I Miss Your Hands

Sweet God of the blue eyes
And the blonde hair
And the peaceful prayerful expression
As you preside over our churches…

You do not even exist.

Your smooth skin is a lie
That white artists created for us.
Beguiled, we followed.

You were never this clean-cut man.
You never looked anything like me
Or my entire family.
You looked like deep earth mud
And dust and growth and fear and life.

You grew in a womb
And in a world
And in another place altogether.

You were born from me
And You birthed me.
You are three and You are one.

I do not know how.
I cannot ever know how.
I do not even want to know.

I bleed the mystery.
It runs through me
Like power and majesty
In my tiny little human veins.

I am grateful to You
And for You
And from You.
I am chosen
And I choose.

I am free and slave.
Servant and master of myself.
I am Yours,
But I run away.

I no longer want to see You as they do.
I don’t want to live with the façade.
Instead I want to know You more.

I want to dance with You
At twilight
As the fireflies sparkle on the breeze.
I want to hold Your hand and watch Your world.
I want to sit at Your feet
And learn Your heart.

I want to walk beside You
And follow behind You
And go before You.
I want You to walk beside me,
Go before me,
Be birthed inside me.

I miss Your hands,
How they felt as they molded my flesh.

I miss Your breath
That breathed me Life.

Somewhere, deep inside my body and my soul,
I remember.

And I will never be the same.


*originally published on Middle Places


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