My Father Sees

My father has incredible eyes.

He sees what I cannot see.
He sees inside me, inside my heart.
Finding treasures I have yet to discover,
or black secrets hidden purposely,
to which I’ve turned
a blind eye.

Nothing escapes Him.
He sees everything. 
Beginning to end, broad stroke and detail,
an artist knowing the masterpiece
while it is but a thought, a sketch.
I search His disarrayed palette
intently,
hoping for clues.

The palette does not seem much
with which to work.
Vibrant colors gone, tainted, blended,
turned to mud, smeared by complements.
I ask, “What can come of them?”
He continues to mix.
“Patience,” He whispers,
to all I ask.

Now and then, He allows a peek.
He turns the canvas, shares his vision.
For a moment, fleeting understanding approaches.
Ah, yes, sense to the mixing of colors.
The instance passes, turns back
to His eyes only.
I am myself again, bewildered
Safely trusting His ability.

He tells me one day
it will be finished.
I’ll grow up.
No longer fixated on the palette,
but the splendor of the canvas itself
I’ll see what he has been mixing.
I’ll rejoice
in His finished work.

Thoughts of Wavering

To think I waver in all of this.

A storm tossed wave
Seeking familiar shore, thinking it safe
To think I fear the clouds
When they thicken and quake, dark as soot
How quickly I forget
His blood-sworn promise

I cannot quiet my soul
I cannot cause myself to sleep
The earth shakes and I tremble
As if I were forsaken
As if I’ve never read
Never heard
Never felt
Him

I must remember my father is many things
A king, lord, master, creator
He presides over all
He will set straight was has been broken
Rescue what has been lost,
Restore what has been taken

Wild waters will again know their shoreline
Rampaging winds will calm to gentle breaths.
Season will submit to season
graciously
Each will know its place
The senseless will rhyme

And I will not waver.