I ask myself…
I ask myself, what if He doesn't like me?
I know.
I know.
It sounds like such a childish thing to say.
It’s the whine of a twelve-year-old girl,
stomping her foot,
because she’s been denied the sweet.
A tantrum in the face of the divine.
I hear it.
But I’m gonna say it.
I’m gonna say it anyway.

Because I feel it.
I feel it in the pit of my stomach
where hope used to live.
I feel it in the silence that follows every prayer.
He said,
He said, "Goodness and mercy shall follow me…"
All the days of my life.

But I’ve been running.
I’ve been running for so long, my legs are tired.
And the only thing that has followed me,
the only thing that has kept pace with my shadow,
is a triple-headed beast named Tears.
Pain.
And Suffering.

Is that the promise?
Is this the inheritance?
No.
No, I see them.
I see the ones who stand on the mountaintop.
Their testimonies are like thunder.
They are loud.
They are unshakeable.
They dance and they shout about His greatness.
And I sit here, in the valley of the shadow,
and I whisper,
"Why can't mine be that loud?"
"Why can't my voice be the one that shakes the room?"

Why do I have to be numbered among the hoping?
Among the crying?
Among the ones who hold onto a promise that feels like a ghost?
Why can't my story change?

He has so many promises for us…
He has a plan, they say.
A future, they say.
Yet…
I suffer.
Yet, I cry.

Now… now does He even like me?
Does He see me in the crowd?
Or am I just… a whisper?
Does His mercy follow me,
or is it always just one step behind?
I ask myself…

…I ask myself.