Nostalgia
Nostalgia buffs his imagery and paints his glowing hills, but I have searched those memories, and found their harsher, deeper freeze and felt the aching chill.
He whispers in my ear once more, of sunny seas and preteen friends, but I have lived another score, and seen the waves that crushed the shore, have felt alone then, in the winds.
Nostalgia thinks me blinded, so he hands me rosy panes, and asks me what I think I know of all those years so long ago; can I now only see hurt-stains?
And this the looming question ever clutching at my mind if memory heeds suggestion, if pain and sharp rejection, blunt trauma of aggression, threw my heart into rejection of each glad moment, each expression of my Father’s love, what flesh and blood could rend me, drive secession from His gracious gift, accession
to His calm, safe place where only grace recalls His hand to save.