Like Lot's Wife

I wonder her name,
if Lot called it out as he felt
her start to pull away.
Or did he just let her turn,
Another reminder he could be rid of?

Quiet voices tell me to leave it all at
The Cross.
Just lay it there, at the feet of Jesus.
They never know
how to keep from picking it back up.
Again.
Again.
Until the path to His feet is tear-stained and threadbare
and you wish He would just let you forget.

It is the price of forgiveness.
Having to remember.
Just as the price of faith is
having no neon sign.

Over my shoulder I see it.
The Sodom of my making.
Beneath the shadow of His outstretched hands.
Knowing he will make it whole,
if I can leave it long enough.