once more, i sit down to write You;
once more, i don’t know what to say.
i’ve been thinking about words like
love, enough and everything
and wondering if i even know
what they mean. love has begun
to feel like a fight to the death,
and i am still not good at dying.
You don’t give us what we expect,
do You? a little bloody baby born in a cow shed,
the Wisdom of the universe
kicking reflexively against the cold,
our Creator swaddled and burped
and rocked, cradled like any of us.
what am i supposed to do with You?
i imagine mary thought more than once
as You repeatedly defied the limits
her human understanding had conceived.
and so You confound mine. my mind
is finite, and i cannot comprehend Your
everythingness — the Sum that is greater
than the parts i can see and more than
i have the ability to imagine. and yet
You make Your home in the littleness
of my heart and cheerfully chip it away
so i can hold more of You. profound!
or do i mean ironic? perhaps it is both.
and, perhaps, what we mean by Your
enoughness is that our feeble minds
can’t restrict You by how little we
know our need, and in our battle
of give and takeaway, You never leave us empty
when You slay our pride; You are the Giver
and the Gift inside.
