“LORD, let me
let you
love me.
“I don’t know what else to do.
“I’m terrified
you might not come through
for me
when I need you most”
like a rescue mission gone pear-shaped—
a flickering candle of hope drowning at sea—
leaving me to plan my own escape,
using an ole paddle board
and some duct tape.
“LORD, I can’t stand not being in control.
“Trusting someone else
with my fate
is a colossal leap of faith
I entrust to you, alone,
the Lover of my soul.
“LORD, I want to feel comfortable
in my own skin.
“There’s so much I want to say and do
but I don’t know where to begin.”
They say
I should perform
for an audience
of one King
of an eternal dominion
not a room full of jaded jurors
or a thousand self-serving minions
who could care less about my suffering.
’Cause they don’t know
what I’m thinking
or how often my tears
slide down a slippery slope of fear
finding their way back
to the provincial pack
of which I’m not
seeking to please everyone
even the people I haven’t met yet,
except for God.
“LORD, I feel like running away.
“Then again,
the world seems so dark
and unkind.
“And what I find
inside my mind—
a runaway rowboat,
headed to a deserted isle,
leaving behind a ‘Dear John letter’,
my only proof of existence—
isn’t much better.”
Only the tender timbre
of my Maker’s voice
makes me want to stay.
I want to know more
about this Maundy Thursday Prince,
ever since I’ve read what eyewitnesses say,
“He massages people’s feet
as he washes away the dirt
and the stench of the street.
He walks with those who suffer
and suffers when those who suffer
go astray.”
This is the Rabbi
who inspires closet skeptics
to “come-out” and pray.
Let’s be real,
cynicism isn’t real livin’.
It’s brothers robbin’ brothers
the joy of breakin’ bread
to stay home alone,
eating Ramen with Sriracha
instead.
I wouldn’t be so defensive
if I weren’t always breakin’
all the rules.
I’d blame it on my ADHD
if I could.
But if Pain’s taught me anything,
it’s that Impulsivity
doesn’t have to control me.
“LORD, did you create me this way
or is this part of original sin’s proclivity?”
No one has the right to judge me,
not even myself.
’Cause I’m limited to what I can see,
understanding very little of my own secrecy,
a sliver of the shadow stalking me:
Imperfections.
Insecurities.
And Inclinations,
respectively.
Only the One
who knows everything
about everything,
including every possibility
about every possible world:
A Christmas tree in this one.
A 10G cell tower in the next one.
A wormhole in the third one.
A multiverse of different-but-same,
ad infinitum.
How can the clay say to the Potter
“Why have you made me like this?”
As a mere man
that’s how—
a kindred concoction
of breath and dust.
Drunk with arrogance,
I fight against my mortality
and tendency to rust.
A clatter of dancing bones
broken to pieces
by the flippant toss of a slur
with the force of 10 stones.
“LORD, you made me a man
so why do I quiver
and blow apart
like a dandelion in a floral bed
next to a still river
suddenly uprooted
by the mischievous wind
that plucks without a hand?”
When I start searching
for a thunderbolt or trident,
I know I’m overcompensating
for something.
Probably for being shaken
to my core.
“LORD, remind me
trouble at sea
doesn’t mean I’ve been forsaken.”
It just means I’m navigating a skiff
that’ll one day be upgraded
to skim the waters, effortlessly,
far away from the safety of the shore
into the heart of the sea:
A sea that’s meant to be
swallowed slowly
and perpetually explored.