A brief hello...goodbye

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That's it.

Literature

It's amazing to me how something could be in method a masterpiece but in conclusion completely erroneous.

to make sense of nonsense is nonsensical

So I haven't blogged in a while. My 5 faithful followers have ceased to be faithful because of my lack of blogging and now I roam the blogosphere, alone. Alone, alone. All alone. But I guess it's not a bad place to be considering I can have run on sentences and make sentences that are weird such as: When is the extravaganza at the sea port with the gnomes and chickens? Henry is nonsensical and his skin is incandescent and the monsters under his bed like the smell of the fungus cream he applies to his feet every night at 9:22pm.

See?

But I guess the point of blogging is to have my words hit the eyes and minds of my reader. So I will cease to talk about
toe jam and gnomes and will eventually write something with a few good sentences in there.

Just not today.

Nope. Not today.

I burst through the water and gasp in the air around me. My breath shudders as water droplets drip from my hair and slip past my arms. My body is cold and I can't control an involuntary shiver. I wrap my arms around myself to collect some warmth. And although my body is freezing and my teeth are chattering my heart is so warm I feel as if it's going to burst right through my chest. I feel as if at any moment my chilled body will be consumed with the heat from my heart. I will be warmed from the inside out and the heat that suffuses my heart, my soul, will consme me utterly and completely. I am happy; soul-stirringly, jump for joy, tears of happiness, happy.

Before I stepped in the water I had stripped down to nothing, feeling embarrased, feeling as if I should cover myself up. But now with the trees looming above me and the sunlight peeking through their dense leaves I realized that that was the only way I could have gone to Him. Naked. Completely naked. It seemed right, somehow.

I had placed a clean set of clothing on top of a log and I put it on. After, I built a fire and placed my old set of clothes in it. I layed my pallet on the ground and rested on it. The stars winked at me and I sighed contendly. Up there, past the stars and the clouds, past the planets and their moons was my home. My real, true home. But the King of that Kingdom was closer still. He wasn't millions of miles away, was in fact much closer. So close that I felt His voice reverbarate within me and comfort me. I felt His touch and His calming presence. So this is what it meant to be born again? To feel clean, content, and yes, even righteous.

I am a new creation, I thought. I felt my mouth widen to a smile, from ear to ear in sudden joy, Oh the possibilites!

It wasn't until the next morning when I was washing my face did I remember to look at my hands. I dropped my hands slowly from my face and hesitantly, fearfully, I looked at them. They were clean. I sobbed with joy and relief.

Just yesterday, before my baptism, they had been stained red. I had almost peeled my skin off in my desperation to remove the stain, the evidence, of the murder I had committed. They had been stained all the weeks and all the months I languished in my depression and self-hate. But now, as if by magic, they were clean. I bore no evidence of my crime. But I knew it had not been magic, it hadn't even been a miracle. It had been love. Love, which had erased the proof of my sin and the guilt of my conscious. Love, as it were, had set me free.

And so now my Father's name is synoymous with Love. They are one in the same. And His son Yeshua, whom I murdered, I feel His love even now as I pen this. I feel it wash over me, wave upon wave. His acceptance of me, His need of me, humbles me to my core. I was once a lost sheep but my Sheperd recovered me. He rejoiced in finding me. I was once lost but now am found.

Clasped hands and solid feet.

I have a confession to make. One that shames me and sadden's me. For the past six months the Father and I haven't exactly been on the best terms. Well, He's always been right there, I'm the one whose taken one or two or 50,000 steps in the wrong direction, which is any direction not directly attached to Him.

My heart aches for the time I've wasted in my grumbling and anger and laziness. For the past couple of months my heart, my body, and my mind have felt like they've been in a big plastic bag. At first the bag is roomy and isn't really that stifling but each day I spent away from the Father the bag would close in on me. Each day it grew tighter and tighter until finally I reached the point where I was suffocating because I wasn't abiding in the Father.

So what did I do? I reached for His hand, His beautiful hand. And He pulled me from my miry pit and set my feet on solid ground. I can breathe again. And the relief of it is indescribeable.

I imagine that in my walk with God I will go through more dark times. Times where I don't feel like working things out, times where I'm angry at God and think I know best. But I am heartened and ecstatic that my Father, the King of the Universe, takes the time to knock on the door of my heart every day. Today, today, and today I'm letting Him in.

...

"...the material, the story is there: it exists. You find it; you mine it out; you carry it up in buckets or in teaspoons, lay it out upon the table, push around the potsherds, ponder where they fit; fragments of gold leaf, bone, corroded flesh, the rim of a cup in buff grey or brilliant green, a knot of hair and faded threads, or on exquisite glass vessel entire . . . There is a story here, but it is up to the writer to make it whole."

— Ursula le Guin

. . .

I can't wrap my head around feeling both needed and irrevelant. It's odd.