The moment I realized that I'm not that guy, that I'm not a cultural rebel or a critically-acclaimed anything or even a person that knows what the hell he's going to do next year or even tomorrow. That silence does terrify me and that the flimsy whims I build of straw always fall down.
That I can sing but that I am afraid to share it - I don't like the way my mouth looks. That when I want to break and shatter and take on weight I am treated lightly - I don't like the way my name sounds. That try as I might I am myself through and through - I don't like the way that that isn't enough.
I am enough. Because He is enough. I don't like the way that that sounds trite; but i like the way that that is true.
Tuesday, April 24
Monday, April 16
People, People, People
It's been a long time. No one is reading this.
This is beginning to remind me of having a Xanga back in the high school days.
But today was an exceptionally beautiful morning. If you've never understood the concept of chiaroscuro then the sunrise this morning would have defined it for you. I walked out onto my stoop to a sky-full of row upon row of painfully light-etched clouds floating aft of a warm bursting of young light from a sun faintly warming the unseasonal and delicious coolness of the dawn.
It was so beautiful I was almost angry. Angry that so many wouldn't notice it. Angry that something God has made so wonderful would just roll on and fade away and millions would and will always give it nary a glance, nor Him nary a thought. