I broke up with my first love.
Or, we grew apart.
It was a series of events that caused it to happen.
I had been ignoring him;
My eye being turned by other things.
Quicker and easier.
He’d known me since
I was first knit together in my mothers womb.
But that meant little to me.
I walked away.
I broke off contact.
I mean He kept calling
but I ignored the calls,
didn’t open the letters,
pretended I hadn’t heard.
But you know, it got lonely.
I sort of found myself wondering about Him.
What he was up to.
Whether he’d forgotten about me.
Whether I could dare to try again.
I found myself thumbing the pages
of an old book I’d had for years,
full of poetry and wisdom, and good news.
The odd word jumped out;
and it reminded me of him.
I found myself gazing out of the window,
with a half formed prayer passing by
on the wings of a bird;
and that reminded me of him too.
Hadn’t thought about Him for years,
thought I’d probably screwed it all up.
And yet, there, on the sound of the church bells
I heard my name.
And I turned back.
The distractions were suddenly vacuous
and my searching in the wrong places,
for the wrong things,
was causing more restlessness.
And I realised that
the drifting apart,
the thing that had broken us up
the real reason, the real sin,
was that I had turned my back on Him
and forgotten where home was.