December in Maracaibo

That night, the slate black sky was sprinkled with starch white pins

as if God were shouting

“LOOK AT ME.”

But I was too busy watching fireworks half veiled behind

the shivering branches of some South American tree of which I 

do not even know the name.

 

Life is often like this:

Trading reality for artificiality.

 

I want to paint his promises on my walls, across the ceiling, carving them into the floor so that I cannot even fully open my eyes without him first opening them to the truth;

so that I cannot walk without his word as the foundation beneath my feet.

 

But glory to You because you, you’ve already written them in my heart-- 

They are mine, Lord. These promises are mine. 

You have dug them in deep

And they are ours, Lord. 

These promises are ours. 

And I don’t need a sky writer scripting ever-shifting-smoke in the air 

when it disappears like that. 

Because right here is your word. Your never-changing word. And your never-changing word    screams     the truth.