half-made miracle

a poem about almost being there, having it, being it

it is so often that

I find myself thinking

of the thing I really need —

the one thing that might save me.



I think of it in disconnected ways,

in fleeting pieces of time,

here and there:

sometimes as I smile at my face in the mirror,

sometimes when I’m down on my knees, pleading;

in my head, when I can’t sleep from all the thoughts,

in the shower, when they flow in with the water, like harmony.



they’re scattered here and there —

and whatever God there is,

maybe He hears them in fragments, too,

because I’m always only getting a half thing.



the sky is never really clear enough

and the grass is a little greener there

and the right words come too late

and I’m greedy

and I’m never satisfied.



do I get angry with God, then?

I think I do,

but I hide it, I deny it,

because it can’t be like that,

because love shouldn’t burn this bitter,

because it isn’t holy.



“oh, why don’t you just give me a good thing?”

“oh, why don’t I just have it?”

“you’re showing me you’re doing the work,

but you’re only halfway there:

show up at my door the way you do for others, please”.



I never thought I’d be treating God like a servant

until He showed me what He can do;

until He almost did it all for me,

and that “almost” hurt me more than a “no”.



and though I mistreat Him sometimes,

though I get angry and cry out like a child,

it is still obvious

that I’m a hollow echo without Him;

that He has the power;

that He’s much bigger than me;



and I still ask, plead, pray,

get on my knees crying,

asking once,

just once,

for a thing not half-made,

for a blessing made whole,

for a miracle to come in and undo everything.



because I cannot —

no, I cannot —

do it on my own.



but maybe tomorrow,  

or the next prayer,  

He'll come the whole way,

and I’ll fix my attitude,

I’ll remember to trust the Love again,

and then, only then,

I’ll be ready to open the door.

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