I don’t know how to pray
It’s finally September, so I’ve given up. I’m picking up my yarn and crochet needles, putting on a scarf, and waiting at the end of the driveway for Autumn.
How do these green leaves still hang on anyway? The roots beneath must have tongues in aquifers. Beneath my house, I feel it, a cave full of water, and here I am standing up top wondering why the drink isn’t in my cup.
All is metaphor and marathon at once. I don’t know how to pray and yet I’ve never felt more nurtured in prayer, carried like a packet of war letters tied in string.
Sometimes maturity feels like doubt, the quiet limbo.
When the waiting is over, when I release that inhaled breath as Titus is healed, the heat lifts, when the words peel out, many will see and fear.
I’ll always be chief sinner, brilliant, unraveled, and given open ears that he dug with his blue fingers.
The Word breathes, mouth to mouth, ears filled, like gone under deep water.
Mercy will be when music finally pours from my mouth, and I won’t need come up for air.