On Gratitude

I don’t mean to be ungrateful.
 
At six, seven, eight,
you were
prophet,
priest,
king;
 
I told myself not to praise you.
 
I only knew you, I
unknowingly
worshipped
with my child heart.
 
You spent our time trying
to direct my eyes
to the cross.
I swear,
I thought I was looking.
 
At sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,
you were
refuge,
shield,
sword;
 
double-edged, your blade
dug into my flesh
into my bones
in the name of
Jesus,
 
without meaning to.
 
But there was love, love, love,
dripping from our hands.
We both gripped the sharp edge,
and it was painful,
and it was red,
and it was love.
 
You wanted the best
for me,
of me,
 
but it was hard to be you.
 
I promise,
I’m not ungrateful.
 
At twenty-two, you are
human,
human,
human;
 
like and unlike me.
 
The God I pray to
never should have been you.
 
(But you knew that.
You taught me that.
Only now, I am truly
listening.)