The Passionate Poet

When I want to tuck myself away, I could meet you behind my hanging clothes and dusty shoes in my closet, sitting on the floor with my knees up to my chest.  If I close my eyes I bet I could feel the branches and olive leaves that might’ve once brushed past your arms and face in the garden…

Or maybe I’ll find you downstairs under the green, Spanish moss tree pictures that hang above my couch, their long twisting branches on the wall stretching out behind us.  Maybe those South Carolina trees would also be like the olive tree branches that once stretched out over your head in the garden, as well.

Or what about in the upstairs living room?  I could meet you beneath my white, decorative lights that grace my big picture window.  Could their twinkle remind you of gazing up into the expanse of an Israeli night sky?

I’d pour out my heart to you there, sometimes tears running down my cheeks, just like I’m sure they did on yours in the Garden of Gethsemane. 

And that only makes me feel closer to you, Jesus because you’ve experienced life and so you understand it.

You understand me.

And just like you spent time with your father in that garden time-and-time-again, I will spend time with you anywhere in my prayer closet

In this—

“My Mount of Olives.”