Adena M'lynn's Voice

    As the air shifts toward autumn, and September brings the last fruits of summer, and the temps are dramatically lower, I find myself in the kitchen tossing together salads that taste like both sunshine and the promise of cooler days. Food is never just food—it can be a metaphor, haha, you know it, it’s a metaphor used as a reminder, and nourishment for both body and spirit. Each ingredient whispers something about the nature of God. Lettuce – God’s Faithfulness Every salad begins with a foundation. Crisp green leaves hold everything together. Like lettuce, God’s faithfulness is the bedrock of our lives—steady, abundant, dependable. No matter what we add or how the recipe changes, His steadfast love endures. Tomatoes – God’s Generosity Bright, juicy tomatoes burst with flavor. They remind me of the generosity of God—overflowing blessings, vibrant color, and nourishment that surprises us with sweetness in unexpected places. Cucumbers – God’s Refreshment Cool slices of cucumb...

  By Adena M’lynn Seven birds perch on the wire each morning, their song reminding us to to breathe, to notice. In their wings they carry histories of deserts crossed, mountains climbed, and storms endured— just as we carry our own stories inside. The dove whispers peace. The eagle teaches courage. The owl keeps watch in darkness. The sparrow sings of humble endurance. Together they weave a thread of hope through the sky, stitching beauty into the bustle of our days. Their chorus is simple but eternal: Hold on, heart— rise and shine. Song on YouTube

  Dear America, We keep writing more laws. Each one stacked like bricks, tall as courthouse steps, heavy as locked doors.They pile up until they block the horizon. And yet, behind this wall of rules, justice does not always live, its drowning in silence and pretense.  Laws are written in ink. Justice is written in spirit.  Laws can trap us in a “gotcha” game—measuring people by mistakes or “I’ll show you”, not possibilities. Justice asks us to measure with compassion, to weigh the whole of a life, not the worst moment of it. America, we have become fluent in punishment. We know how to legislate. We know how to prosecute. But do we know how to restore? Do we know how to listen? Do we know how to heal? Too often, justice is answered with silence—or worse, with lies. We call it fairness when it is only paperwork. We call it truth when it is only politics. We call it law when it is really power. But real justice—does not bend to convenience. It does not hide in loopholes or g...

I carried silence like a sentence long before the judge stamped years across my chest. But silence was never my native tongue— I spoke in scribbles, in broken pencils on scraps of paper, in words that shook like my hands but still stood taller than the walls. Even in prison I wasn’t quiet. I wrote for women craving zu-zu’s and wham-whams, but what they were starving for was laughter. So I smuggled joy in jokes, hid giggles inside commissary lists, slipped punchlines under cell doors like contraband. Because pain echoes loud in concrete chambers, and the only way to drown it is to hum the heart with joy. Laughter chased the shadows down the hallway, made the guards wonder what we were plotting— as if happiness itself was a crime. Writing freed me from the haunt of thoughts, from memories circling like predators. Every poem was a fist turned into an open hand, every line a prayer that didn’t ask permission. I bent. I cracked. But I did not shatter. I traded sorrow for syllables, barbed w...

  When I think about what it means to give of myself, I hear Carlyle’s words, “When the oak is felled, the whole forest echoes with its fall, but a hundred acorns are sown in silence by an unnoticed breeze.” Loss is loud. When someone stumbles or a life comes undone, the sound ripples through a community, shaking all who witness it. We notice the fall. We hear the echo. But giving of oneself is quieter. It’s the acorn in the hand, the seed carried on a breeze. It isn’t a headline—it’s presence, listening, time, patience, encouragement. It’s not about being noticed; it’s about being real. To give of myself means scattering parts of my own strength, my own lessons, my own love, so that others might root and rise in their own season. It is not sacrifice for the sake of loss, but a planting for the sake of life. When my own oak one day falls, I hope its echo won’t be my only legacy. I hope the unseen acorns I’ve given—moments of kindness, courage, and compassion—will already be taking ...

  I’m sorry it took so long for me to find the “me” who stayed hidden, wearing masks made from problems to solve, other people’s anger, other people’s everything— until I almost forgot I was here at all. I was a mirror, reflecting only what I saw, never daring to shine my own light. But then— I noticed some souls spill color when they are kind. Their goodness paints the air— shades of love, tones of forgiveness, strokes of hope that linger like halos where no brush has touched. And me? I found myself between the stripes of a county jail jumpsuit, in corners no one would think to search— behind barred windows, on thin mattresses, in the silence of a chapel where I learned that even sorrow can hum a song of resurrection. Kindness cracked me open. It pours joy into the hollow spaces I thought would never hold light again. Now when I smile, it isn’t borrowed— it’s mine. The “me” I thought was gone was simply waiting for gentleness to call her home.