Rest

Praying for a child to nap,
to surrender to rest,
I asked God if I could go there,
to that far away place
of rest,
to the Island of Misfit toys
where all our weaknesses
are merely part of who we are
where we are accepted
and loved
not for our ability
or appearance
which wane and fade and falter
but for something
deeper
something true
and real
something only discovered
when at rest.

Our true self.
Good and pure
untainted
unlabeled
unashamed
and whole.

I want to believe
like a child in Christmas
in fairy tails
but I don't know if I ever did
maybe I only wished it was true
maybe the child with in me
knew
It was out there
somewhere
the good
the pure
the acceptance
the holy
God.
My Maker.
My Defender
and that place
of rest.

I think I may have played there
as a child
when I was alone.
Like something
or Someone
pulled me away
and said:
"Come to me."

Battles ragged around me
and sometimes I heard:
"She's Mine!"
He kept me
even then
knowing one day
I'd be free.

I wonder. Still. Now.
Am I free?
He's still doing this work,
this freeing me.
He set me free, alright
and for freedom sake,
yet,
I manage to yoke myself again
as a slave
to sin.
So He is still
calling me,
still pulling me away
to that place
of freedom,
that place
of rest.

I see it when I close my eyes:
battles fought and won,
we stand on the battle field
with ragged flag
waving in the wind.
A stillness covers the land
scattered foes lay slain
all around,
pride,
envy,
hatred,
and bitterness,
lie in a heap,
no longer able to rule me.

And I rest.
And I'm free.
And the sun shines down.
And I know God's favor.
And I rest.

c Kim Damon 2013