My church does an incredible thing. Every Sunday, people go up in a time of offertory and present their stories. There are songs, poems, and testimonies... all gifts. This Sunday, I got to present a new poem. It's still raw, but today I needed to share this raw verse because I have become raw. The world is slowly peeling me, layer by layer.. this is what I shared:
My name is Katy Comber and I worship through the coordination of letters. Most of the time, I take this gift of language and dump it out like a toddler with a bowl of alphabet soup until I am completely covered with thoughts and ideas. Only after I have achieved this chaos do I feel allowed to put them in order.
Lately, my stories and poems have been digging, prying, focusing, and highlighting flawed humanity in conjunction with God’s intricately designed perfection that we as imperfect beings feel the constant desire to question and know. The poem I have prepared today is in response of a recent quote, “The world has not changed, there are just more cameras." I’ve considered this and all the responsibility and heartache that comes with this limited omniscience. I've thought about how I have responded lately and out this poem came--part confession, part-plea, followed by a charge to truly see…
Turn up the Bass
By Katy Comber
Turn up the bass.
Let it thrum.
Let it rattle our souls awake
as you, we, i pray for comprehension.
Headlines: spear, dig; numb
an intellectual shot of novocaine
as we gather, this is our world
these lives seem like fragments
while others seem like run-ons
but i am not Your editor.
i am out of tears
but my fears keep
adding
up, up, up
You, Dear Lord,
promise love so pure
there is no room for anxiety
yet i turn up the volume
to jolt myself back into living
in this broken planet-sized waiting room
where those made in the image of You
do not always act in Your image
they are, we are, i am
rough drafts of your vision
walking, breathing outlines
of immaculate art;
revised, refined, re-tuned,
every second of the day
by the consumate Artist.
Once published,
Your masterpieces
will make the heavens
weep and sing with joy
But. Until then...
i will see You
i will see You in the pieces
i will see You in the rough drafts
i will see You in this movement of bodies
delightfully and delicately designed
and i will feel You in this bassline pulse
in synch with my heart that beats
one by one, precisely measured,
for its opus.
