Like the white, sticky paste, we attempt to spread ourselves thin. One side to the next, we think we
are gracefully gliding, instead, we’re tattering our britches and burning our brains.
Oops! Look there. We lost a shoe, now a sock. Our hands are scraped from trying to grab hold of pavement
passing by in frantic speed we traded out for the slower pace we once had.
We really wanted the edge of margin, to hug and be held and dance in our creative spot,
to be free with the time gift bare and unwrapped, spacious time slot.
A voice inhabited, threatened to send us to hell if we dare wasted one second of our day,
on ourselves, breathing, beating, being spent on picking a weed in the backwoods:
Is this really the best use of your time? It lashed out. Knife to the gut. Fine.
We stumbled back from force and forte’ and stammered into pressured-prized-traditions,
now the morrows are booked up beyond
and fraught with no space even for interruptions of the divine kind because yes,
we are too busy doing holy work to see what is truly holy.
Truly holy is the child fidgeting with a toy wondering if “holy work” will pause to come down and give a squeeze.
Truly holy are words we offer to lonely souls wandering down the aisles, unsure and nervous.
Truly holy are moments we leave unwrapped, untidied but imperfect and willing
as we hand them to friends in need, though yes, there are many places we could be.
Truly holy isn’t crafted of shame nor regret,
it’s learning to see love is for needs to be met,
without sections of margin-morseled time,
without yeses to weed-picking soul-breathing soul-feeding..
we trample our own needs too…
And without the free fall from what la’ righteous world declares so right, yes — a must,
our remains remain trapped, slapped up against weights meant for Christ’s shoulders but we lie
in a torrent of never-ending reruns shut off from Holy Spirit longing to
dance-paint on the canvas of our lives, ready to creatively graft in what
come up with
on their own.
Be open. Embrace your open square on the calendar.
Don’t necessarily fill it up.
Nothingness is a necessity too.
From nothing we became and are becoming.
We can let the cars speed by while we sigh. It’s okay.
Whitespace can be yes space (to you + them)
oh soul of a servant’s heart longing to be used
for His glory.
© Copyright 2018 Meghan Weyerbacher
- Tired of trendssss.
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- How writers can have more peace.
- Stop telling yourself it doesn’t matter.
- A coffee + casserole kind of story.
- Discovering my truest identity through brokenness.