The words lay flat on their faces,
Trembling in fear,
As if they saw the shiny granite
Of a bank floor,
Men in black ski masks yelling
Confused orders,
And wished their loved ones
Could hear them
As they chanted the words
So often shrouded
In petty arguments and

The illusion of
Several more years.

There was a stain on my shirt,
Small and pebble-sized,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
But I could feel it above
My heart, and I pressed my hand
To it, trying to cover
Any semblance of imperfection—
I rubbed cold water
Into the fabric, anxiety-ridden
As I scrubbed, scrubbed,

Scrubbed, looking over my shoulder,

As if I would be caught
For a crime unintentionally committed.
I should have known
That washing my faults in worldy water
Would never remove
The stains it had caused. I soaked the
Cloth in tears and
Kneeled before my Father, bowed. 

“Make me new,”
I said, “In your love, Lord, make me
Who you intended me
To be in the womb.” I cried.
The fabric remained
The same, for it was only a shirt,
But my heart began
To thaw and the wounds marring it
From every sin
I tried to hide from God, were
Gently stitched together
With new, soft flesh, in His love.

My arms shook as I held myself
Closely to the rock face,
Fingers cramping and toes
Just barely holding on—
I would rather look down,
And see all that I have overcome,
Than dwell on the stony,
Impenetrable wall I was now
Challenged to scale.

The moment was negligible;
It was a sparse bridge
Of minutes, simply hanging
In the air. I could have sat
And stared at the wall.
I could have sighed
And pulled out my phone.
But a niggling, patient voice
Broke into my thoughts,
And weighed heavily
Upon my neck,
Until my head bowed
And my hair fell over my ears,
Turning a couple lost minutes
Into a private conversation
With God.