What does it mean, now, for me to show up?
Is it me, my body,
clean, clothed, and correct,
a physical form occupying space?
Saying yes, smiling, sorting through small talk
while inside my heart races?
My body wants to get out;
my gut writhes in turmoil.
I can’t stand this space.
Tired of being told more, more, more;
you are not enough,
and neither are your offerings.
When my husband wept, I wept.
While others applauded,
my weeping continued.
Did you hear him? Do you see him?
Are you so blind? Are you so fearful?
Why does no one else weep?
I weep,
I tremble.
I do not feel safe in this sanctuary
no longer a sanctuary for me,
but a prison.
Lord Jesus, turn over the tables.
This cannot be.
Set my heart free to worship again
like the caged bird that sings—
Help me sing in the darkness
in spite of my chains.
