“What has been your scariest occasion?” He asks,
eyes flint and spark.
“When I thought I lost my soul.”
It felt like that. I couldn’t find my heart inside.
It was like I went all dark.
I fell into hopelessness and cycles of unrest,
trying to further distance from myself,
bury deep my desires and loves.

“That’s it?” He asks with a ryeness.
I know I’m not getting off easy.
“No. You terrify me most.”
My throat stops wind.
My heart pours forward.
I lean into it.
“I don’t think people actually lose faith—because it seems improbable.
Faith is terrifying.
It’s horrific at times to hold space like that inside
when all of reality as far as I can see
tells me to never believe in anything like love or magic,
human goodness, responsibilities.
My experiences tell me to give up constantly.”

He smiles. “Yes?”
I feel Him in my mouth, drawing my heart out.
“But it’s that Divine twist, isn’t it?
You also show me there are these things I worry don’t exist.
It’s heaven and hell, supporting a livewire of trust
that bends, breaks down, rebuilds stronger,
or inspires another.
The dark births miracles.
It’s all infinity curves and blood.”

The campfire crackles, smoke rises like soul in baptism.
“I’ll tell you what really scares me. Possibility.
That open expanse can feel like I’m not safe in it.
How can I be? It’s too wide, varied, and mysterious—maybe sinister.
I know it well. I’ve even enslaved myself
to feel contained and give my limits an expression,
my pain an avenue to live.
To make it fair that I exist.”

“Did I ask of you to be concerned with the politics of fair?
Did I cloak you in pain, or pull you through it to Me,
closer like you asked Me to?
Did I sinister the woods or call you out from them?
Dress in truth. That’s what I want from you.”

My eyes fill with sapphire longing.
We were supposed to tell ghost stories,
and He’s pointed out I was a ghost once—
and that is both the miracle of now
and the tragedy before He.