All my thanks for this half finished room,
for the way the white plaster jars my gaze
as it sits so ill at ease against the beige.
All my thanks for this season of unfinished paint jobs,
and smelly laundry that stays in the hamper.
All my thanks for this weak body that will not do my bidding.
I cannot celebrate any golden achievements,
but I can celebrate Your voice.
“Look. Do you see?” You say,
And I see all the holes I have papered over,
old wounds that I did not bring to You,
still ragged, unwashed, and stinging.
All my thanks for these memories that I need not keep
covered up with happy posters and pithy phrases.
As plaster fills the holes so does Your love
bind up all wounds, new and old.
The white won’t stay white,
And no one can keep me in the beige,
Never, never, never.
Together, we bring the ocean to my room,
closing in on islands of sandy sadness,
long beaches of brittle loneliness
until all that remains is the blue calm of Your love.
All my thanks for Your help with the plaster.
All my thanks for Your wounds that heal.