The Misfit

A prayer of thanksgiving.

Lord,

Only You know how many times

I have uttered in my soul,

"Why have you made me thus?"

I have rarely felt at home

With anyone or any group

I have ever been part of.

My family, my friends, my peers

Have often whispered about the oddness

That envelops me.

I am never "enough" of any one trait or affiliation

To satisfy others.

Neither Caucasian nor Hispanic.

Neither Catholic nor Protestant.

Neither Democrat nor Republican.

Neither Liberal nor Conservative

Neither a citizen nor an alien.

Someone who often felt like a boy

Trapped in female form,

A floating consciousness more at home in books

Than in her own flesh.

A mind awash with love, wonder and awe,

Yet burdened with the Spirit of Heaviness.

I am an old soul in a young body,

A white collar worker with blue collar tastes.

Unutterably sensitive, yet proven resilient.

Full of compassion, yet critical of the follies of humanity,

With the heart of a poet,

And the steeliness of a life-hardened warrior.

A stumbling sinner who cannot extend

Forgiveness to herself

With the same ease she does to others.

Lord,
I am a mystery to myself.

Why have you made me thus?

The answer flows through me

Before the cry has finished

Escaping my lips

"Would a box or a label satisfy you?

Would you appreciate others' vantage points better

If yours was more narrow?

I have made you thus

To do My Work:

To mourn with those who mourn,

And laugh with those who laugh.

To be hot and cold,

Strong and weak,

Angry and forgiving,

Frustrated and patient,

Cruel and compassionate,

Whoever I need you to be

In every circumstance I place you.

Because you claim no allegiance,

No allegiance can claim you,

And you are free to do My Will

As I dictate to you."

"But Lord," I counter,

"There's nowhere I belong."

"My child," He whispers,

"You are exactly where you belong...

With Me."