You assured me You made up the walls and beams of the last home we called our own.
And all I saw were generic coverings and low end finishes and clearly not enough room for my big dreams of children and animals and belongings...
I wanted more.
You said I’d have a baby boy and we would wrap him up our own and bring him home.
And I saw “first child”, and then aimed for the American standard, heard sounds and saw silhouettes and dreamed of more to come...
I wanted four.
You moved us here. You picked us up from what we had and placed us in a place we couldn’t get, and You have seen us through. You gave this to us.
And it’s a dream. Not one I had. It's the kind I never dared to have.
And now I know. I don’t need the space. Don’t need the things. Don’t need the more. The multiple children. The gourmet kitchen.
I just need You. The man and boy You gave me. The pug the trees the fires.
And was that the point?
I can think of a hundred good reasons You might have us here. But as for our needs?
How can I serve You best right here, right now?
If You want us to move, You will move us. I know.
Just move us.
But until then, what can I do? How can I serve You? How can this not be about my hurt and empty and lonely sad? How can it not be about where he's heading, and how safe I stay, and what we deserve?
How can this be about You. And what You want of me?
I don’t want to watch it tonight. The shows. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to waste. Away.
Feel like I might be wasting me with You.
I hear You whispering something on the breeze, something beckoning, I can’t make of what.
I heard You call me to this place of burning wood. Where things are cold but have a promise sealed to heat right up.
And I don’t know if it is here or someplace else we'll see those days,
but all this more just makes me want less. Less this. Less me. More You. Just more You.