Here I Am

Here I Am
The glory of the natural world
holds a devotion
deeper than any text
can aspire.
Nothing speaks to me more these days
than the tender petal
the reddening comb of chick
the feel of my own breath expanding in my chest
widening me.
“Here I am, Lord, send me.”
holds a new meaning
not an obedient submission
trembling
but an inner strength
emerging
space-taking and secure.
Here. I. Am.
In this body
in this time
in this place.
Here.
After a lifetime of wondering if
“there”
was where I was meant to be
I discover here is the only place
I can and want to be
Send me, deeper still
here.

I wrote this poem near the new year, taking space to reflect and listen to the Spirit and to myself. It had been a while since I had journaled, and I didn’t know where to start. Often, playing with poetry helps me get the ball rolling, and sure enough, it did. What tumbled out was an ache to simply just be.

I have wrestled with this invitation from Isaiah 6, when Isaiah hears God calling and responds, “Here I am, Lord, send me.” Passages like these are often interpreted through a theology of self-emptying, of “less of me, more of you, God.” I’m increasingly uneasy with this interpretation. I understand the sentiment—yes, there are things within us that we need to release. But too often, especially for women, the call to surrender self goes far beyond what I believe God is actually asking.

What if God’s call is not for us to erase ourselves, but to fully embody our whole, unique personhood? What if the invitation is not to diminish, but to inhabit ourselves more completely?

To say Here I am is not to disappear, but to stand in the fullness of who I was created to be. And it is in this fullness—this wholeness—that I open myself to the divine flow moving through me. The act of being present, of grounding myself in my body, in my life, in my identity, is what allows God’s presence to move through me most freely.

The poem traces a transformation—from trembling obedience to a secure, space-taking strength. Here I am is no longer a reluctant surrender but a bold declaration. It is a claiming of body, time, and place, a shift from seeking meaning there to recognizing that here is the only place I can truly be. The phrase send me no longer calls me away but draws me deeper into this moment, this embodiment, this existence.

Calling is often thought of as a journey outward, but what if it is just as much about settling inward? What if being sent is about going deeper into presence, into intentional living, into here? The poem invites a reframing of Isaiah 6:8—not as a departure, but as an arrival. An invitation to take up space, to own my existence, and to know that this, too, is a holy offering.

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