Sunday: the poem

In a fit of pain, I wrote this poem.  The last year as my faith has grown and evolved and the presence of real, life friendships has been lacking I came to depend more and more on online side-groups that discussed religious topics.  I don't regret the choice because I think it helped me grow, but it caused me a different kind of pain and cognitive dissonance.  And in the end strengthened my view that real life religious communities are good for us.  So here it is:

Sunday  by Bobi Jensen

I have nowhere to go on a Sunday,
The leaves of judgement have turned brown.
In the places of refuge I stumble,
It's all the same Scarlet Letter
    when viewed from the dirt of the ground.

There is nowhere to go on a Sunday
When faces are all you call home.
Faces that go from sympathy and understanding
to the cruel garish face of a clown.

Oh where would I go on a Sunday,
If all of the world had my back?
Would I go to a place I am calm or
the place where the sinners wear a crown?

I sold my soul for a place to have Sunday.
In the rearview it seems so pathetic.
That one day crushed my dreams
     and one day made me whole
     and one day wasn't quite what it seemed.

When I save myself it'll be on a Sunday.
I'll turn my back on belief that is vain.
I'll say no to the prickly pear reasons
to play the "Please love me" game.

I'll go where I'm needed to give.
Where my kids find that they need to grow.
Where they see from my ashes their roots take a hold,
and where "faces" aren't all you call home.

Oh God, please redeem those past Sundays.
I'm ready to find my way forward.
Wash me clean in the blood of my own demise
and let the clear water flow through to hold.

I don't think my life is just Sundays,
it's the cool wash of Saturday too.
It's the songs and the rides and the
sleep of weeknights,
And a routine love that holds True.