By Peyton Garland

Soft, hopeful yellow walls welcome not-so-crooked
picture frames, while yoga mats rest in the corner and dog-eared books
Drape every side table. It’s a place where pen, paper, and a professional’s kind
Eyes promise that though all is not well, all can be well in a perfection-driven mind
Like mine. In a space where thoughts swell and a vicious
Game of pinball explodes through my legs—relentless.

I came to this mind, body, spirit game after third quarter,
With a ticking clock, sand funneling, time not in my favor.
While it seems everyone else communes with God in all the ways,
I’m near sure coming here is a serene, yet cruel betrayal.

If I was so good at being so good for a good Father,
Shouldn’t my calloused, cracked grip on life look better?

Nay, I’ve neglected the teammates on the court and fans packing stands,
The coach, the cheerleaders, the ticket collector, and janitors.
Much like those first twelve whom Christ entrusted to develop community,
I must trust that screaming, “I can’t anymore!” isn’t a therapy just for me.
It’s not failure, not the end, not a pile of unpromising rubble.
Rather, it’s a God-given freedom to open up, in the hardest ways, to another.

Perhaps God doesn’t send billowing smoke clouds, words on open,
High-ceilinged walls to heal a brain, a heart, a body.

Maybe the enchanting
Thing about such a mystical, yet solid faith is that healing comes where we
Want it least.

Where we let failure, grace, and an unexpected place see
Who we are—but not leave us as we are. May healing and truth find me amidst
Discomfort and unsteadiness, and may helping others be part of the mend.