She and You

Sometimes

Guilt is my closest neighbor.

She knocks at my door,

She stands stubborn on the threshold of my Home.

Chiding me,

"Abbey, you should *do* differently.

*[robotic, formulaic actions, disregarding emotion or desire]*

You should live ӿelsewhere.ӿ

ӿ[relocate to the overpopulated, busy City of Serving]ӿ

Your hunger and grief are your own fault."

So I am temporarily shy with You who live here in my Home.

Like, I am the Problem, it’s me.

I heed Guilt, she dines with me. I give her the queen with the crisp sheets in my spare room.

Until the tears choke,

Anguish floods my lungs.

Till the only way to keep breathing is to weep,

Guilt's presence suffocating me.

Then I have to run to You, I have to bring You the tears and the grief:

"Father? I don’t want to blame You,

Don’t want to kick and wrestle You,

You are not on trial,

I don’t want to question Your goodness.

I don’t even- so desperately- desire You to change my circumstances as I DESPERATELY CRAVE

For You to satisfy me, You Yourself.

Here.

Now."

Wet-faced, I spill off Your lap. You're moving purposefully towards the door. Your kind eyes, laconic, tell me You have a neighbor to shoo.

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"Confidently trust in God, even when you do not see what He is doing. Trust that God, with great compassion, gives you trials in proportion to the help that He wants to bring you. There is no doubt that the life of faith is the most penetrating of all deaths." -Francois Fenelon, The Benefit of Trials