Rejection.
Its not just in my nightmares,
it is the substance of my nightmares.
I don't mean mere loneliness,
the absence of company.
I mean the presence
of cold stares.
The unwillingness
to understand me.
Feeling like
I'm not worthy
of even a shrug of their shoulders.
I'm not good enough.
I'm not cool enough.
I don't offer them enough.

Explosive anger
fills my dreams,
my nightmares,
so that it is not others
or their rejection,
at last,
which tortures me.
It is my own raging,
hopelessly confused,
wrath pouring forth,
but with no vent,
no receptacle,
no sponge
of human compassion.
The anger
of their willful,
social isolation
is the mad misery
of my sleep.

I am alone,
and no one knows me-
if only!
I am rejected,
because they know me.
And to some extent
their opinions are
entirely justified.
I have nothing to offer them
because I am wrapped
protectively
around my wounds.
So, I can't see
their wounds-
only their social daggers,
the threat of which,
I can conclude,
keep me,
and most of humanity,
in selfish defensiveness,
and unspoken
despair.

If I could only
let my wound
be healed
by Christ,
then I could gently
hold forth
His cooling balm
to them.
If only I saw
and felt
afresh
His most ultimate rejection
on the cross-
which He went to
for me-
then my joy and kindness
could reach to kings
and homeless
alike.
For He is the Great Physician of souls-
countless have confirmed.

I, even I,
could not reject
the promise
of such full acceptance,
and unbounded love
for me,
by Him:
and through me,
to those
who would crucify me-
and I them-
with selfish
rejection.

"He came to His own,
and those who were His own did not receive Him.
But as many as received Him,
to them He gave the right to become children of God,
even to those who believe in His name."
(John 1: 11-12)