You comfort me and snuggle me at first,
your blessings like a warm embrace,
a womb of sorts,
assurance of your peace and consolation
in poverty and mourning,
in hunger and powerlessness.
And then you stand me up
and put a hand on my back,
expecting purity of heart,
still hungering for justice.
And you usher me out the door
to be merciful among the unmerciful,
a peacemaker amidst violence,
knowing it gets worse,
accepting persecution.
This is what it is, this birthing,
to do justice, love mercy
and walk humbly with you,
out of the softness into the street,
all the while trusting you
and thanking you for your blessing,
your blessing,
your blessing.