All Seems Lost

a poem of Resistance

Today, I share a new poem, that I wrote over the weekend while attending the 2025 Q Christian Fellowship Conference. This beautifully queer experience was marvelously healing, wildly inspiring, and powerfully challenging. (I’m sure I’ll write more about it later. For now I’m still soaking it all in.)

I am changed by the stories I heard there and the stories I was given space to tell.

On one shoulder is a story saying “all seems lost.” And on the other a story of resistance, calling us to not lose who we are or surrender hope in the world we are creating.

This poem brings these two stories together on one page.

Listen and/or read below.

All Seems Lost (a poem of Resistance)
©Rebecca Wilson, 2025

when all seems lost
imagine for a moment that it is
what’s the first thing you go looking for

a blanket to cover the flames
when the hydrants are dry

a boulder to stand on
until the flooding subsides

a magic carpet to fly
rescuing everyone, including the birds and the bears, left behind

an evacuation plan
when hurricane winds blow
bringing monsoon rains or embers and ash
destruction in the path

a safe harbor when storms
and hateful legislations pass
as protections for the vulnerable are slashed
like tree tops when tornadoes whirl through

a steady structure
when earthquakes shake the foundation
further eroding the separation of church and state

a circle to invite others into
an opening created to stay
even as it expands
and closes to protect the most at risk from isolation

a pair of gloves for frost bit fingers
a bottle of water when the heat dome lingers
a shovel when snow falls faster and heavier than the land
and rooftops can hold
a bag of salt when ice makes every step more perilous

a mask when air pollution and viruses
and unchecked lies
roam the skies seeking home in human bodies
and manipulated minds

a balm for curing sickness
a smooth stone to press against our palms
when it’s time to let go
a wise one to help us know the difference
a gentleness to guide our grief
a compass to navigate our anger

a place to align
that puts people over party lines
public health over profits
where there are no aisles or sides
only pillows made of softness and joy

a microphone that’s never turned on
because the lowest voices are eternally amplified

a key that unlocks gates
a feather to bring down walls
a whisper that opens borders

an hour glass filled with butterflies
when time moves too slow or speeds on by

a song that like a siren will stop evil in its tracks
a melody that makes this war the last
a tune that turns dropping bombs into falling sacks
packed with toys for children
and baskets of warm bread and fresh berries and sweet peaches
for mothers to feed them

a notebook of words
that rhyme not with sounds but with meaning
pulsing with hope
metered with healing

a ticket to find your kindred
a DJ to bring the beat
as you turn up your volume
a parquet floor to dance on
as you dance upon injustice
under glittery disco balls
rainbow confetti exploding from the rafters

a mountain to climb
as fears are rising
a cave for hiding and birthing
a green valley for resting and dreaming

a forest
to bathe in sunshine and beaming
while all the wounds are mending

a garden
to plant all the feelings
seeding resurrection
after we’ve buried the dying

a harvest
of the mundane and extraordinary things growing
we once could only imagine
when all seemed lost
and far beyond our finding

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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Our first Friday Field Trip is this Friday, January 31st. No permission slip needed. Just imagination and a paid subscription to Wednesdays at the Well. Spoiler: We are going to Ireland. Subscribe or update your subscription here.