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9:04 a.m. - 2005-09-04
God and me Rant
There is a recurrent space in which only God and I commune. The intimacy born of desperation which He, in humility and grace, bends to receive. The beggar offering crumbs to the Lord of Life, who swells with parental pride and wondrous gratitude. The mystery we are not to unravel this side of eternity. The Servant, tenderest of Masters, exceedingly pleased with our childish trinkets. And so I flourished like a tree planted by the rivers of water. My days were filled with sudden tears of remembrance that He would call me friend. Tuna on sesame buns. Judge Judy. The ordinary infused with heaven's own Light. Daily I rose in anticipation of the unfolding truth that never failed to set me free. The palpable quickening within. Gobbling manna and Ruffles, I scribbled instructions intended only for me, illegible save for the speed of love. Bits and phrases flying from the page, casual words stinging the heart with joy, the awful balm of solitude. The unbearable buoyancy of forgiveness. I returned to work rejuvenated. Where had I vacationed, they wanted to know. And how could I tell them I had charted my course from the uttermost depths of the earth to the heaven's newest song, brilliant and fair? His ways are not our ways. There is a point at which language fails and what is found in the eyes is all that matters. The unspoken reverence, so easily seen in the broken souls I counsel, so hard to discern in the walking well. It is an expanse I traverse, but not easily. Reluctantly I straddle the line that keeps me a stranger to both. The profound wound of small talk with the family who love me contrasted with the baring of a soul confined to a room the size of a confessional, insisting on redemption. Trusting, hope against hope, all rational evidence to the contrary. Choosing to believe what can be known only by intuition and a common grief called the "fifty minute hour". I am paid to plumb ancient shipwrecks for signs of life. To retrieve treasures long abandoned, reconciling them to a world in which they hold no intrinsic value. Scouting the depths for the meaning that will liberate the trembling child from his shadowy captor. Himself. Like the primitive sin eater, I carve my place within the tribe, allowing myself, as well, the meaning I crave to continue. It is a circle of unexpected blessings. An exchange of divine assignments, sacred in their unconsciousness. The right hand oblivious to the workings of the left. As it was in the beginning. The reciprocity that renders us His. And so my luminous days spilled into blissful nights, angels keeping charge. What calls us from such a peace? What voice disturbs the slumber of the innocent? What could possibly dare to beckon when nothing is broken, nothing missing? The ennui of the well fed soul? The pride of life? The longing to scratch where there is no itch? The snake? It is not good for man to be alone, I reasoned. And there in my path, as if by divination, was a good man. The travesty of someone who would love me more than I was capable of loving myself. The unblemished lamb to be offered on the tarnished altar of my unnamed insecurities. Like Stephan, he had the face of an angel. His name was John.

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