Belong

Sometimes it seems as if I have nowhere to belong —
a stranger, far from home.
A jill of all trades looking for her sweet spot —
for something or someone to tell her who she is.
A master of none — who have I become?

For how can I be a writer if I do not write,
a teacher if I do not teach, a minister
if I do not minister.

Perhaps I am nothing and no one,
for as a mother, my tears are not revered.
I fear I fail to be seen or to see, for my babies
are growing up, pushing away.
I am just the one giving them the need for therapy
when all these parenting days are done.

I am a wife, a daughter, a sister —
complexities in simple words to be sure.

I am partially known —
too exposed and yet hidden and unseen,
a paradox.

I come from deep desire —
so much desire unfulfilled.
from sleepless nights, endless tears, and a
worn-out droopy eye.

I come from trying so hard
and never fitting anywhere anyway.
I come from faith in dreams
to wondering if dreams are mere illusion.
I come from dark and light
and the long road in between.

I am me, a person, tis hard.

Sometimes it seems I have nowhere to belong —
a stranger, far from home.

I am a sojourner passing through.

But while I stay I’ll look for
the sweet in moments sour.

My Maker, He says I belong.
I may never find security
in things and persons as I traverse here.

He is My Beloved and I am His.

My family, the world not my home,
full of misfits, oddballs, and strangers same.
Together we are one.

Jesus, dying for my sin, He gave
a person and place to call Home.

Reformed, I am from being fully known, fully loved,
from dry bones restored.
Under His wings I dwell,
He collects my tears and renames all the fears.

Though my purpose is a mystery still —
I am from before the foundations of the earth.

I am weak; He is strong.
I am sheep; He the shepherd.
He the Lion leading me…

In the places I do not belong
where insecurity tries to hold me
captive, I am not alone.

He sets me free, calls me the name
I don’t yet know.

He made me in all my weird ways,
gave me all the hard things to carry and hold.

Who would I be to tell my Maker
He formed me wrong?

I am clay He shapes every day.
His hands hold me, mold me, and break me.

His Love carries me Home,
In Him, I belong.