“I want to go home.”

I said the words
Like a child,
The world suddenly
So big, so daunting.

Someone kneeled
Before me.
It didn’t matter who,
And said,
“This is your home,”

Confusion was slanted
On the front door
I had painted,
So long ago.

Still, it was
not my home.

I turned away,
Tears on my skin,
And tipped my head back. 


“Lord, why won’t you
Take me home?”

The trees warbled
As I walked down streets
I hardly knew. 


“You are needed here.
I am not done with you.
Have faith, Child.”

Shema—

His words leak
Into the stones
Of the pasture wall,
Into the folds of
My heart.

Shema—

Open our ears
And let our actions

Reflect the love
Of our God.

Shema—

Listen closely;
Let our attention
Wander over the
Goodness of
His word.

Shema—

With all our heart,
Strength, and soul,
Desire the guidance
He provides out of
The love we cannot
Understand.

Shema—

Help us comprehend,
Lord, open our ears
To who You are.

Shema—

I can’t be

Happiness

Today, but

Let me be

Kindness.

The thoughts dawdled
As they walked through
The valves of my heart.
They repeated “I, I, I”
As if it were a passkey,
Fueling the sedation
That sunk into my body,
The darkness making
My limbs heavy and my
Head loll to the ground.
With every thought I
Made about me, the
Deeper I felt I was
N ot  W orthy

I searched the city streets,
The gum-strewn sidewalk
And the hurrying people
With downturned eyes.

I searched the rainforest,
The ropes in the trees and
The family that lived too far
For frequent phone calls.

I walked the corners of my
House, wondering if my
Horizons were too wide—
But that was not the problem.

I searched the air in metal birds,
Looking for meaning in the
Formation of the stars, knowing,
Somewhere, I must belong.

I searched for a place to
Fill my heart and make it
Heavy with joy instead of
Sadness and leadweight loss.

I searched and I searched,
Over fairy moss hills and
Through low valleyways,
Above the towering treetops.

No matter how far or wide
I walked, my heart always
Longed for a home this earth
Could never provide.

I folded my legs under me,
Blocking out the beauty of
All I wished could fulfill,
And prayed to my Father.

His presence was the only
True home I would ever have.
Is that why it was so hard to
Live here, in this life?

My heart was an elevator shaft,
Falling too fast, skipping floors—
It was rickety as it tried to fulfill
The orders of my mind, reeling
As each new person found a
Home within its walls.

The button lights flickered, unsure
Of themselves and the places
They were supposed to foretell—
Only, there was a repairman in linen
Who peered over the edge at the
Metal and torn cords.

He knew the only way to make it
Steady again, was to let it descend
Deeper into the depths of the building,
Until the small figure inside looked
Up at him through the square cavity,
And realized it was safe.

The elevator was not falling--

It never had been.

The man in linen held the ropes
With sure, steadfast hands,
Saving me from the darkness
Separating me from Him.

Heads slouched back
On worn bus headrests,
Their sighs forming a
Pause in the constant
Hubbub of the city.
When they breathe in,
It is only the Holy Spirit
Filling them with peace
And strength in a world
Preferring anxiety.

The old man carved
Into the tree,
Spoke words only
Small children
Could hear.

His eyes, knolls
Studied by barn owls
As they serenaded
The night,
Shined with mirth
As adults shook
Their sensible heads
And marched onward.

The newest souls
Always stopped to
Marvel at his words,
As if they knew 

God’s wisdom so
Frequently over-
Complicated by
Their caretakers.

Every so often,
A child in an older
Body, would stop
And listen as they
Did in their youth.

It was they who exited
The forest both older
And younger than before.

I prayed as I tied the laces together,
Bowing my head over the red converse.
They were not shoes anymore, in my mind.
Only a promise.

A testament that no hand other than Gods’
Could untie the knot chucked high in the trees.

They hung dismally, striving for the ground,
Toward earthly things.

The plan He knitted in the womb, His providence,
Lay over the thread, cinching it together and
Aloft towards the heavens, until it was time
For Him to Untie me.

The fragility of my heart
Was pressed into a thinly
Chained locket, grown
Pale and tarnished
In the hands
Of all those who 

Thought they knew me.

They tried to pry me open,
Breaking their nails in
The attempt to
Find the one thing
That kept their words
From hurting me.

But if they opened the
Heart-shaped cavity, they

Would find only the
Emptiness that reminded
Me of the world’s promises
And their futility.

