Raised to know there’s the right way to be, a wrong way to be,
I ask: if you came to my house now, what would you think of me?
Should I get my feet off the chair?
…brush my hair? or pick up that mess?
I ask myself:
…if Christ came to my house now what would he think of me?
Would he care about my hair, the chair, and the mess?
But what would we talk about?
…that I lack faith?
….that I shouldn’t worry?
or, might he ask why I have pouches under my eyes and a wrinkled brow?
No. I think; or hope,
he’d ask about my hurts and harms, my wounds,
because he can’t turn from the hurt.
But, how would he drag it out of me?
And, could I say I am scared?
…I am so worn out?
…That I am hurting?
….I am mostly confused, and wondering?
Could I be held in his affectionate arms?
© A Charity Johnson March 20, 2020