And He With Me

5 comments
Listening When He Speaks, Love God Love People, One Nation Under God, Poetry

Handle my broken? You’re

kidding, right? I’ll sweep, gentle-like,

sharp shards of glass; replace

with glue, a mug’s cracked handle; tape

a page, nearly tore in two — but staunch

the wounds of my own heart? It’s

not possible, plausible,

sensible that I’m worth

any effort — now,

is it? Besides, I’ve locked

the door, bolted it secure, closed

and all is forgotten because the pain inside

is trapped, strapped, forced back

tight so nothing else

can rent me in two — you get

that, right? As long as I don’t

grasp, shake, twist, or turn the handle

never, ever, not ever — won’t it remain

hidden, out of sight?

 .

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.

(Revelation 3:20 NKJV)

He stands and knocks. He doesn’t force entry into our lives, to our souls, to our wounded hearts.

He waits for an invitation. From. You.

.

Now it sometimes feels as if I’m

naked – sitting here 

at the table with the King of kings.

Swung open is the door, my pounding heart

presses hard against this

transparent chest of mine. His cloak 

of Truth and righteousness, lined

with mercy and grace protects me

when over me, I let Him drape it,

to  cover where I deny

self

or worse yet, apply my own self-hate.

Do you see me? Really, really

see? I’m a different me – freer

stronger. God sent the red-hot 

lies and the liar straight to

hell. He swapped out the dastardly

dark for my despair. Together the King

and I untangle knots and stitch tight

slashes against my soul.

These here scars no longer

mark defeat, but define His

entry to my heart – to the place

where I 

handed Him my broken.

.

.

Memorial Day. A day to honor the fallen, the dead and buried. I know this well. My own father perished from wounds of Vietnam. I was but a child, but I’ve felt the impact my whole life. There are folks among us, wounded, some near ’bout dead – they walk, they crawl, they wheel, they saunter, they glide, they ride, they look normal, they appear wounded beyond repair. And more often than not, they hide. What have you, yes you, done to guide and show and love and share and care? Maybe just invite them in. They, like the greatest Him, don’t barge, but rather wait.

.

Attention soldiers, yes, you mister T, especially you, my “thanks” will never do what you need and my mere words will never heal your wounds, that is why upon bent knees, I continually plead the Lord for you.

.

.

 

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5 thoughts on “And He With Me”

  1. lschontos says:

    Well done Darlene. Your poetry goes right to the heart.
    I miss you friend. Hope all is well.

  2. “They, like the greatest Him, don’t barge, but rather wait” Simply lovely Darlene, thanks. Lord, all around us they wait, give us Your eyes to see, to touch, to heal.

  3. Well said my friend. I feel the sorrow, but yet the pride for such honor. Thank you for all who died protecting us. Praise God.

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