The Big House

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Master told me there is a
place for me in the Big House.
He said I was welcome
anytime.
As the skeptical sun creeps
into the stubborn night, I sit on
the porch of my little shack
and wonder what he meant
by that.
Was he teasing me with hopes
that could be pulled away
just to disappoint?
Was he baiting me into
overstepping my place
so he could wound me
with the whip?

I look up at the Big House,
ablaze with dazzling light and
vibrating with elegant music.
Though I feel its call,
I dim with denial.
Look at me, how could I knock
on the great door–
me, with bare feet and clothes
worn to the threads?
Would Master greet me with a
smile and a welcoming hand?
Would the guests nod approval
and a smart servant pass a glass?

As a gloved hand closes the drapes
on the windows at the Big House,
a fog descends to veil my view.
I lean back in my creaking chair
and settle my feet up on the rail.
I light my pipe and hum an old tune.
It’s cozy here…
My dog sleeps at my feet.

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God calls us to Bliss, yet we tarry– in part because we feel unworthy of His invitation, or we feel existential doubt, or we fear judgement, or we are just doing fine right here.

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