a poem

I’m convinced God strategically puts people in front of us so we can see ourselves better.
Like mirrors.

Perhaps we pick, poke, and prod at the flaws in the people in front of us because we see our deepest imperfections.
Our stomachs turn, noses pinched, faces scrunched up at their hideous defects.
We point at that fracture we can’t take our eyes off of.

It’s bothersome.
And if I could just… get that speck, it would finally satisfy something in me that is relentless.

Insatiable.
Voracious.

The urgency to pick, pull—
at a flaw I see in someone else,
not realizing it’s woven into me too.

It doesn’t end.
Like a string on your favorite sweater—
once you start pulling,
it just keeps going,
and going,
and going.

And if I’m not careful,
I’ll unravel them trying to fix what I don’t understand.
Not realizing I don’t have the tools to sew them back together again.

I meant to help—
but I’ve only done more harm than good.

Now I need the One who heals to mend what I’ve mishandled—
the stitches I tore
when I tried to play surgeon
without surrender.

I render an apology,
but that’s not enough

because you’re bleeding,
and I’m not equipped to fix this mess I started.

Hard-headed and hard-hearted,
looking silly in my lack of love.

I’ve seen two ways men handle seeing an ugly reflection under the sun.
It’s an atrocity.
It’s vanity altogether—chasing the wind,
Call it running from your own shadow.

Either we cut with words sharp enough to shatter—
makeshift scalpel and scissors,
incisions God didn’t call us to make—
or we run.

We run
from mirror to mirror,
because we continue to attract what’s inside.

Terrified,
now life looks like an escape room.
Reflections of me everywhere,
and I just can’t seem to get past this test.
I keep ending up in this mess.

Maybe if I let the Master Surgeon cut this out of me,
my life will look better.
And so will the reflection I see in others.

Let me get back on the operation table.

During my last procedure, I asked to get up—
and in His grace, He allowed it.

So I got up, undone.
Shrouded the broken me in pride.

It’s never been so easy to hide.
Cover up.
Conceal.

Masks.
More masks.
More smiles.
More “God is good anyhow.”
More “All the times.”

More warfare prayers—
rebuking Satan
when God’s pointing at what’s inside.

Bitterness, resentment, pride, rejection

A laundy list of oppression that i keep concealed. 

He’s Yearning for me to reveal the real so he can extract and  heal.

Then I can finally like what I see—
in the mirror,
in my reflections,
in others.