Like a child standing on tip-toe,
unable to reach the light switch,
like a girl groping cellar walls,
unable to find the stairs
I waited in the dark.
The drone of traffic in the streets
in rising and lowering songless pitch
neared my heart
then passed me by,
hope deferred yet once again.
I cried, “Oh God! Where are you?”
Pouring my effort into limp flowers
potted in dessicated soil
I watched as it seeped through again and again
staining the white tablecloth beneath.
“I can never be good enough,” I whimpered.
You placed your strong arms under mine
and lifted me up.
You tossed me high
into the sunlight
and caught me with your grace
stronger than any fear of failure.
You held me in your lap wide as a green orchard
and fed me words from your mouth.
Abba, you are my light in the hall.
Papa, you are hope like the door left ajar.
Father, I hear you in the kitchen preparing a feast for me.
You are my strength, my light, my hope, my joy.
I love you.