Psalm for a ham sandwich God (Abridged vs)

Lord, where were You

when I was a child in so much pain? 

When the people I loved were the ones who hurt me?

Didn’t You see my heart break?

Told that You are my Father,

I am afraid. 

Half the bible says that You are angry, half that You are loving.

An angry God who loves - 

Just like my own father.

He was too often angry, sometimes not.

Love, anger, both random,

and sometimes even his love hurt.

I was told that my life is in Your hands.

So, when I was hiding knees to chest in a dim wardrobe,

dresses brushing my cheeks,

waiting for heavy steps, then the drag of huge hands on my limbs,

I got confused.

How much are You like my father? 

My life was in his hands,

I didn’t like the idea that it is also in Yours.

Some people said that You are like a mother.

Never worked for me.

I thought of my own mother and wondered,

did You turn away like she did? 

Did You pretend not to see me getting hurt? 

Did You wave ‘carry on’, a quick flick as You turned away?

Was it Your limp arm I dragged around myself

in my dreams, for the comfort I needed?

I wondered if You just didn’t want to help me

and how I could make You love me,

when I could not make anyone else. 

I wanted to say, “Remember me?

You are supposed to be on my side!”

Maybe You are a dove, I thought,

like the one that helped Jesus.

But I could only picture a dead bird

shot out of the sky.

I guess when you’ve been hurt so young

it can feel like You don’t exist.

I waited for You to give me good things out of the blue

because sometimes my father did. 

And then I waited for You to hurt me,

because sometimes my father did.

Other people are happy with Your gifts,

but I was afraid,

knowing sometimes fathers give gifts

and then they them take away  

in terrible ways,

just as I’m starting to enjoy them.

I never knew what was coming next. 

I figured You would act the same.

Because You are my father too.

So, where were You?

Smothered by my prayers?

Did you get sick of me crying?

Or of asking You to let me die?

I wondered too, all those years

why You didn’t make it stop sooner.

I was angry-sad.

Seemed like You were dragging Your feet,

just a glimpse of You every so often

like snowflakes,

when I needed a blizzard.   

Why take so long?

You know I looked for You, don’t You?

Too alone to not take a chance

that maybe You would help.

I liked the idea of You,

even though I was scared.

So, was it You who put the stars in my eyes when my head hit the wall?

Those few seconds of peaceful beauty,

which drowned out the shouting? 

I know You asked the boy on the bus to save that sweaty seat every day,

just for me.

I think You were there when I was locked out to sleep with the dog.

Remember?  You kept the snakes away,

and handed me an owl for company.

And, that ham and tomato sandwich at the top of the bin that day? 

I know You gave it to me.

You knew that I was hungry,

and You know the pick-it-up-in-20-seconds-and-it’s-still-good-to-eat rule.

I am grateful-glad. 

You were there.

You did not forget me.

Not totally.

But, what about now?

Now that I am finally broken in a disposable world?

Now that I’m not that cute child anymore,

but a broken adult with too many problems, no direction,

and so many failed dreams.

An adult so often in agony.

What do You feel when people get impatient as I cry

for no reason they can see,

or I get scared in a crowded room,

and friends stop inviting me out?

Do You see that I try so hard and fail so often

to reflect You, when my reflection does not fit in this world?

And what does it sound like to You when someone grinds their shoe

into the pile of broken glass that is me?

You, my creator, hear me, I am told.

I sing those songs about how great You are and how much You love me -

hard to sing because they’re hard to believe,

my head full of the memory of my own father.

I can’t explain it,

it needs to be lived to be understood.

I am still afraid of You, just as I was afraid of my father.

But, I am told that You really know me, know my thoughts,

and every need.

Please help.

So, where are you?

Is it You who makes me want to be nice, not nasty? 

I know You give me the fresh fruit I love,

and that sudden brief untangling of my traumatised head

where You tip music and nature things.

Bits of joy.

I think You asked that person to pass me a tin at Coles -

the one I couldn’t reach on the top shelf,

and maybe You are somewhere in ears open to hearing my tangled story,

the screech of a cockatoo, peeling bark,

and the forgiveness of those I disappoint

when I screw up and screw up and screw up.

You are in words which heal, not harm,

from those who believe, really believe, that I try my best.

It is You in those people who see me as worth something.

Not trash.

People who through their lives give me a better idea of who You are -

new pictures of You – kind,

not cruel.

People who remind me that perhaps You are not like my parents.

And You are in that gentle hand which holds mine even though it doesn’t have to.

These things sometimes Your answer to the prayer

of the unloved and overwhelmed.

You really are here.

Originally written July, 2019