Deeper in Bark

Jehovah—

Sometimes I feel as though my heart

was stitched too tightly with wind and water,

like I was sewn from the edge of things—

riverbanks, cliff sides, the liminal places

where most pass through,

but few dare to settle.

I reach not out of longing alone,

but because I hear the unheard,

feel the quiet tension in the roots beneath others’ feet.

When someone trembles,

my bones echo their rhythm.

When someone falls silent,

my spirit gathers wood

and builds a fire just in case they come near.

But lately—

lately it feels like every fire I light

burns without witness.

Like I’ve left offerings in an orchard

where no one walks.

Is that what You’ve asked of me?

To scatter warmth without waiting for footprints?

To speak not so I’ll be answered,

but because somewhere in the unseen,

a soul I’ll never know

needed the echo of that prayer

to keep breathing?

Still, I wonder—

am I pushing against something sacred

when I keep extending my branches

into a sky that doesn’t shift?

Have I mistaken Your silence

for permission to pour out

what was meant to remain folded?

I’m not angry, Jehovah.

I am quiet.

Like an evergreen just after snowfall,

holding more weight than it seems,

yet not bending in protest—

just asking, with ancient patience,

if it is time to release what it carries.

You know how I was formed—

not just from dust,

but from dust that listens.

I do not seek to be enough for everyone.

I seek to be Yours.

And sometimes that means

being misunderstood by the ones I’d gladly bleed for.

So please—

teach me the difference between sacred reaching

and self-erasure.

Help me be a refuge

without dissolving into mist.

Let my compassion be the kind

that still knows how to close the gate

when wolves come with soft voices.

If I am not the one they wait for—

whoever "they" may be—

let me not turn bitter like scorched cedar.

Let me become deeper in bark,

more fragrant in unseen places,

so that even my absence

leaves behind something healing.

Let me remember that

just because someone does not drink from the stream

does not mean the stream did not flow beautifully,

faithfully,

from the mountain You made.

And if what I feel

is simply that truth washing against rock—

that I was never meant to be chosen by every traveler—

then help me be still.

Help me continue anyway.

Because I am not just reaching for answers.

I am reaching for You.

For the peace that comes

from knowing the forest sings even when no one listens.

That lilies bloom unseen.

That You, Jehovah,

notice every petal that falls

and every word I speak—

even when spoken only to You.

With all that I am,

and all that I am still learning to be,

Your daughter,

leaf-laced, storm-bent, unhidden