A Prayer for Words

Poetry Collection No. 7, includes Worry Says and Decluttering While Pregnant with My Third Baby.

Hey friend,

This is my seventh collection of poetry. The themes for this month are worry, fear, pride, and dependence on the One who made us all.

Thank you so much for reading. I am struck with gratitude every month that you open these poems and let them into your inbox and heart.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash.

Decluttering while pregnant with my third baby

I don’t need burned tea towels. I don’t need expired medicine. I don’t need a bashed up bassinet. I don’t need yellowed baby clothes. I don’t need to say, “No, thank you,” to your offer of help. I don’t need to say, “I’m doing okay,” when I’m not.

I don’t need my pride, my self-sufficiency,

chuck it in the bin with everything else. 

Worry says, 

“This is too hard, you can’t cope,

it’s too much, why don’t you take 

problems from tomorrow? 

Those problems are easier.”

So I unfurl schedules I don’t have yet 

money I haven’t earned 

sit down and worry 

at the tangled yarn of choices, 

but pulling at one piece 

makes the other more stuck. 

I lay my tangle at His feet, 

say, “it’s too messed up. 

I don’t know what to do. 

What am I doing with my life?

Show me which threads

to loosen, which ones to let be.”

And then, I have to wait. 

Trust him, the object 

of my faith, and not

my good choices.

It’s the same faith that saves

children, sex offenders, 

people with dementia. 

It’s 

    mercy 

           all 

               the 

                    way 

                        down

and

    I 

       hate 

           giving 

               up

                  control. 

A Prayer for Words 

Lord, I’m scared I’ve run out of poetry.

What if words no longer come?

What if I look at your sun, and words 

don’t topple out my heart in worship? 

What if I see your moon winding through 

the stars and cannot alphabetise my awe? 

What if I gaze upon your ocean, stand in 

the swirling sea, but words do not swirl in me?

What if I watch small chests you fashioned,

rising and falling, and do not praise you in psalm?

The sun blazes, the moon glows, waves 

crash, and children sleep all to your glory. 

Give me words, O Lord, that I may

give them back to you.

Give me words, O Lord, that I may

glorify thee. 

Amen. 

I’ll be back in your inbox next fortnight with an essay about perfectionism, rage-quitting, and the slow bloody persistence of learning a skill.

You can read previous poetry collections here:  

I Feel Most Alone in Sterile Supermarkets | A Cloud Prescription | Nice Girls Don’t Get Angry | more