I am broken. I am imperfect. I am not enough.
I want so desperately to be a part of this community.
I yearn to live in solidarity, to glimpse the true life
But I cannot walk in their shoes without taking off my own.
I cannot fill my heart with the joys and sorrows of this world
Without first being emptied
Of the preconceptions, expectations, and need to control.
And it is the emptying that is leaving me weary.
Because at the end of the day I am who I was raised to be
And no amount of effort or yearning
or pull-up-myself-by-my-bootstraps determination will change that.
I'm not even sure I really want to change that.
And yet every single moment holds the potential
Not to utterly transform
But to mold
The soft clay of my identity
If I only choose to remain open.
No, I don't even have the strength to make that decision on my own.
If only I fall—over and over and over
Into the grace that sees this dusty clay
And the clay of every human life
And says that it is good.
Not good enough
But simply and forever and undeservingly and gracefully good.