I’m sorry that you feel rejected, you mean more to me than you’ll ever know.
I grew among you, wrapped in love, cradled in grace.
You laughed with me in my joys, and held my hand through my pain.
When my unborn baby died, you brought roses and wept. Then later
you dandled my fat, wriggling babies,
teased my children, deluged me with gifts.
We lived out community. You canned pears with me–pear peelings dropped
into our bowls almost as fast as your beautiful words.
We sipped coffee together, swapped ideas, shared food, and so much more.
So much, much more.
We prayed for each other, we exchanged notes, we talked about God.
God was woven into everything; in all that we did together, God was always there.
We intimately knew that even if I didn’t always understand you,
and you didn’t always understand me,
together we were part of Christ’s body.
but I love you, more than I ever did before.
You ask me, “Why then?…”
I could not stay in that sacred shrine, blithely eating, playing, sleeping,
while my ears caught the sound of a wounded world waiting on my doorstep, weeping
for the news of redemption. You think I left because I have no heart; I coldly bereave.
Can’t you see…? It was because of my heart that I had to leave.
“Here I am Lord, is it I Lord?
I have heard You calling in the night.
I will go Lord, if You lead me.
I will hold Your people in my heart.”