A necklace of the World
Could not hold the Love
God had threaded into
My heart for eternity.

With every kindness I dispensed,
I pocketed another golden ticket,
Collecting them in a small,
Unassuming piggy bank of who
I thought I was.

“It is by grace you have been saved,
Not by works.”

I nodded numbly as the words
Siphoned through my head, well-meaning,
But never finding a proper home.

I was only who I made others
Believe I was.

I smiled as I counted my golden tickets,
Knowing, one day, I would turn them in
For a reward.

“Daughter, your faith has healed you.”

My heart was slow as my faith
Overwhelmed the logic
Of the world.

I tossed out the tickets one by one,
Knowing that becoming Christ,
Becoming Love Himself,
Was not measurable.

God would not judge me from behind
An arcade counter.

I dropped the joy I had gained
From glorifying myself,
And sat in silence,
Surrounded by the Reward
Of knowing Jesus Christ alone.

I was a chipped mosaic
Set into the worn sidewalk
Of a town who no longer
Celebrated its culture.

I was the old, dusty streetlamp
That disruped the orderly line
Of brightness along the road.

I was the floorboard
That buckled and sent
Children sprawling to
The floor.

I was the cabinet that never
Fully closed, its hinges forever
Remaining unoiled.

I was the rocking chair
That sat eerily still—
Old memories trapped
In the wood.

My heart is so deep
In Jesus
That anyone searching
For me,
Must find Him.

I felt the power
Of the disappointment,

And the resentment,
And the emptiness,
Slowly dissipate.
The Holy Spirit
Overshadowed it all
And took a deep breath
In my chest.

I downplayed my emotions
For a living.

I glossed over them
With serious, diplomatic
Expressions, until my heart
Couldn’t tell the difference.

With every feeling that
Pushed its way to the surface,
I hung glasses and a fake
Mustache over its features,
Disguising it into something
I could live with.

My patience was a yellow, rusted truck
Running low on fuel and puffing a cloud
Of smoke behind it as it rattled down
The road.

My frustration was the click click click
Of my blinker, and the flashing light
Reminding me to change my oil.

I drove circles around this town,
Following a route I had mapped out
In my head--but I failed to see how
It only enforced the anxiety of
My heart, mirrored in the clattering

Of my truck’s engine.

I fell behind in my navigating,
Missing lights as ambulances rushed
Past, disrupting the rigid routine
I liked because of its familiarity.

One day, as I reached for the handle
Of the failing trajectory of my life, yellow
Yet sad in the morning light, a man
Brighter than any paint color, walked
Up to me and extended his hand.

“This is not the plan I have for you.”
He said. “Come to me, for I will
Give you rest.”

It was too good to be true—
How could I trust a man promising
The world?

Yet, that is where I was wrong.
He was not offering the world,
But eternal life and love in the
Wholeness of His image.

I let my arm drop to my side,
Away from the smoking lump
Of my car, and felt the earnestness
Of His expression.

Forgetting the yellow frame beside me,
I took His hand, and began to walk,
The swaying of the leaves suddenly
Peaceful, and the rushing of the cars
Humming gracefully.

Everything that was a source of anxiety,
Faded into the background, and I felt only
The point of contact between me
And my Savior.

The chains cinched tighter
Around my wrists.
I felt them dig into my ankles,
And my blood grow hot
In my throat.
But my mind was clear—
Sinking deeply into a soft,
Pastel embrace.
I was in my faith.
Jesus held me, his promises
Forming a warm wall
Around my soul.
I let go of the outward pain,
Knowing no one
Could touch me here.

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.

I fell at the feet
Of an old, peeling
Altar.
The stone was
Unremarkable
& still.
Yet behind it
Stood the man
Of Grace
And Love.  
I could not see
Him, nor hear
His voice.
Only I knew He
Was there.
He walked around
The pedestal and
Crouched
Beside me, holding
Out His steady hands
To catch
The falling tears
That dripped from
My prayers.

I picked a spot
By the freeway
And sat like a
Beggar,
Pretending
The rush of cars
Was the current
Of a thoughtless
River.

I held my throat
With a longing hand,
Searching for the voice
That was missing. 

All this time,
I had been speaking
The words of the world,
Instead of relying on
Those of God.
I warped my tongue
To fit the whims of those
Around me, but in
Doing so, I
Prohibited Him
From speaking
Through
Me.

He lifted my chin
And made me
Look into His eyes.
“What do you see,
Child?
Is it the hatred
You imagine, or only
  Love?”