On Your Knees

    On your knees, you cry.
    In a corner of your basement. In the dim lighting that's somehow gloomier than pure darkness. The tears are silent, but we all know sometimes silence is a louder scream than shaking sobs. Your prayers babble what your tongue will not.
    On your knees, you collapse and wait for a bit. Wait. And wait and wait.
    On your knees, you crawl toward the door and almost enjoy bruising your hands.
    On your knees, you grapple for the door and wonder wouldn't it be better to stay locked inside, wouldn't it serve you right, but you push the door open anyways and so light assaults your face.

    On your knees, you beg.
    To whomever has the power to change this. There's nothing else you can do, and you freaking hate feeling helpless!
    So you plead, shouting, tearing, hands clasped. Help! Don't just hide up there, flipping help!
    In that moment, your soul know very well this can't be all there is, because this cannot happen.
    But what if it does? What if - ?
    Help us!

    On your knees, you sit.
    Your hands are clasped, eyes closed, head bowed low. You repeat the Lord's prayer and praise God above. You say everything you're supposed to say to be good. You list out everyone and every situation you know. Then you pray for the whole world, not out of laziness but out of actual desire.
    And you walk out of the room, all secretive, knowing no one knows how good you just were except Jesus, and won't He be darn proud of you.
    But a day does come when you refuse to pray, and maybe, somehow, that is your first open prayer.

    On your knees you haven't been in years.
    You worry you won't ever be again. But there's something about the quiet, dusky sky, the gentle swaying of evergreens, the glimmer of a moon above.
    Thanks for the sky, you think. The words just fly out. Naturally.
    The graceful air slides in your lungs. Yes, graceful.
    Knees, oh no, they're not for you. But you did just thank God for the sky...
    Maybe deliverance is in the thanks, and it's for you, too.

    Oh, when freedom comes. Stunted. With words that feel false, because you're no longer sure you're capable of sincerity. But the words come out, and oh, oh then, freedom is planted.
    On your knees.