by Laura Johnson
when I’ve admitted that--even with You--
I feel like Whitman’s spider, casting fragile
hope across an empty expanse to snag
Your outstretched hand, while the point where I stand
drifts and jolts in the wrong direction. When
I’ve confessed I’ve abandoned dreadful
doctrines and worry where that leaves me with
You. When I’ve thrown up my hands to knowing
the truth that hides beyond a faraway
shore in colors impossible for eyes
to see. That moment, You whisper assurance
of nothing but Love, and my stormy waves
fall slack, as though Jesus has stepped onto
my bow, and now He’s breathing, “Peace, be still.”
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