Your Rope

The only thing that holds me

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

How will a child born into this world
of chaos
survive
when even hardened veterans of this war zone
risk being ripped apart
by the contradictions running rampant

all around us.

deep within us.

An order must emerge
from this chaos.
A truth that shimmers undeniably,
separating into strands
so we better understand,
then weaving back together
into a secure, braided rope.
Something we can hold
when the ground
gives way.

Only artists have the ability
to glimpse beauty in this madness,
unlike those who see only the surface,
with no desire to dig
into the blood and guts beneath,
searching for shiny treasures
like truth.

When the world overwhelms me,
I grasp the messages
embedded in Your rope.
They tell me:

I am a luminous work of art,
but also,
the artist,
able to call forth abundance
on an empty canvas,
evoking emotion
where once there was none,
sparking love
through friction,
intense contradiction.

But it is in my human nature
to forget myself,
deny my power.

This rope is a reminder.

I feel the rough texture of its jute
upon my fingers,
the certainty of its weight
in my hands.
When I pull it hard
it’s like I’m summoning You,
begging You to carry me
Home.

How can I train myself
to be as certain,
as unshakeable,
as Your rope?

I am a child,
still,
who needs structure,
a gentle guide,
a womb to hold me.

Am I regressing
or returning
to my roots?

I am raw,
my wounds, bloody,
my guts, exposed.

How do I create beauty
from this mess,
when all I wonder is:

Do You still love me?

Even as I lay soiled
in the shame
of not knowing
who I am
or why I exist.

How do I shapeshift,
reframe,
reclaim
this shame?

How do I mold this mundane life
into a work of art
made in Your honor?

Do I pray through poetry,
or reckon with my memoirs,
preach in essays,
or seduce with stories?

Which way will the current sway?

But instead I am stuck —
words caught in my throat,
pen held mid-air —
despite my efforts to climb up.

Could it be
this stuckness
isn’t a symptom,
rather a brief pause
before possibility?

I must trust
this rope
to pull me through
the paradox,
the chaos and
contradiction,
with the strength
of its stillness
as if I
was the eye
of every storm,
envisioning beauty
despite the blood,
fueled by faith
despite the shame,
unshakeable
as I cling
to Your rope

like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

This truth shimmers,
lights up the length of the rope
like a bright thunderbolt in the night sky.

I gasp at the luminous power I hold —
that holds me —
and for an instant
remember
the answer to my question.

Do You still love me?

How many times
must You have answered it
before?

How many times
will I need reminding
again?