The Thorn in the Quiet

Jehovah,

I do not speak this aloud,

but you hear me anyway—

in the rustle of the dry corn husks,

in the way my footsteps falter at the edge of still water.

Why do you ask me to wait?

And why, though I try to obey,

does my spirit pace like a wild mare

longing for something it cannot name?

Is it them, Jehovah?

Do they turn away from the deep because I carry it?

Is it my voice, too full of feeling—too soaked in meaning—

that frightens the stillness from their branches?

Or are they simply not ready

to look into the pool and see what I already see?

I do not blame them—

but I ache for the why.

Some days I ask if I am the one

who leans too far into connection.

If maybe I’m just chasing smoke

and calling it cedar.

If I’ve mistaken a shadow for a shelter.

Still, there is something sacred in the distance,

like the space between drumbeats

or the hollow in a flute that lets the song through.

I confess this to you:

I have pressed too hard.

Pressed my hope into your soil,

not asking if the season was right.

Not asking if this seed was even mine to tend.

Why do I push against your silence, Jehovah?

Why must I always be the one

to touch the forbidden bark

just to feel the texture of truth?

I am not Eve, but I understand her.

Not because I wish to rule,

but because I wish to know.

To uncover meaning before its appointed time.

To lift the veil, even if only for a moment.

You made me with a curious mind,

a spirit that follows tracks through fog

and listens to the hum beneath all things.

But obedience?

Obedience is a quieter trail,

where the answers are not shouted,

but whispered through pine needles

and left beneath smooth stones.

I know that love is not possession.

I know that knowing is not always safe.

But still—still—my hands reach.

So I ask again, softly this time:

Is this waiting for their sake,

or is it for mine?

Do you wish to stretch my stillness

so I can become someone

who does not break when connection bends?

Do you need to loosen my grip

until I learn to hold without holding on?

You are the Master of Time,

the One who weaves purpose into every pause.

I will trust your weaving.

Even when the thread cuts through my patience.

Even when the dye does not take right away.

Let me be clay again.

Let me return to the earth’s rhythm.

Let me set my questions

like offerings on a bed of moss.

I do not ask you to change the story—

only to help me live it

with open hands

and a quiet heart.

I am yours, still.

Even in my wondering.

Even in my waiting.

Even when the fire and fog share the same breath.

—Your daughter of trembling roots and listening skies