beneath the dirt

Impatience tugs at my spirit, and I don’t know if it’s aimed at myself or at Him.

I’m never doing enough or creating enough or moving quickly enough, and why am I living in this limbo? Why don’t I know where I’ll land?

I’m a child thrusting seeds in the dirt only to dig them back up again, clutching them in my muddy palm as I run back to His feet. “Why aren’t they blooming?” I beg, showing Him the seeds as though He didn’t set them in my hand. As if He didn’t send the rain that turned the dirt to mud underneath my fingernails.

But He reaches out and curls my fingers into fists, tightening what He’s always urging me to loosen. Guiding me back to my knees to push the seeds beneath the dirt once more.

And when the rain comes again, it washes over me, through my hair and down my back, dirt running down my fingertips and leaving me bare. The skin is tender and red and the words I’ve tattooed across my body day after day are gone now.

I look to Him and a smile tugs at His lips. He points to the ground where a single sprout pokes up from the dirt I’ve dug up and packed down again day after day.

And when He smiles, it’s not filled with the “I-told-you-so” that I deserve. It’s just a smile.
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#writtentospeak writing prompts: Blooming | Patience | Rain