On that morning, I'm so upright.
In my own eyes.
Popping or crawling or dragging from bed and starting the work.
Like the woman who cares for her house as I
Fuss and pester over the hairs and the old mascara and
the too tight pants.
And hours passed and
there are bites of the tongue
and sweat on the brow
and children to herd
and cars to park
In the throne room.
Before Him, with our brothers and sisters
calling and crying and keeping our eyes fast on Him.
Fingers over my mumbling lips and then arms
thrust in praise.
Hunched in my chair
as I feel the weight of Him
(by His blood)
(with his goodness and wholeness).
And the rags I'm wearing feel like just that.
And the paint on my face feels like just that.
I'm just a lady.
Doubled over by the goodness of God.
Staring down at a journal, a coffee cup, some shoes that now
make me feel silly for trying to
dress up this life.
If you can
Well, You always Can.
Double me over, Father.
On the Monday.
In the middle of the day.
In the middle of the night.
Pry my fingers open till I relinquish every
shred of mighty or strong or capable.
And fill this weakened
doubled over girl
with Your strength alone.