Life can be a constant dripping
a misery that doesn’t end.
The quiet desperation of seeing things move so very slowly
and never changing.
A man stood in front of me, with a microphone.
He said to experience God’s blessing I needed to be
“broken at the feet of Jesus.”
Mister? I have been broken.
I have been humbled, prostrate, on my face.
I have been beaten down.
And the sameness stretches in front of me like a wide expanse of dead prairie grass.
I have been hopeless.
I am, at this moment, hopeless.
I am trying to grasp at home wherever I can find it.
I have looked at my problem with logic, and with spirit.
I’m tired of brokenness.
I am ready for wholeness.
I am tired of being told X + Y will produce Z.
Are we preaching peace or witchcraft when we insist on a result?
Don’t tell me how to get God to pay attention to me.
There is nothing I can do to twist his arm.
As C.S. Lewis said, prayer doesn’t change God, it changes me.
And so I stay, prostrate, on my face.
Knowing that all I can ask for or expect, is peace.
All I can expect is my portion of grace
gently pressed into my hand
day after day.
I can’t summon God.
He won’t be called.
And he owes no explanation to me.
So please don’t tell me about the brokenness recipe that will bring me the desired result.
After all these years, I’m done trying to figure it out.
Whenever it happens,
it will have nothing whatsoever to do with me.
My teeth in the dirt
sackcloth and ashes
fists beating the ground
and his thoughts
are not my thoughts
and his ways
are not my ways.