Remember the game we used to play as kids?
The one where you attach strings to old cans,
Sending one friend on their way
Across the street, across the yard, across the house
In hopes you hear their voice through the tattered yarn,
The means to transmit your silly songs.
My prayers are like this childhood game lately.
God, up in the heavens somewhere,
With fraying prayers transmitting between us
Hoping they reach him, hoping they’re enough.
I wait to see if there is any response from the Recipient
Everything but my physical body I send,
But nothing comes back in the end.
I can’t even see Him holding the rusted container
Up to His ear waiting for my whimpers and cries
To draw near to His heart.
I guess the time and space between us is much too vast
Or perhaps
The rope that connects us is like the cord
Connected to the ankles of Old Testament priests.
It is being pulled quickly before the Priest can reach
The holy of holies, the place where
The presence of God dwelt.
Because of my sin, the priest pulled out.
Maybe, just maybe, that is why my prayers are not being answered
Not being heard,
Because the cord is being pulled
Dragging the priest along with it
Before He can reach the Father’s presence.
When I consider this poignant lie
Satan loves to tell,
I am reminded the veil has been torn
From tippy top to fringe on bottom.
I can now enter boldly before
My Father’s throne
Knowing He does Hear me.
Even if today it feels like
Wild, loose yarn between rusty cans
I know His voice will be quiet,
But He will wave that nail pierced hand
To let me know He got the message.
