God is so good.

Psalm 73

When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, was sensles and igorant; I was a brute beast before you. Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.

Letters

I remember giving letters to that dead feeling.
What longer made sense? Because all the fancy names
I thought to give parted to find
nothing behind the curtain.

If there were a box, if that box was me,
empty it. I want to empty it,
the contents spilling like fire crackers into a sea.

No one needs to know me--must I be known?
More else, sometimes I think I don’t
want to be known; or I want to be known
for not being known.

Once there was a birth, and that was myself.
The product of a moment of intense desire, like everyone else.
But with a reason. Right, isn’t that why am I here, Lord?
I want to cut off those entangling cords that tell me,
“Better find a tight space to fit in.”
Can you give me,--to be unknown
in every eye but Your own--that intense desire?
Can I belong in You?

If there is a box, I would empty it out.
I would write prayers and secrets, scratch a paper
with my hurts and then seal the box.

But then? I don’t know. I don’t think
I would want it to sink into the sea.
Would it sink, even?

Or would it fly across the water, toward the sun,
because where do those prayers go?

What would it look like, those tight pages of

jealousy and insecurity,
frustration, hater,
stomping on people,
disguising sin.

Rage.
To look at You silently, in the midst of that rage---when all I want to know
was, ‘Is that You?’ I don’t want it if it was not. Are You mad, what? Do You care
if I cry and shrink off when we dance? Or am I just made at You?

Where would they land?
Maybe it is a gift I need to give.

It slips across my fingers, that huge box I carry around my arms,
tops across someone’s feet, and they stare at it
with the falling gaze of the wind, like a hunger.
It gets kicked until it disappears.

God, you are not the box.
All the boxes I have collected, all the boxes I have stored,
all of them cramped in tight spaces;
I release them to You.

I can give You nothing else.