When the cup we pass around
the table
grows cold with tears
and our empty
souls only know moldy bread, you came.
Pouring sweet water, forever bubbling generously over the sides
of our limits.
and bread from the banquet table of your papa, the king.
When the canvas is brushed black,
And my vision can’t penetrate the opacity
of your masterpiece–shadows of sorrow thicken.
But, you keep painting over my doubts with sunrises.
I etched part of my story into my arms, temporary
tattoos of my brokenness that time will fade, but you
You hammered my personhood into your hands
for eternity.
Where’s the bell to tug–raise the alarm “I’M NOT DEAD”!
Cocooned in a casket of depression, quickly lowering
hopes into the chasm of darkness. . .
Just wait a second more . .
Wait. . .
to stretch wings
and discover I am a born-again butterfly.
Grief is two lovers yanking you in opposite directions.
The Past, pulls out his photo albums showing off his plump family of memories. Inviting you to warm yourself by the faded fires of yesterday; still snapping and popping in your mind, until you realize that you are freezing to death . . . And the Future sucks you into a black hole of regret, threatening to crush you over and over with what will never happen.
Get to know the Present, he is your daily companion. He walks beside you and sustains you; pulling the curtains closed on yesterday and introducing you to new brilliant mornings. He holds you tight as you sob, and reveals the unknown in quantities you can handle. He will always be here with you, while the Past never stays, and the Future may never come.
Lord, you have given me a complete physical and you know the state of my mind, body, and soul.
My daily planner lays open before you.
My thoughts are front page news as you sip your morning coffee.
When I leave for work, or shut the computer down for the night, you observe.
The bottom line, you have made my life your business.
My words are filtered through your righteousness.
and you determine their worth.
You have a 360 degree view–there is not a side of me hidden from you.
I don’t get a personal bubble.
I don’t understand why you are so intimately involved and I’m not sure
I want to.
There is no escaping your activity in my life. Your Spirit is everywhere!
Of course you are in charge of the heavens,
and I can’t find a bunker deep enough to hide from you.
I can sit in first class on American and you are there.
You are the navigator of my ship directing my course, like a
father with his child, through a sea of people I could easily be lost in.
Let’s face it, I can’t play pick-a-boo with You.
You are a giant flashlight illuminating my soul.
In fact, You sewed my soul together, in my
mother’s womb.
You hold the first 4-D image
of who I am.
And you give your stamp of approval,
who am I to argue with that!
When I was nothing more than a lump of clay, you
knew what I would become.
You have the first edition of my life
before a word was ever written.
I am eager to know your thoughts.
I do not have a databank
large enough to contain them.
That you choose to share your plans
with me when I awake, amazing!
So why do my enemies come between us!
Please remove them, I can’t stop thinking about
their threats and schemes.
Haven’t I obeyed you, and they have not.
Ultimately I know their fight is with you.
When they stand against me, they stand
against you.
We are back to the beginning. Since You know me so well, you know
that I fear how strong my enemy seems. If there is anything that offends you remove
it so that you stay my companion forever.
We are not die stamped, manufactured
on the factory floor and manhandled down
the assembly line, only to be discarded if we are
defective.
God’s hands took intimate pleasure
in sculpting man and women.
He dug into earth, kneading clay into
his own image. Checking proportions, building
the detailed science of vein, muscle, bone and ligament.
smoothing skin to skeleton with thumbs, chiseling
eyes, curling lips and dipping dimples. When he stepped
back, he was pleased–
And signed his work with his own DNA.
The house shivers and sighs, naked bones exposed.
Groaning against gentle breezes, wishing to collapse,
but the skeleton stubbornly holds.
Sunken eyes devoid
of life stare out, judging the
world who so cruelly neglected intended purpose.
White picket fence, the last defense from
decay, remains locked tight,
taunting passersby’s with KEEP OUT
-as if anyone wants to COME IN.
But, the weary WELCOMEÂ mat still invites
us in . . . if we triple-dog-dare
to know the ghost of who you once could be.
Dog-eared smile tucked in
the green pocket of my heart.
–Courage sent from home.
Are we prepared to plant our flags, still crisp and starched
with victory, on
the filthy front lines of humiliated humanity? Tend to
“their” soldiers? And surrender
to suffering, for an enemy still spewing venom as we wash
their wounds?
We are ready when we recognize ourselves as
former P.O.W.s. Defeated, and in the ditch of despair.
Rescued by the one who planted himself deep in the flesh
of our territory. Mocked and torn by a crown of barbwire. Tortured
by the enemy, to free us ALL.
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/