I'd Never Say.

I'm not often mad at You.

And if I was, I'd never say.

It's a misunderstanding, I'm sure. Mystery for certain.

I keep living between these four close walls. There are curtains that sway by the window. A vintage kettle by the chest of tea. Notes hung on this board of memories; pictures, too. And the clock hanging on the wall always seems to say the same time.

You whisper is undeniable. And this time I bristle at its familiarity.

If I was mad, I would never say.

This road is really hard, You know. Oh, right. You say You do. And I don't want to go down it. You keep saying things about leading and guiding and blessing and growing and moving and future. But I'm not sure I know what those words means anymore.

If I was mad, I would never say.

Confession is abrupt and inconvenient. It's hard to look at this pit of despair and see You there, too. Oh, yes, I did hear You. You asked me to look. Remember how I said I didn't want to?

If I was mad, I would never say.

What do You want from me? These tears? Yes, I know. You are my home. You are the only place I can call by that name.

If I was mad …

What would You say? The cliche lines of being a good Christian and waiting on You have worn out their use.

I just might be mad.

Come close?