Voices

Voices

The stranger’s voice is one I recognize,

That butter smooth voice of the father of lies

That sounds just like truth

But ends in a hiss

Of electric animation from the core of me out to my fingertips.

Oh, yes, I recognize it.

All too easily I bow and cower before its authority.

That voice is loud with self defense.

It translates yesterday’s peace and worth

Seamlessly into its own language:

A pidgin of coarse confusion and pettiness

Cross-bred with the loftiness of false clarity and arrogance.

It makes perfect sense in the middle of its grip

Where it tickles my lips with its coolness

And then burns its way down to where my appetite lies in wait,

Purring for attention

Before leaping at the bait.

The stranger’s voice isn’t strange to me.

I know too well the way

It strokes first and gets my attention seeking

Eyes and ears, making sense

A suffocating scramble

That condemns and overwhelms.

It lures me before it trashes me.

It thrashes through the garden

Where so recently

I blossomed under the gaze of my maker.

It warms before it scorches.

It nurtures as it sows and waters seeds of weeds in rows

Neatly labeled in a scrawling scribble:

Envy. Anger. Fear. Confusion.

Hopelessness. Loneliness. Worthlessness. Work.

Proud vanity.

Pointless vanity.

The weeds spring up in a breathtaking instant,

As the sprinkles swell into a storm.

That Jesus is crazy, the voice shrieks.

There is no peace for the likes of you.

I just realized I’m supposed to run away

From that voice I’m not supposed to recognize

With anything other than the refusal to give it credence.

But it seems I’ve let myself get rooted here with the weeds

Craving the acid rain,

And I can’t run.

Ah, but I can hide.

I am a tiny kingdom seed

Cupped carefully in the hand of the gardener.

I am grafted to a vine,

A vein pulsing with abundant life.

I am the one sheep carried home over the shoulders of the shepherd.

I am close enough to his face for the steady breath of his words

To reach my ear when I remember to listen.

His voice rarely rises above a whisper,

Yet it resonates like thunder,

Silencing the voice of the stranger,

Blanketing the thorns with a truth balm,

A shower:

Steady. Safe. Still. Calm.

Hope. Belonging. Value. Gifts.

Willing humility.

Conviction. Capability.

The voice of truth waters my roots

In the palm of his hand where my name is carved in stone.

It washes my wool white as snow.

It floods my senses and stills my striving.

It feeds my hunger and cools my tongue.

It smooths my tangles and straightens my path.

It transcends my understanding.

The voice of truth speaks my second language:

The word pronounced before time began.

I do know it well,

And I can listen.

--erinrmsocha 5-5-2020