My words aren’t enough right now. Scorching holy fire of the redemption message burns so deep that the sticks and circles incinerate before they can reach my fingertips.
I try to insulate them through re-entry.
Usher them through the fear-force of silence.
A child armed with question marks enters the launch zone before sentence two and I’m not sure what to do with the burning message.
The tightness in my shoulders is relieved when the words emerge but sticks, circles and punctuation from five year old people can become the letter of the law.
That law silences my soul from speaking life.
Nurtures the fear that there’s nothing more to say.
Coaxes the insecurities up from the dead.
The battle isn’t with my people.
There’s always another choice.
Always the option to crucify my desire to alleviate the pressure.
If my belief runs as deep as my incinerated desire for relief, grace for the young may be more essential than grace for the middle-aged.
I abort my own words and read aloud a story of animated animals and a Christmas tree. The hint of smoke is my own flesh.
There’s a time coming where the circle of smoldering letters will blaze bold and brazen.
Where grace will be for flesh that sears while words form.
But today’s grace is for bright colored bubbled words from another pen and for aching shoulders holding tight to belief.