Barefoot, A Crack Pipe & LXII

She came to score,

back of the cemetery,

where no one watches,

where the dead don’t judge,

no shoes on her feet,

too sore,

too blistered to bother,

each step a sting,

but pain is familiar,

an old companion who never leaves.

Crack pipe in her pocket,

ache in her chest,

shame humming beneath her skin.

They call her names,

Junkie,

Slag,

Waste,

like labels could explain the ache,

like words could summarise a life unravelled.

But tonight,

the grave had something to say.

A stone,

leaning,

cracked,

but still standing,

and on it,

carved deep enough

to stop her in her tracks:

Isaiah LXII.

“You shall be called by a new name…”

She mutters,

half-prayer, half-scoff,

New name?

I’ve been branded plenty,

names that sting,

names that stick,

names I never got to choose.

But You,

You reckon You’ve got a different one?

Prove it.

She steps closer,

bare feet raw against gravel,

but she’s used to walking on hurt.

“You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord.”

A crown?

Are you bloody serious?

These hands have known dirt and deals,

this body’s been bartered for survival,

You want to hold this wreck in Your hand?

Don’t play me, God.

I’ve heard enough lies.

But the stone isn’t finished.

“No longer will they call you Forsaken.”

Forsaken,

that’s the one name that fits,

the one the care system stitched into her skin

when they took her kids,

the one that echoes

every time someone crosses the street.

She drops to her knees,

the crack pipe

slips from her grip,

clinks onto the grave,

as if even it has no more to say.

So here I am, God,

barefoot,

battered,

no mask left,

nothing tidy,

But if You’re still naming people,

if LXII wasn’t carved here by mistake,

then maybe this is day 62,

the day where names are rewritten,

the day where graves become pulpits,

the day where death dares to whisper life.

Because maybe,

this isn’t just a graveyard.

Perhaps she doesn’t wear shoes

because this ground,

this forgotten place of stone and score,

is holy.

Holy,

because it dares to believe

that life can be called forth from death,

that names can be rewritten,

that even here,

among tombstones and broken prayers,

a barefooted, battered woman

can be renamed

Beloved.

-Rev’d Jon Swales