There was a stain on my shirt,
Small and pebble-sized,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
But I could feel it above
My heart, and I pressed my hand
To it, trying to cover
Any semblance of imperfection—
I rubbed cold water
Into the fabric, anxiety-ridden
As I scrubbed, scrubbed,

Scrubbed, looking over my shoulder,

As if I would be caught
For a crime unintentionally committed.
I should have known
That washing my faults in worldy water
Would never remove
The stains it had caused. I soaked the
Cloth in tears and
Kneeled before my Father, bowed. 

“Make me new,”
I said, “In your love, Lord, make me
Who you intended me
To be in the womb.” I cried.
The fabric remained
The same, for it was only a shirt,
But my heart began
To thaw and the wounds marring it
From every sin
I tried to hide from God, were
Gently stitched together
With new, soft flesh, in His love.

I fell at the feet
Of an old, peeling
Altar.
The stone was
Unremarkable
& still.
Yet behind it
Stood the man
Of Grace
And Love.  
I could not see
Him, nor hear
His voice.
Only I knew He
Was there.
He walked around
The pedestal and
Crouched
Beside me, holding
Out His steady hands
To catch
The falling tears
That dripped from
My prayers.

The moment was negligible;
It was a sparse bridge
Of minutes, simply hanging
In the air. I could have sat
And stared at the wall.
I could have sighed
And pulled out my phone.
But a niggling, patient voice
Broke into my thoughts,
And weighed heavily
Upon my neck,
Until my head bowed
And my hair fell over my ears,
Turning a couple lost minutes
Into a private conversation
With God.

I held my throat
With a longing hand,
Searching for the voice
That was missing. 

All this time,
I had been speaking
The words of the world,
Instead of relying on
Those of God.
I warped my tongue
To fit the whims of those
Around me, but in
Doing so, I
Prohibited Him
From speaking
Through
Me.

He lifted my chin
And made me
Look into His eyes.
“What do you see,
Child?
Is it the hatred
You imagine, or only
  Love?”

I am nothing.
I smile with the thought.
Because Jesus

Is Everything.

The words reached out and
Gripped me.
They held the collar
Of my shirt.
But they were not harsh.
They did not
Push me into the wall.
They simply
Held me so I would not
Turn my head
When they proclaimed
“I Love You.”

When I pray,
I stand on my Father’s shoes.
I feel Him sway beneath me,
Leading me in a dance
Only He knows the steps to.

I screamed when the light hit me.
The sun seared my eyes.
I was used to dank sheets
And grey walls burdened by drapes.
The darkness was my friend.
For years, I was convinced
That it didn’t hurt me.
Because it did it slowly, softly, like
The words of someone
Who leaves you wanting.
Pleas and soft reasurrances—
“You don’t know. . .
. . .What’s out there.”
Can I not be afraid of the familiar?
Yet, it still took strong arms
To drag me outside.
And I screamed when my eyes
Hit the blinding light.
It was too warm.
I liked cold love, detached love,
Like a suffocating pillow.
Dark love that froze
My heart over time.
The warm light pierced everything
I thought I knew.
It reminded me what it felt
Like to be alive under God,
Instead of living to spite Love Himself.

She wears a wig
And a false beauty spot,
Followed by heady perfume
As her makeup melts
In the bright lights.

Am I her
In my
Faith?