Rehab Waiting Room, A Reflection

I sit in the corner of a room I could belong.

It's tight in here, just like my chest.

Inside is suffocated by the stench of depravity;

men suck and they know it to be true of themselves, at least enough to say, "Help."

Outside is deceived by the aroma of pleasure and pride;

men suck and they think it to be true only of others, if they're honest with themselves.

I like it inside.

"Admittance is the first step to recovery...," they say.

There wobbles a toddler in the middle of the room,

insecure of her footing

and ever so confident in her two-toothed smile,

bringing light to the room.

Her name is Majesty, of course.

"Be safe out there"--the proper words for departure here--

were proclaimed as her parents fled the room with her,

ill-prepared to admit.

"... but we're not ready," they replied.

What will it take?

The voice of the Lord, full of majesty, I believe.

"This wouldn't have happened without you," says the front desk attendant to me.

I don't believe that.

Something much greater than I is happening in this space of chains.

"I'm ready...," the waiting room choir sings,

and they don't even know what for.

I know the thing much greater than I. It is the Lord.

"Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners," He says.

His call is loud in a room of sinners acutely aware of their need for saving from themselves.

He is breaking chains,

working out salvation in this very room.

...I only drove my neighbor here.