I don't want to write letters to You.
I want to steal away to a quiet place,
to feel the fresh and invigorating sunlight on my skin
and to know vividly that it is one of the wonders wrought by Your hand.
Your hand, alone, Oh God of Jacob
(and of Paris and Napa Valley and the Dead Sea,
and of Acorn Lane, where my knees were skinned,
palms sweaty from playground sand and monkey bars),
the God who quiets my heart and knows me
without misunderstanding, without manipulation
or assumptions or overlooking for something better, beyond.
I want to breathe air that is fresh- Your design,
and hear Your whisper on the wind- but closer,
to know Your nearness, nearer than the light
that filters through the maple leaves on a Spring morning.
I want to steal away into the quiet by Your invitation
for a leaning in, a softly spoken murmuring,
a dialog of ease and rest, a spell-binding conversation.
I want to hear Your voice, to know your cadence (-if only!)
to feel the love with my heart that I know with my head,
to have one look- to know You're looking back into my eyes
and feel that I am seen and known and understood and felt.
That one moment, a visit between friends, but so much more,
an adulterer and her Savior, a beggar and her King,
a helpless flounderer and the ardent Rescuer of her soul,
to still the anxious flutterings of my heart, the endless questions
of insecurity, the efforts to prove oneself, the desire to be known,
and to rest, and rest, and rest for eternity in the arms of my heart's One True Love.
