Finish Me

I hope you know what it feels
like to have God pick up every
teacup and plate on your table—
precious china molded and selected
by your hands—and smash it
onto the ground. Peace, growth, 

work, I’m told will happen if I
open myself up to destruction—
to a table void and flat—and God
sitting at the head like a prince,
no other visitors or chattering
guests to distract me from the 

battlefield. Simplify what you
want: only your creator should
own your heart. He is jealous
of what you value, and he will
kill it. “Pain,” Paul says, will
“produce a turning,” if I let 

it. Of course I didn’t. God is
doing all of this on his own—
no permission, no consent,
just triumph and tragedy.
Don’t you ever feel sorry for
yourself? Don’t you ever view

your knives and spoons as
valuable? I wish I knew when
he’d eaten his fill of me
and offer me his flesh. I know
he loves me fiercely and that
emptiness is the biggest cup

to fill with his blood and ripped
skin—yes, I know of, I’ve heard of
his torture, of God not listening
to his own son. He hears me, but
right now he is working; I must
let him finish me.