Is this what You meant when You made me? When You formed me? When You planted the spark in my mother’s womb?
Is this what You meant before the universe burst to life, when You chose this exact moment of history to place me within?
Is this what You meant, for me to flourish inside a marriage I never wanted nor sought, for which You had to painfully rip away the scar tissue so I could fit into this wonder?
Is this what You meant, this endless ache of distance from family and dear ones, to give me a tiny glimpse of Your time far away from home and the familiar?
Is this what You meant when You made me? This bag of aging bones, couple pints of blood, under-utilized brain and often half-hearted attempts to live? This imperfect image of You constructed from specks of dust?
I want what You meant. All You meant. All the life. All the breath. All the blood. All the gasping for oxygen as we wind up and up and up, drawing every day nearer to that highest, long-sought summit. Until finally we reach the pinnacle of the fullness of You in me, and we stand and gaze in wonder.