Who are You?
How do you see?
and what can be written
to equal the sum of our years?
and where is the timeline
that keeps the imprint of my footsteps? 
Did you see 3 days ago
when I sat in that hospital room
and said out loud that I was angry at You? 
and that Your promises do nothing to
address the reality of our ache, but are the definition of
brokenness themselves
Or do You prefer the memories of when 
I shrugged the worn wineskin off my back
and smiled
and turned my face to the sun
and felt you filling every limb with 
the blood of heaven
pulsing too quick through my narrow veins
Or do You still see me when I was too young
to get myself into anything
that could not be fixed with an orange pop and maybe
some superglue, when doubt hung on the hangers
that only adults could reach
But I am an adult now, they say
And I am not supposed to believe this way
Or do you have something else in mind?
Am I in your mind 40 years from now
When the spotted skin of my hands, loose, shows some sort
of wisdom in its cracks?
A wisdom that will finally override the fear of my selfishness  
Then with white linen
Will I have proven myself to be true?
Is it just the culmination of days that
lends us our pardon? and rolling of years
that affords us maturity? is the gift of
our staying here to labour through the night
simply, age?
Or does age just offer us a longer time to 
build up our libraries, facts 
and erroneous volumes of notions
of You
But what do you do with a girl
Who feels You so deeply but cannot see you
I feel You so deeply, 
Your talons dug into my flesh at birth
and my skin has already grown over Your grip
But where are You in those whom I love?
And how can love mean anything when mine
doesn’t reach far enough?
Did it reach far enough, when I was 10 and still able
to make my dad happy?
Will it reach far enough when I don’t know anyone I know now
and when I can do things on my own 
and feel a little less dependent  
But will You still get all the credit? 
How do You see? Really?
I mean do You see us like lilies their beauty 
precious because they’re fleeting
Do You see us like warriors, our battle wounds
something like your own?
Do You see us like waves, reliant on the next one
and following obediently the orders of the moon?
Do You see us like children, clear eyed and smoothed skin
not worn by life and inherently always worthy of someone’s
affection?
Do You see us like a clear day? Or like the switch in a violent
mans rage?
Are we real to You? Or characters in Your story?
Are we good to You? Or burdens to Your glory?
I meant what I said when I said I didn’t think You were true.
But thats no fault of Yours, the trueness I’m seeing through
Is just a fiction of my own
The joy I was told, was confused for satisfaction
The peace I was told, was confused for knowledge
The love I was told, was confused for control
It was none of these.  
So You are not falling apart, my Love
But my stories are.
So You have not lied to me, my Heart
But my formulas have
So You are not untrue, my King
But our interpretations are
And You are not distant, my Strength
But my ideas are getting to be
Your arm is not to short nor your eyes to weak,
my own however, may be. 
And You are not unjust
But my conception of how I can make You make me happy
was.
So to You, Your will, not mine
be done
And who am I to say you didn’t make my life 
the right way?
And who am I to believe, that the created can see farther
know beyond
and tell precisely
the Creator how to carve His art
(for I have never held a gouge in my hand)
or the Sailor how to set His sail
(for I have not been a day at sea)
What colour to choose for sky, 
(if I have yet to see one.)
Or what Love should look and feel like,
when all I’ve thought of love
was actually 
a pursuit of gluttony
So to You, Your will, not mine
be done…

(c) Stephanie Diaz-Schumm

              “…All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth.” Hebrews 11:13

Song: Moksha by Caspian