I Wish I Could Blame

I Wish I Could Blame

(“My friends, God has made us these promises. So we should stay away from everything that keeps our bodies and spirits from being clean. We should honor God and try to be completely like him.” 2 Corinthians 7:1)

I would rather be battered by the Holy Spirit’s wings than
massaged into oblivion by a stranger’s strong hands. When
tight and twisted within, thoughts rebound so often they seem
multiplied, beginning with one or some and leaving me full of them.

I wish I could blame my enemies; the ones that murmured so often
behind my back they started a fire in the alley where they met to discuss
the continuing saga of their disgust of me. We all saw the smoke-signal,
the tower of gray rising west of main street above old two-story buildings;
the kind where the owner lives upstairs and sells his wares down.

I wish I could blame authorities who handcuffed me with letters signed
from the tiny minds who, after meeting, put it all to a vote, and sent it
to the Controller. They donned their pretty disguises, (helpful words,
integral wigs, and the monotone of those who hide anger and abhorrence),
and led us in their jury room, asking our intentions. “Where are you going
next?” they squeezed the words like butter. “Let us know, and we will help
you there.”

Just days later the phone rang four times in a day; one place we were going
(we made other plans); another (oops, we found a man under the table) and
3 and 4 (we’ve closed the door we said was completely open). And so,
the disguised dignitaries cut off every road we might take to rediscover
hope. I believe there exists a file with 20 or 30 letters loving us,
yet there effect was the same as spitting into a hurricane.

I wish I could blame the dishonesty, the policies, that left me hanging,
and placed me in momentary darkness in hopes I could die with
no one mourning.

And if enemies or dignitaries ever read this in its entirety, they would miss
its meaning entirely. I am black, they are white and why would the failure whine
over the actions of the godly and fine.

I wish I could blame, but Christ will not let me. I wish I could document
these headaches, started after the final blow and unending. I wish I could
make them see their policy is a deathblow and far from helpful.

I wish I could blame, but the Father calls me to healing. (He does not need
to convince me of my wrong, long, long, long moments are full and complete
of marksmanship so panicked the target is clean.)

In spite of the promises, (disguises), in spite of the offers ($10/hour),
in spite of the book with two endings (old statements in new places),
I know now the pleasure of the Father. I am gray as ash, never white,
and write to speak, and speak to scream, and scream to be heard,
and heard to be noticed, and noticed to be understood, and understood
to be human

Again.

And so, by the perfect promises never withdrawn by the Holy God,
Three-in-One, I cannot blame, but purify my name for the glory of

the Father who showered me clean before I knew it.