God does not live,
In the worn stained carpet of churches,
Or in the deceiving tongues of serpents,
But in foxholes mired with subtle cries
Of green fledgling lives.
And still is the wind that carries the want of a mother’s embrace;
A face implanted in the bosom of chance and pace.
The Foxhole
Published
War Poems 
God meets us where we least expect it, and it’s rarely in the neat and tidy confines of Sunday church. That can be the hardest part of living… We are taught about religion and faith but don’t truly LEARN it until we are wretched and weak and loveless in the eyes of people who judge us (including ourselves). BEAUTIFUL work, as always.