I wrote this last night, as I should have been sleeping yet was too much compelled by the desire to put out words that I had to put pen to something. I have words ready for my story, and will presently put them down, but first I wanted to share this with you. It’s written as a spoken word poem, the execution of which I might entertain sometime this week. Having just finished prayers before my repose, I found my subject to be of a religious nature.
I’ve been meditating on this concept for a long while though–the whole of summer, and perhaps even further back into the school-year. Despite my times of despair and my anxiety, despite my being prone to hopelessness and resentment, I have been reminded even in the smallest of moments, the most profound of ways, that God is still with me, still in control, and I need only rest in Him. I have my bad hours, my good moments, my apathetic-dead times. Yet He is constantly with me, strengthening me, keeping me, that I may pursue the passions and dreams He has given me.
The Presence of God
It’s a constant set of whispers,
just enough to hear but too quiet for me to make out the words—
but it doesn’t matter, because I know the essence and like a babe my heart is stilled by my Gentle Mother.
Before long I can’t even remember how much it hurts. The whispering works.
It’s like a hand on my arm, and dammit even though I can’t stand it when I’m touched
You’re gentle and firm,
a Great Loving Father who insists that everything will be fine if I would just cease to resist—
yet I fidget and fight even though I know You’re right every time.
Always in the periphery,
I don’t notice until my anxiety makes a mess of me—
and then you subtly let me see how You’ve been there all along, keeping me relentlessly.
And Gentle Mother, Great Father that You are, how could You do anything less than remind me of You graces,
for you have not good or great things but only the best.
So whatever hell I find myself in,
since I am prone to sin and making mistakes again and again
I know even in my lion’s dens that instead of being devoured,
You walk me through my darkest hour.
My valley of death is often the church down the street
and I see demons in every face that I meet.
My throat is stuck, so I beg You to speak—
for at Your command the darkness will flee and the strangling holds on me become weak.
And this is the presence of God,
where I am not brave or skilled or eloquent,
not righteous or full of intellectual developments.
but where I am broken and desperate, helpless and small,
clothed in the bloodshed that paid the price for my freedom.
It is all the good,
intricately and inexplicably intertwined with all the bad so that I am compelled to say that
I honestly wouldn’t change a single thing about my story,
about my life or about me,
for I have seen many wonders and mercies.
I have seen glory.
In The Presence Of God,