The Lame Child

I am not
a mover and a shaker,
except for being moved by You,
and quaking
before Your Holy presence.

I am not
ready to rattle the gates of hell,
where I grew up,
but I must tell
how You brought me out.

I have not
been educated
by anyone but You,
nor dedicated
by any but You.

I have not
the lungs for the sprint,
nor legs for the marathon
Can the lame be sent?
Yet even on my litter

I praise You.

I have
seen Your kindness blaze
beyond the darkest sins
and most broken ways
to weep with us.

I have
been indelibly marked
by Your deep beauty
the grace that embarks
on a selfless crusade

I am
changed by Your story
the timeline of love,
of promise, and unstained glory,
of tears cherished and abolished.

I am
the little one You saved
too weak to be strong
too wounded to be brave
but You’ve dwelled with me

And I will ever praise You,

as long as I have a song
it belongs to
The Great I Am.


The Quotidian Sisyphean

I’m in wonder before a panoramic view:
An overturned sock hamper,
A room thrown askew
With toys and trash and odds and ends
Rocks to push uphill, then blink,
Then push uphill again.
Vehemently my back complains
As everything falls out of reach
I struggle for motion through the pain
But a thing at rest tends to stay still,
And a thing in motion
Is only rolling down the hill.


Each Part Equal

There is a balm in Gilead!
Your Word brings comfort to my spirit
Stilling my anxious heart,
You open me to hear it.
The world entire may spurn
This offering I bring,
But I bring it to You-
These are my special things:
Gifts You gave me to offer,
And, in time, I believe I’ll understand
The work Your finger
Traces in the sand.
I will not call good evil,
Or roll my eyes at Your gifts
Which are all good and perfect
And each gift fits
Perfectly in the other
One complete tapestry
Each string valuable,
Woven in mastery
By Your fiat.

Praise You for who You are,
Within Yourself,
And for allowing us to look,
To see,
To know You,

To be healed,
To be set free
To serve You freely.


Pete and Repeat

I’m repeating myself these days,
Forgetting the myriad of ways I-

“Mommy!”
…………….”What?”
“Mommy!”
…………….”What?”
“Mommy!”
…………….”What?”

“Can I have gum?”

……”I  already said no.”

I’m repeating myself these days,
like the history tucked in lost pages

“Mommy!”
…………….”What?”
“Mommy!”
…………….”Yes?”

“Yes, I can have gum?!”

I’m repeating myself these days…


You

For this reason I kneel before You:
The unfathomable love
With which You’ve pursued
Your unworthy child;
Your majesty is manifold-
Beauty unspoiled, grown wild
Through all broken creation
And I have vowed
To tell of Your works to every nation,
As far as I’m able,
In every generation
As You make me capable
Because You deserve it all.

And though I squirm and squeal
In the fetal pain of maturation,
Serving You is still my highest ordination
And my most treasured privilege.


Labor Pains or Death Throes?

What is this pain slicing through my soul?
Have I been a fool all my life?
I’ve never been whole.
Is anyone whole?

I don’t understand why it hurts now,
After all the years interred.
What purpose is there in somehow
Exhuming what remains?

Nothing about me is useful
Or tolerable
When I was youthful
at least I had potential.
Perhaps I spent it all.

There’s some key I’m missing:
Some slipped space between
the teeth of ability and identity
Listing to the side of isolation.

I am starting to think there may just be
some kind of battle again raging
Over who I am to be.
Who am I to be?

The failure?
The slave?
The suicide?

The victory?

Which of these things most resembles me?

Speak now,
so I may forever hold my peace.


Identity

I tremble ere I speak,
yet I may neither draw closer,
nor leave; I speak of my grief
To my only Hope

You called me
from the womb, Your hand
defended and installed me
through the wasteland
You led me
You taught me to be wise
when the enemy bled me
Cutting deep lies-
But even Your servants agreed
on who I couldn’t be,
they deserved that decree:
The ability to guide what I believed
And there were texts behind them-
I only had desire;
The design of which stemmed
like some foreign fire
from my inner Jezebel-
Or so the story went
But to speak was to rebel
Proving my intent-
Damned to do or not to do,
So I curled up inside my soul.
I begged it be untrue,
But the years exacted toll
And I grew into myself,
Twisted against restraints
While none came, no heartfelt
Broke the cycle of the saints-
Perhaps this sounds accusatory,
But who am I to stand?
To litter Your story
With my own demands?
Who I am became assigned to me.
Those periods stretched so long…
I grew into who they said You wanted me to be-
But it always felt wrong.

Now they say it isn’t who I’m meant to be-
But isn’t it too late
To excavate
A brand new identity?

(Yet if there’s hope, or time,
to be whoever You want me to be
Ignore how I whine;
Begin the surgery.)