Everyday Create
Hidden (poetic essay)
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/CqOUxlFp1kO/
I keep noticing You hidden. Tucked into the
conversation I had with a friend about all the woes and worries of this temporary home. I keep seeing you twinkling through song on my Spotify. I keep hearing you, somehow, wordlessly whisper to me in the afternoon wind. I keep wondering if my desires to scream out this Good News—despite the social repercussions—is Your divine pushing. Are You grinning right now, because I’m finally noticing? I saw a flicker of your kindness in my soul as I was on my knees this morning. Endorphins maybe? No. No, no. Something much more holy. Other-worldly.
I want to be convinced it is all coincidence. It feels safer there, in delusion. I want to say that it’s not You. This makes me seem smarter, more wise, less naïve, less optimistic, more accepted. Safe from cynical stares, from laughter. I am tempted to cover all of my highest, most sacred belief in skepticism, but I don’t today. I will stand mocked by my own old self, and those who can’t see. I’m finally learning how to cope without acceptance of either.
You see, I can’t do without You much anymore, and logical or not (depending on the source), I’m beginning to think chance is only truth by the promise of Your providence, stretching into the tiniest little details, sprinkled throughout our most mundane moments. It’s always expanding into the tiniest and biggest moments. There is no place this Good News doesn’t touch.
I wonder if, up to now, I’ve spent my whole second life drowning in my first birth. And You have been trying to hold my hand, pull me up, let my toes find a way above the waves, let my feet glide and spin on the seeming chaos of it all.
And I am Peter, with faith half the size of a mustard seed, once walking, now drowning.
But I want to dance.
Won’t you grow it? Please?
Ah, yes— that’s just it. You are.
I think I’m finally listening, with ears to hear.
Finally seeing, with eyes to see.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/CqOUxlFp1kO/
I keep noticing You hidden. Tucked into the
conversation I had with a friend about all the woes and worries of this temporary home. I keep seeing you twinkling through song on my Spotify. I keep hearing you, somehow, wordlessly whisper to me in the afternoon wind. I keep wondering if my desires to scream out this Good News—despite the social repercussions—is Your divine pushing. Are You grinning right now, because I’m finally noticing? I saw a flicker of your kindness in my soul as I was on my knees this morning. Endorphins maybe? No. No, no. Something much more holy. Other-worldly.
I want to be convinced it is all coincidence. It feels safer there, in delusion. I want to say that it’s not You. This makes me seem smarter, more wise, less naïve, less optimistic, more accepted. Safe from cynical stares, from laughter. I am tempted to cover all of my highest, most sacred belief in skepticism, but I don’t today. I will stand mocked by my own old self, and those who can’t see. I’m finally learning how to cope without acceptance of either.
You see, I can’t do without You much anymore, and logical or not (depending on the source), I’m beginning to think chance is only truth by the promise of Your providence, stretching into the tiniest little details, sprinkled throughout our most mundane moments. It’s always expanding into the tiniest and biggest moments. There is no place this Good News doesn’t touch.
I wonder if, up to now, I’ve spent my whole second life drowning in my first birth. And You have been trying to hold my hand, pull me up, let my toes find a way above the waves, let my feet glide and spin on the seeming chaos of it all.
And I am Peter, with faith half the size of a mustard seed, once walking, now drowning.
But I want to dance.
Won’t you grow it? Please?
Ah, yes— that’s just it. You are.
I think I’m finally listening, with ears to hear.
Finally seeing, with eyes to see.