Happy Lutheran

Jesus, I have tried,

I have tried to be small enough,

I have tried to be shiny,

I have tried to be worthy,

but every time I press myself

with the imprint of someone else’s expectations

it misses the mark

and I am left off-centre.

Here I am, Lord.

A quarter clicking around

 in the bottom of the divine washing machine.

A nickel dropped under the car seat,

ground into a gritty floor.

A penny, slipping from a pocket,

rolled into a corner under the bed

where dust mites and bobby pins are my only fellow believers.

Jesus, I need to see the broom in your hands.

I want to hear you turning over empty

pitcher

and shaking out every neatly folded sheet.

I need to see your belly pressed against the floor

and your dark eyes, peering into my own darkness.

You know darkness, Lord.

It doesn’t scare you.

You made it.  

Long before your hands were bound

in wrinkles and veins,

you crafted night and day, and you are afraid

of neither.

But I am lost, and I am afraid.

Lord, they call me lost,

and if I am,

I want you to find me

the way you found the world:

nicked at the edges, dusty and rusty,

unwanted and unworthy,

and still your hands reached out

to cradle every worthless coin

like each was a pearl of great price.

Jesus,

for every sheep and coin and child

called Lost,

may you pull us close and whisper,

“Found.”