I have no moment of peace
in this frail mind of mine.
every selfish plea
stumble by each other
like sleepwalking men on a moving bus.
I don’t deserve these gifts.
I know this even as I call out for more,
more to call my own.
Most of what I have is not for keeps.
I am entrusted with it.
I am borrowing it.
These gifts are another’s,
and still I don’t take care of them.
is how I fall short of the call
placed upon my life.
How can I take care of those around me
when my own heart is full of holes,
rotten and tired?
What good I do is not by my own effort.
It is grace,
flowing out over this groaning world.
If some should touch me
and be transferred to others,
if some should transform me
so I don’t always live out foolishly,
it would be far better
than my quavering, awkward speech and hand.
I have no moment of peace, save this,
like a inebriated man being carried home
by an always sober friend.
By Abigail Lueders | January 13, 2013