My boss… I mean my conscience 
Gave me a mission to accomplish.
I walked down from my small hut. 
I was not alone, my friends were with me:
My unsatisfied desires, my hopes, my future …
We walked for sixteen years and some months. 

My feet were bleeding from the thorns in the way.
My hands were bound by culture,
My face red from hard-slap beatings,
My ears tired of hearing “you are pagan.”

Finally, we arrived at God’s home.
We were so surprised!
Yes, God was poorer than all of us.
He sat alone on a small throne made of nothing.
His door was unguarded—
He was not a scary king.
I began to love him.

Now, he is my God, not my owner.
I am his creature, not his servant.
There was no religion that could help me.

By Fatima S.

Photo: Kristin Ohlson