I left on my own,
My hand still on the
Smooth doorway.
I could see the blood
Of past generations
Smeared over the paint,
Flickering in my eyes.
The original cross—
I was not on my own.
I was covered by
The Lamb.

“Why can’t I feel it, Lord?”
He leans back in my chest,
A sigh, a tilt of the head,
The firelight gentle as it
Glazes the side of His face.
“Are you looking for My love,
   Or a feeling you already know?”

Smudged tiles and tilted walkways,
Machines that clunked and rattled,
Accompanied by drowsy people
Waiting for grace.

I stumbled to an empty metal box,
My filthy rags clutched in my hands,
And threw them in, falling to my knees.
I had no detergent,

No way to wash the deep-rooted stains
The world had reaped upon them.
My own choices stared back at me like
Dirt from the subway.

Tears started to carve tracks down my
Face as the blood of Jesus soaked
Into the garments, covering the grime
As they began to spin.

When I opened the door, they were
Made new again.

The pattern of the chains
Imprints on the pads of
My hands as I cling tightly
To the swings.

My hair is taken by the wind.
I hear a song in my head.
I sway back and forth, my
Feet dry from the sand.

The moment is taken
Too soon.

No matter the years
That settle themselves
On my frame,
I will forever be a Child,
Pushed on the swings
By my Father.

Excitement was padded
By the weighted blanket
Of nailed in dates—

Times I knew I could not
Let people down, or back
Out, without hurting them.
I wasn’t giving up—

If it was up to me, I would
Already be up, up, on the
Wind, away from all that
I could not change—

But my soul still resided
Here, in the body God
Crafted for me since the
Beginning—

I was not a bundle of joy,
Planning things with the
Anticipation of a child,
I was a servant—

Abiding God's plan in Him
Wanting me here,
 the Spirit
Working in my otherwise
deceitful heart.

The busy-bodied thoughts
That complained they were
Late for work, slowed their
Pace as a gentle Spirit
Descended on the grubby,
Activity-ridden streets.
Their hands loosened their
Grip on the hard-edged
Briefcases, and the buzz
In their bodies settled
Into a lackadaisical hum.

“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.”

When my head is spinning with the blades of excuses
Used by the enemey,
I see Your love in the light of the drapes,
Your glory in the morning.
I say to myself “I am nothing, I am nothing.”
But my hands continue to make plans
Without You in them.
My heart bows to shame, my ears to false prophets,
And I kneel before You, Lord,
Wondering what kind of love allows You to be faithful
To such an unworthy servant.