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break me

break me

Father, years ago, I asked You this question: Why do I resist change? Why do I resist becoming more like You? I had been confronted by a friend who nudged me toward surrender, who encouraged me to trust in You more. 

And I didn’t want to hear it.

Father, you know I dread being told that I need to change. I dread being told I should go to You and ask you what you think. I resist not because I don’t think it is a good idea. Rather, it’s because I fear, in surrender, I am messing up somehow.

And I don’t like to mess up.

And I don’t like being told what to do.

And I especially don’t like someone telling me I am messing up and I need to surrender something in me. Rather than listen to what they have to say, I I want to deny I am doing anything wrong. Instead, I want them to change to accommodate me.

Ugh. Even when I am hard-hearted, You love me. Oh, You are so amazing.

In the garden of Gethsemane your Jesus bowed and surrendered. He modeled complete trust in you, complete surrender to you. Jesus shows what it means to love you. What it means to be your child. What it means to know you are here and you are listening and you want to know how we feel about things.

I know this: my rebellion stems from the same pride that Satan had when he rose against You and wanted to be better than You, thinking his way was best. He didn’t want to get any closer to You; he wanted to remove himself from your presence because he didn’t like being told what to do and he believed he was smarter and more beautiful and wiser than You.

And I am doing the same thing as Satan did when I turn away from wise counsel and I use harsh, rash, unkind words in an attempt to fend off the person who loves me and believes, for me, it is good to pursue change?

Father, here is my confession then: I am the rebellious daughter who wants to come home. I am the prodigal, the one You love and think is beautiful, the prideful girl who needs to fall, who needs to get low.

Take me like this, will you? Your will not mine be done?

And in his presence, I am before him, on the ground, a heap of rags in a background of turquoise and shadows. He stands before me, a Father who faces his daughter and knows that sometimes it isn’t words she needs to hear.

Sometimes, she needs to be allowed to cry at his feet, to be given permission to let her tears fall over him. She is unworthy, and she is loved. She is broken, and she is mended. She needs to pour out her heart to the One who knows her and adores her, despite her wretchedness. For she is loved by the One who loves. And she is remembering who she is.

He bends low to touch her face, reaches his hand underneath her chin. She knows He is asking her, with his movement, to raise her head, to look up. So she does.

She does.

She does.

For the Loop Poetry Project prompt this week, you are invited to do simply this: write a poem from your heart–your heart in its beauty and its wretchedness, in its sorrow and its confidence. 

Use story. Use description. Use images. Use metaphor. Do whatever you need to do to speak what it is saying. This is what we need, as poets, to write again and again and again.

Much love to you,


6:30 Saturday morning

I held his body when
he tried to stand
plant one foot then the other
like he was brave,
like he knew.
Seventeen years later he
soft steps into the bedroom
to borrow a helmet, sunglasses, pads
and I rise
the deep intertwined to deep.
I hover around the kitchen
while he scrambles eggs
and sits to eat,
washes his dishes
returns the pan clean to the cupboard
like it was always there.
I follow.
Until he steps out,
the mountain bike on top his car,
to drive past the front window
where I stand.
I watch his location on my phone
the first two minutes
and I fold inward.

You are always welcome here.

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