it should be enough.

Jesus is mine and all is well, but I want

And sway by the swaying wants of men.

Love is mine and truth is real, but I feel

Less comfortable than before.

Song and story are mine, but true glory

Is not weighty and I think the beauty is me.

Goodness is mine and my hands are full, but I

Grasp the wind and must still learn

That no one else will do.

Here, the heart knows unsettledness: Place evades my certainty

And friends marry friends while I still long for that.

Another tomorrow came, and I have been carried by

Another will, but it all seemed so statically silent

Instead of brilliant with the news of my dreams come true.

Grace, astonish again

When I lean again to feel that it is not

Enough.

saturday's coffeehouse.

Most often, it’s my favorite. Early for the prime corner, I plan to drink my fill of the evening;

But this time’s not the same, from the start.

Customary paper-covered tables for crayon scrawling;

But something about a pencil and journal page is (oddly) more appealing.

3-per-table tea lights, someone’s floor lamp - the glow is sweet;

But the performers up there are almost buried in their shadows.

Good song - Sufjan is a genius of a man. And I had no idea you were such a beast at that instrument.

But most talent doesn’t dazzle. Do they think they are singing in unison right now?

I ask a friend why her face is heavy;

But the crowd’s din is deafening, so she draws a schoolgirl’s hearts and initials to say she misses someone.

Time for coffee, if I can get to it;

But it’s watered-down or something. I drink it anyway, the donut might have helped.

Eye contact with deep eyes across a black-diamond-level maze of tables, chairs, and oblivious others;

But he probably wasn’t even looking at me. Psh… silly me. Of course not.

Time to sit and listen again - or try;

But the instruments are too loud and I just want the busy room to hush. Even a murmur would be nice.

Someone’s announcing a trivia question for a prize –

But either no one’s listening, or no one keeps track of celebrity baby names anymore.

So many pretty people in trendy clothes. I especially like the rolled-up plaid look,

But that’s all of the boys tonight. Just one big blur of flannelled men.

I finger my new beaded bracelet with the silver tree clasp. After 22 years, Daddy’s still my Valentine.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for another one. Some days more than others.

Attempted conversation. I laugh a lot, of course.

But it might not be real this time. I just can’t make my life sound interesting enough.

A new arrival picks up the burnt orange Crayola; will this be another friendly doodle contest?

But his face speaks a more serious intent.

I glance down, and see curiously written amidst the table’s sad, scribbled mess:

CHRIST WAS BROKEN FOR YOU.

Next to the most beautifully most Emptied and Alone on a tree.

Strangely stunned, I am drawn beyond the noisy place to the Truth on the next morning’s table.

The image of true fullness lingers as I leave,

Running to drink deeper.