A poem for evangelists


If you could read between the lines of my job description you will glimpse that I bring healing balm to the bruised and battered. Sounds gregarious, yet this in turn brings heart ache and pain.


If you could count the sighs and the longings the ‘if only they would/could receive what I have’ you would get way past the tens and hundreds.


If you could measure the yearnings for kingdom come, stripes that heal, troubled minds to dance to a different beat, then a bucket simply will not do.


If you could stay and watch frustrated tears fall when the up tumbles down, when the joy turns to mourning when the certainty of faith wallows in quicksand of why’s and why not’s- then you would need a while.


If you could see the private place pleas to the One who pours hope behind shut doors. Then you would get bored hanging around as a fly on the wall hearing repeated prayers and aching and for the sake of this world, cries of please do the impossible, please do the needable, be drenchable.


If you could see…

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