Streams of Comfort

There’s a thread that binds us to one another. Being human is not something we can change. Even if we could, how would we know what our alternatives are? God promises that He will return and make us new. There are days that I want that more than anything. When I feel the full weight of what it means to be human. The imperfection, the sinful nature, the contradiction that comes with having a soul made by a perfect creator. One day we will be made new. Our nature, entirely re-written. Forever. I hope this poem brings you comfort on the days you struggle with your nature.

How does one escape when being human is the sickness?
Crowds of hands and feet shuffle along the square, searching for meaning in paper houses.
Separating from each other until the solitude screams back and we’re forced to be close again.
Poles are opposites like humans and sanity.
Raging against nature, we make the problem worse.
Spiraling discord sewn into the fabric of us.
Of me.
I can’t shake off this mortal coil any more than the sun can stop shining.
You can’t either.
Restless we fall to our knees in agony, in numbness.
Enter a space where we have no solutions of our own.
Until the moment where surrender is all that’s left.
All that breath that wasn’t even ours.
All that strength that we could never boast about.
All that darkness that shouldn’t have been ours to begin with.
Swallowed by eternal rest.
In the shadow of Our Savior’s blinding light.
Written and formed anew
We rise.
-Alice R, 8/30/22