My Deliverer – Moshia’


My Deliverer – Moshia’

Languishing in the same
Pattern of behavior
Since my history began.

Locked in a world of my
Own design and making
Unable to stop.

Grasping since as far back
As my memories reach
To a place of dark isolation.

No one to bring comfort.
No one to soothe fears.
No one to provide basic needs.

Sitting in my own filth
For hours on end.
No one cares. No one bothers.

Learning not to cry out
For fear of retaliation.
It’s better to be alone, far better.

Meeting my own need
In my own way, any way I can
Be it right, be it wrong.

Taking what is seen as justified
And fair – what is due me,
What I deem as rightfully mine.

Keeping a careful tally on
Everything withheld, taken,
Stolen from beyond my reach.

Making sure it is reclaimed
Another way, another time
Exactly what’s due – nothing lacking.

Taking care of me my whole
Life through – young and old.
Unable to stop, doomed to repeat.

Why? Why can’t I stop!
I long to quit! I cry out for it!
Show me! Lead me! Guide me!

I can’t do this anymore.
I don’t want to continue.
I am weary of taking care of me.

It is hurting my children.
It is hurting my husband.
It is hurting me.

You promise Grace to the humble.
Strength to the weary.
Forgiveness to the broken.

Grace has been extended but
A miracle is needed.
Not a simple fix.

Expose the deep root that
Feeds and demands more and more.
Grant clear vision and awareness.

I am looking. I am seeking.
I am fasting those areas.
I am waiting for You – Moshia’.

My Deliverer – Moshia’
You make all things sufficient.
You provide freedom from distress.

You are the only One Who can
Bring the deliverance I require.
There is none other. Moshia’.

~ Laurie Pontious-Andrews


About unabashedhope

The name Unabashed Hope comes from my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson. Unabashed means not embarrassed, disconcerted or ashamed. I believe Emily's poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers, says it best: Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

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