The assurance of grace

Is like an old letter

kept by itself in the small

drawer of a bedside table,

full of hope and promises,

with love at the bottom

underlined twice.

Certainties seem so far

away, I want to turn on

my GPS for directions

to the city of God. At every

crossroads, a soothing

feminine voice telling me

“here” or “recalibrating.”

Instead, I get wonder

and mystery, the boozy

boon companions of

“I haven’t got a clue.”

Not psalms or ecstasy

but my own halting 

voice rending air.