Julie Wangombe perfoms her poem, "A Poetic Reintroduction to Africa", at TED Talent Search.

3.43

clock

Here I am, 3:43am, with the stirring sense that I’m settling back in my skin.

Filling away fitful feelings, chaotic.

Crawling back into the safe cocoon of contentment.

Writing off bad debts. Forgiveness.

Cleaning House. 

Stripping beds of dirty sheets of regret.

Stashing them in laundry bin with no immediate plans to use them again; taking out new linens tonight.

Blowing out bated breath; sucking in bloated belly of silence

Trying on old dreams, tentative, familiar, like worn jeans lodged away in wardrobe forgotten then found.

Making mistakes I was once too proud to think I could make: silly, senseless, foolish, reckless. Drive me to my knees.

Needing re-takes hologram etched on long reels of film purchased by Grace. Freely given.

Humming. Old school. The music of turn tables; turned tables, because this is my life:

Falling. Getting up again. Sick. 

Turning away from sin; sometimes in degrees so much less than desirable. Wishing for 180 and magic wands and miracles I already have;

savouring… every taste of the precious gift of repentance.

Here I am. 3.46.

Fighting fears: cutting throats off dragons of deceit and demons of death with the doubled-edged sword, of Truth. Did you know that breathing is a battle?

Feeling the warrior and the wretch.  Finding His strength in knowing that I am weak.

Confessing. Struggling for freedom from the tyranny of reputation; public perception. Why do I care so much what you think when really you are dust. Powerless. Your life sustained by the invisible thread of God’s pleasure.

Here I am. 3.48. Time still ticking 

With me

No longer so afraid I will run out of time. But, every minute, running out of time.

Or at least trying.

Turning eyes to a horizon unseen. Straddling: one foot in the grave; one, in eternity. Longing. 

Maranatha. 

Here I am. Forgetting. Remembering.

Discovering Redemption. Again.

Discovering love: not fickle, unfailing; not fluctuating, unwavering. The depths of unshakable, the heights of unassailable love. 

Here I am. 3.50.

A prisoner of hope, chained to the Truth.

No longer the heroine. Damsel in distress discovered by the most Gallant Grace

No longer looking for a hero among fallen men.

Story re-written and somehow unchanged. Bad decisions break but are circumscribed. 

No longer waiting for salvation. Just, waiting for salvation.

Finding Peace, Submission, Surrender.

Through groans and grief of heart; it comes, sometimes, reluctant in convulsions and shudders of  the heart. This “let your will be done”.

With me, Oh Lord. Here I am.

Losing self. In fleeting doses. Trying. Finding Life. Dying. 

Taking steps steady. Forward.

Starting, to seek you and somehow, strangely, finding me.

Here. I am.

3.60. Simply because times change. Every minute of the day. And still, so much is the same. 

Here I am again. Yes, probably still bent out of shape. Wanting, faint, to be malleable: clay that won’t break like stiff rock hardened in ovens of rebellion and dashed on shores of your concrete, immutable, will. 

Here I am, God…take me.

Here I am, please, break me.

Here I am.

Lord…save me.