Here am I kneeling on linoleum,
because Immanuel came to set the captives free
and yet I chain myself to cruel gods
who breathe despair into these lungs
made alive by the breath of YHWH,
I have poisoned them day after day.
I was grasping at grace sent from heaven,
joy more abundant than ever before
like manna in the wilderness,
it was bundled in arms with fear
of not having enough.
But no matter how tight I grasp, it spoils,
Long ago the Lord God said, I know the plans I have for you,
plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.
I said okay. I don’t believe you,
and ignored the grace still sent each day,
buried beneath my feet
I shriveled without sustenance
In the midst of kitchen cleaning,
he stopped me and said, they can’t save you.
[these gods of hopelessness, these gifts I’ve given,
All that is not Me]
so I knelt, tired of poison,
to find my God bigger from the floor,
my only savior
to hear him whisper,
I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.
and grace, it keeps on falling,
as spring rains that water the earth
manna in the wilderness,
gemstones in desert sand,
enough to sustain, day after day
I don’t know if you care about the context of the poems I write, so I put this at the bottom, so you don’t have to read it if you’d rather not. BUT my friend Fern Kohl wrote a blog post a while ago about having enough. It struck a chord. Then one week ago I realized that when I give in to anxiety and despair, I am choosing to worship hopelessness instead of the Lord.
As a sidenote, I’m not speaking in a clinical sense here. Brains get sick and cause these feelings, and that is not your fault. But for me, sometimes when good things get taken away from me, I start to believe there are no good things left. Paul described Christians in 2 Corinthians 6 as “sorrowful yet always rejoicing.” It’s okay to have sorrow. But the Lord is a God of hope.