Sometimes God Doesn’t Just Manifest Himself as a White-Bearded Guy in a Robe Bowling During Thunderstorms

Church Hill – no where else, God only above;
His warm arms hold me, His right hand leads me –
into peace and security and satisfaction and joy.
The personification and perfection of what is meant by
Home, what is meant by security, meant by hope, sustenance.
I feel His hands on my heart, my life, my strife,
His warm arms surround every part of me.

But does the child have that?

In the Big Easy now the Big Difficult,
Can the arms of mama make the world a better place?
Will the waters recede at her touch? Only that
Which flows from his eyes can, will she brush away
With gentle tender arms, to
Soothe her sobbing son’s visage: blood-
Shot eyes peering from the black around.
Hunger pains. Hunger for Home, Security, Hope, Food.

Where are the arms of God there
that hold me so close and dear on my Church Hill of Calvary?

The arms of God are there in fact,

with dark, bruised skin,
a single shirt,
mud-caked legs,
tear-stained eyes,
and pain-shod memories.

He is there.

In fact, in a more real way than on that Hill of Church;
He is in every kiss of nappy head and ashy skin.
Indeed, both on Church Hill and in those waters,

there are truly just one set of footprints this day . . .

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