That’s how they named the color of paint that adorns a pastors office
These walls, this air, holds it all
Pain, hurt, desolation,
but also the shrill and fresh cries of newborn life
They don’t really warn you, how much it will be
And they never told you that you’re stronger than you thought
You can carry it, most of the time
Not because of the ivory tower in which learned to divine
But because of the divine presence in the shitstorms, foxholes, and hospital beds
Is there anything as holy and blessed as this life?
One in which I get let into the deepest darkest nights and encounter the luminous warmth of resurrection flame?
Bruised cheeks, emptied bank accounts, hungover mornings, unknown loves, grieved dreams of family lost, assaulted and all left out in the dark alone-
These are the stories of these walls.
I’m not sure how but they are me.
I am the paint that hears, absorbs, and loves
God grant me the strength to see it all as sacred and holy.
Let me love more than I thought I could.
Though I’m always a little bit sad,