Plastic Words

There are words

that remember for us—

words like an eruption 

we could not stop, 

the ones we emptied

like pockets full of stones,

the ones that carried

what we could not bear.

And then there are the others.

The ones shaped

to look like truth,

smooth as river glass,

harmless in the hand.

Plastic words.

Weightless.

Bloodless.

Convenient.

I have used them.

Held them up like offerings

without ever touching

the heat beneath.

I have spoken

near the wound—

close enough to gesture,

far enough to stay clean.

I have written

from the perimeter,

commented

without committing,

crafted sentences

that sounded honest—

costing me nothing.

Because real words—

the ones with memory—

cut on their way out.

They drag the body with them.

They return us

to the quake,

to the wind,

to the moment

we first broke open.

Plastic words do none of this.

They do not tremble.

They do not ache.

They do not remember

because they were never there.

And I have hidden behind them,

let them stand in for me,

let them speak

in my stead—

a ventriloquist’s truth,

a safe approximation

of being known.

But every time I return

to the real words—

the costly ones—

I feel the edge again.

Not as deeply,

but sharp enough

to know the difference.

It is easier

to sound honest

than to be known.

Easier to craft

than to confess.

Easier to write

than to reveal.

But only one of these

remakes us.

Only one

remembers.

© Ron Simpson Jr.

The Life of the Warrior

Throughout their life 

battlefields change 

fronts move—

but the battle remains

They began in the struggle 

for their own soul

which they won 

through the sacrifice of another life 

There, the warrior learns 

the strategy of victory 

in this spiritual warfare

To win,

one must surrender

not to the enemy

but to the will 

of the Victor

And so the warrior lives 

with surrender as strength 

not a yielding of courage 

but the sharpening of it 

Learning that victory 

is not a single moment 

rather a lifetime of returning 

to the One who fought for them 

And when the final hour does come 

they will not fall in defeat 

they will simply lay down the weapons 

they no longer need 

They will step across the threshold 

into the hands 

that carried them 

all along 

For the warrior’s death 

is not the end of the battle—

It is the moment they discover 

the war was already won  

Yet, they will die

still in the struggle—

for the struggle itself 

was the joyous labor 

of their life 

The life 

of the warrior 

© Ron Simpson Jr.

The Threshold of Enough

(1st Kings 13, Luke 18)

Three times— 

the arrows piercing 

the ground expecting 

the prophet still waiting 

Three times—

as if it were enough 

felt complete to a king
who measured obedience
by motion.

The prophet burned—

the field 

still open 

Faith empties the quiver
or it never believed
the war would last.

The widow 

owned no arrows,
no prophecy,
only shoes worn thin
by the same road.

She learned the judge’s shadow,
the sound of his door,
the hour his patience cracked.

She did not ask how many times.
She asked until.

Three strikes is surrender dressed as effort.
The hundredth knock—
same hand,
same request—

is priesthood.

Enough is not a feeling.
Enough is an outcome.

This is not a symbolic act.
This is not a moment.

This is not
a three arrow solution.

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

The Army That Forget... And The Boy That Reminded Them

(David and Goliath)

They were a covenant people.

The chosen.

Children of an everlasting promise.

They were the army of God—

favored,

covered,

led by a God who went before them.

Yet on this day,

they cowered beneath the voice

of a heathen giant.

Israel forgot about the Red Sea 

an impassable obstacle 

They forgot about Jericho 

an insurmountable defense 

They forgot about manna 

an impossible provision 

All the battles behind them—

the victories,

the miracles,

the undeniable hand of God—

were buried beneath the fear

of one man.

“I defy the armies of Israel this day;

give me a man, that we may fight together.”

Let’s not diminish him—

Goliath was no illusion.

He was trained.

Tested.

A warrior shaped by battle.

His armor had weight.

His weapons had history.

His presence had power.

But still—

the armies of Israel forgot who they were.

Then came a boy.

Ruddy.

Anointed.

Sent on an errand—

bread and corn for his brothers.

He arrived at the place

where memory had failed.

He refused the armor.

Untried things had no place in his hands.

