Discomfort

My three-year-old woke up one night, moaning, “I don’t want to be…!  I don’t want to be…!” over and over. 

Something just wasn’t quite right, but in her sleep-fogged state, she couldn’t verbalize exactly what it was.

So I held her, in spite of her kicking and thrashing, reassuring her that things would look better in the morning.

I cry to God, “I don’t want to be!  I don’t want to be!  If this is what life is like, I don’t want to be!”

He holds me in my sin-fogged state, though I push him away. 

“Relax!  Just rest in My arms,” He tells me.  “You’ll see clearly in the morning.”

Cataloging My Blog

INadequate to keep up with the juggling,
INebriated from lack of sleep, I find I’m
INeffective in changing the world -
INsufficient in even the little things, in spite of my
INtense efforts.

INjuries in hidden places make me
INattentive to the needs around me.

INhibited I am from baring my soul, yet
INdebted beyond repay, I
INtroduce my
INside to the outside again.

INspired to try again, but in desperate need of
INdwelling Presence to
INflame me.



Inspired by The High Calling’s post on catalog poetry and joining in with Mrs. Scribe’s Poetry Slam.