Often I picture Your hands to be Shriveled up Arthritic Clenched and withholding Holding on tightly To all the things I want But will never receive. And I believe You to be stingy And dried up Hunched over Arms crossed Hoarding wholeness from my presence. I imagine Your hands To be like mine. Weary and brittle Inadequate and little. And so I pray small prayers to match The god I’ve invented for myself The god of un-abundance Who’s more like a reflection of me Than anything based in reality A god who cannot carry Or save Or rescue. This is the picture I have of You. But I look to…