Psalm 139
as spoken-word Poetry
by Carol Brorsen
O, Inescapable God, you have searched me and known me.
You see into the core of me.
Past the walls I've built to keep others from really knowing me,
past the facades that I have it all together.
Even past the rubble of the walls built and not-so-long-ago torn down that
once kept you at a safe distance, just in case you really were the bully
some make you out to be.
You know when I take a nap on the couch in the middle of the afternoon,
when I hit the snooze button three times in a row,
all the fantasies I do not share,
all the dreams I dare not dream, because they might not come true,
and then how many rivers would I have to cry.
But when I do cry, alone in my bed, alone in the shower,
alone and longing to be held,
sitting in the pews knowing my real place is behind the altar,
standing outside the church pounding on its doors, you are there.
With a hand on my shoulder, crying with me.
Your presence is all around.
Reaching back through my past and stretching into my future.
You have always been, and you have always been with me.
When I try to grasp you, figure you out, cling onto you, I cannot.
But when I wait in the silence, I realize that you have me.
You embrace me.
Where can I get away from you?
If I leave the church, throw up my hands and turn my back
on the whole lot of organized religion,
I still see glimpses of you in the night sky, I feel you in the thunderstorm,
and those old Sunday School songs just won't get out of my head.
If I turn from my true self, you are there, with a mirror.
If I move to the other coast or another continent, even there you show up.
If I say, "The world is too much, surely no one will notice if I throw the
covers over my head and stay hidden in the darkness for awhile."
There you are, in the voice of my friend on the answering machine,
in the knock and note left by my neighbor wondering if I'm okay.
For it was you who formed my every part. You who measured my hormone
levels, linked my chromosomes, knit me together in my mother's womb. Some
days I'm your work of art, some days a real piece of work,
but always your works are wonderful.
And so I praise you, for I am fabulously and wonderfully made.