What you must think
when you look at me—
and my feeble stumblings toward you,
and my confused attempts to understand your holiness,

And I keep passionately trying to figure it out—
following those plastic feet laid out for me,
trying to put together the steps of the dance . . .
and getting it all mixed up.

What if . . .
(perhaps just for a brief moment)
I stopped trying to figure you out—
and raised my hands
(like that ten month old child)
and cried
Would you bend down and pick me up—
calm me with your kiss,
and somehow
might I find,
that my understanding  wasn’t really that important after all . . .

What I must think
being held in your arms—
and the peace I must find there,
and how I might discover the simplicity that somewhere I lost in all my



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