the thief

That she said I am. We listened to the song inside the small snug car, warm from the winter wind outside. The words forming on the pages of the melody describing what her monastic heart would borrow to say and lay it down before my eyes and ears. My heart shifted again tonight, in the music and the honesty of how these arrows hit the spot, without even trying.

I am humbled. To know that the thief who stole so many little christmas trees and petty dreams has landed himself on a soft canvas, fresh, waiting to be filled. These open arms and the grace of a God who knows how to give good gifts to His son. I am humbled. Into marvelous light I ran and now I find myself found on some of these things too wonderful to even describe.

The pieces all fall together, like snow gently collecting on the armor of the monastery guardian. The steps fill with hail and the ice is soft. Somehow, she sings, when she sings, everything is fine. A fire brews inside and a warm glow lights me up from head to heart. Thank you for singing this song to me.

You, sing me to sleep
Talk down my walls
Look through my windows as I wait
You could be the thief
I give the key to

You're ruining me
With secrets and gestures and looks
With sonnets from second-hand books
Playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play

Playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play

sleep tight, angel...