The days are dark and I fall silent. I see words pass, worlds pass, keep going without me. I have too much to say and none that would bless, so I keep fingers from keyboard, keep quiet.
And she texts me, “Borrowing hope is allowed.”
I’m the worst and I know it, can’t stand my own sight. Imagine a mirror and kindness I can’t speak, see I don’t need loathing, just rescue.
And she gifts me, “Remember you are loved.”
Gave til gone and now I’m no use, myself nowhere to be found. I think I want happy, but maybe just free, and maybe that’s deeper than happy. Hope hangs on the thought that maybe myself is found wherever abides that freedom.
And they write me, “That’s what makes you human.”
I pray but I shrink back, don’t want to hear answer. Trust God’s plan is good, but afraid I won’t like it. Still I strike Him a deal: I’ll show up to church just to wear this red dress, and I’ll see what You’ll do, and I trust You.
And he mails me, “You sing an old song of beauty.”
Not sure I can sing worship, not sure I ought commune. But my soul-ache tells me I need to do them both, so I do because I’m there wearing that red dress. And it’s half-holy, the way somehow I fit in the together.
And she emails me, “We are a community, engaged in something bigger than us.”
The days are still dark and my own words, still scarce. I borrow hope from their words, their gifts, their love, their songs. And it’s just enough, enough to glimpse light, and I see I am still there.