Streams of Comfort

It’s that week again! The special fifth week of the month of May. This poem came from a series of dreams I had earlier this week. In every dream I kept trying to find myself in the story. Why was I there? What was my purpose? In some dream sequences, I was on a stage in front of thousands with a microphone in my hand. In another I was on the edge of cliff. In all of these alien spaces, I felt like I had to remind myself who I was. Often times (and I’ve talked about this before), society and the world want to dictate who we are. That can include what we’re feeling. Those dreams of searching for myself reminded me that God calls us sons and daughters. Joint heirs with Christ. And all that identity seeking for titles that are always going to be less than that, is foolish in many ways. May you find peace in knowing who you are. By knowing who He is.

I once saw a lamp post flickering.
In a dying corner of the world.
Bent arms and feet sprawled across the floor beneath.
No words came from my mouth,
As I saw,
That which frightened me.
To meet an end as such spurred anger.
Hot flashes of red lined every corner of my vision.
Yet when it cleared and the dim light faded
And I saw nothing,
Someone whispered that anger wasn’t its name.

I once saw an eagle flying over canyons
Looking for a home.
Searching for rest in an infinite solid landscape.
I almost shouted that there,
On an opening in the rock,
Could be its home.
Overcome with a longing for my own home,
I said nothing.
Someone whispered to me that longing wasn’t its name.

I once saw my reflection in a mirror
Eyes skimming over every imperfection.
Wobbly cheeks and raw edges.
Take the pieces of me apart I begged,
And put me back together perfect.
I rushed to cover my face in shame,
I felt nothing.
Someone whispered to me that shame wasn’t its name.

I once knelt by the river
Made of tears and hope.
Three figures stood before me,
On the bank.
I expected them as I expected condemnation.
Anger, longing, shame
I thought I saw.
Yet they morphed into one figure with my name.

I once saw myself as myself.
Imperfect sinner
Running off the edge.
Hoping to fall on soft soil.
I felt prideful.
Until Jesus whispered to me
That wasn’t my name.

Alice R.