Provision

The words that echoed through Abraham still beat a rhythm

--faintly--

across my spine.

Jehovah-jireh.

The Lord will provide.

Ears whisper of the mockery though,

and eyes grow sticky with disbelief.

See only the present.

See but the now.

Forgetful crowdings of the soul that haunt and question

--lead me unfaithful

--lead me unsure.

They wrestle with the here and now
vs.
the future.

And shadows of past that cut deep.

I want to push, to plead-- to help?

Oh, let me help!

(I know I know I know)

And the beatings of my soul thump on.

I know so much better than he.

His answer feels patronizing-- nothing is needed.

He wants only faith, and that I cannot give.

Soiled rags clutched tight (by gnawed-on-nails)

And though he tries to pull them off,

promising better, freer, newer—

I cannot let go.

I cannot fully, wholly, completely trust.

Because if he fails, I am naked.

The fear that seeps into my thoughts taste like salty longing on my tongue, melancholy and distant.

Guilt licks at my wounds.

How can I doubt?

How can I question and wonder and curse and demand and plea

as if he has not provided before.

I wonder at the soul

and if it knows

the depth of its ignorance,

the span of its pride.

And I step out. I step out with tounge-biting fear.

Jehovah-jireh.

I beg you.

Provide.