Literature
I don't know how to write about God
I spent twenty minutes
arranging the wine, bread, and tablecloth,
and another hour in the garden
picking flowers, all for Jesus.
I felt the room breathing with its
own life before I ever even sat
down on the couch.
Last year I spilled the wine,
this time the bread falls off the plate,
cracking on the floor, Christ's broken body -
I'm so imperfect, small, a wailing babe.
I want to promise I'll be good
for the rest of my life, but that is impractical.
You and I know better.
You know there's too much
settled dust on this body,
just as there was
on the fine porcelain dishes
mother pulled from the china cabinet.
My footprints are muddy,