No sword.

No shield.

Only a sling—

and a confidence that did not come from himself.

He ran toward the valley.

Paused just long enough

to gather five smooth stones.

(Not out of doubt—

but preparation.

Goliath had four brothers.)

And then—

“Thou comest to me with a sword, 

and with a spear, and with a shield: 

but I come to thee 

in the name of the LORD of hosts, 

the God of the armies of Israel, 

whom thou hast defied.”

You know the rest.

A sling.

A stone.

A fallen giant.

An enemy in retreat.

And an army—

that suddenly remembered

who they were.

Never forget.

The battle is already decided.

You already have

everything you need

for victory.

It is in His Word.

Do not let your circumstances

rewrite your identity.

Do not let fear

erase your history with God.

We are a covenant people.

We are chosen.

We are carriers of an everlasting promise.

You are favored

Remember who you are 

and rise above. 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

éxi plevrés

(six aspects —Greek)

 

So, we end where we started —

éxi plevrés

Six sides

not separate 

but held in tension 

around where we stand

 

We stand in the midst of a hexagon—six views.

 

We revisit the window looking into the past.

Together, we walk with happy memories.

We walk through sad ones.

We visit love and loss.

We witness joy and sorrow.

We watch grief unfold with no set timeline.

Looking back teaches humility.

 

We come again to peer through the window 

at the world around us.

This view is always our own.

Even when the impact is global, 

we feel it first where we stand.

Looking around teaches presence. 

 

We return to the window looking inward.

This is one of the hardest ones to approach.

Liking oneself and being at peace with self are fragile things.

Neither comes without returning here—again and again.

It is not easy. It is always necessary.

Looking inward teaches honesty. 

We walk to the window looking out.

Here we view the world beyond ourselves —

constantly changing 

Here we wrestle with right and wrong on a broader scale.

We see globally—and act locally.

Looking outward teaches responsibility. 

 

We return to the window looking upward.

Here we stand beneath 

what is greater than us.

We confront our mortality 

in the presence of the eternal.

We do not always find answers here—

but we find perspective.

We find humility. 

We find something that calls us 

higher than ourselves.

Looking upward teaches perspective. 

 

And still, we come to the window looking ahead. 

It is the easiest to approach—

and the costliest to live.

It is easy to dream. 

It is harder to become.

This window does not stand alone.

It draws its light from all the others.

Looking ahead teaches courage. 

 

We look in every direction.

Now—we live from where we stand. 

 

© Ron Simpson Jr.

Just—Daily

During the week

I get up earlier

thirty minutes or so

Let the dogs out

clean up whatever the night left behind 

I changed my work schedule

so I can be off on Fridays

appointments

or just to help 

On the weekends 

I get up

let the dogs out

cook breakfast 

Some days

eggs and sausage

sometimes

eggs and bacon

other days

eggs and pancakes

Lately

eggs and hash browns 

I do the laundry

wash

dry

fold

put away 

Clean the house

though we don’t make much mess 

Fix a few meals 

Some for now 

Some for later  

Mow the yard

trim it up 

That’s the physical

that’s what sits in my hands

But it goes

far beyond that 

There’s a cost

Not a price tag

nothing that simple 

This is life

This is what it is

Not à la carte

Not the dessert menu 

There’s a weight

mental

emotional

Sacrifice—

though not really 

There is more required of me now

This was always part of it

Part of the equation

part of the promise 

Not a question

of whether I will

or won’t 

Nothing heroic 

Just—

daily

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

Grace

Speak to me of Grace 

Grace is permission

to be weak 

before you are made strong 

Not the absence of strength—

but the beginning of it 

Not the failure of becoming— 

but the place it starts 

Grace is space 

to be wrong 

before you are made right 

Not the celebration of error— 

but the patience to outgrow it 

Grace is not softness—

It is structure 

Not indulgence—

but invitation 

Not a pass—

but a path 

It is God saying—

Not yet…

but not never 

Grace is looking upward 

when the world expects collapse 

It is the lift 

mercy never owes—

but always gives 

 

The quiet mercy 

of time 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 1, 2026