A poem on behalf of those struggling to make sense…

It is storming outside.

And for too many I know and care about this week, it has been storming inside as well.

So I offer for those of faith who cannot make sense of what life is presently delivering a poem.  I find that there are moments when prose simply will not do.

The following poem is unpublished and was written by Elisa Ewoldt, a close friend for nearly 25 years.  She captures the struggling soul in a way I find both startling and oddly comforting.  May it bring comfort to those who seek it.

god

I’m trying to move you out,

I’m needing to kick you out,

Create some additional space,

Free up some room in my mind for matters more consequential,

More substantial…

But I lie.

You are substance and consequence

You are a virus colonized in my heart my mind my lungs my glands

And there is no medium that can push you out.

I cannot speak fast enough,

I cannot write fast enough,

I cannot type fast enough,

I cannot beat you to the punch line or understand the stand up routine you perform.

And all the things I think I Know become things I only thought I knew

And all the things I think are Truth become things I tell myself in order to get through.

I am not at home here with you

I am not at home when you are in residence inside my intimate thoughts.

My home becomes a stage for execution with you presiding.

My brain seizes, I try to find something, anything, to grapple with that is not you

I create miscellaneous misanthropic beliefs and assign them to you

I decide what you believe and I attribute to you all brands of larceny.

You are not this colony in my mind. You are a wayside attraction, the largest ball of string, a museum above a highway, an unmarked detour on unmarked roads.

You cannot be this to me.

But you are.

And it is a terrible, beautiful, glorious travesty