those who attend church one o…

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Two black engines—that’s how close I was to missing the train altogether. Instead, I watched as graffiti-tagged boxcars rumbled in front of me as I idled in my Prius within shouting distance of my apartment. I could see my road flash between the train connectors, but I couldn’t get there. Trucks and compacts stretched up […]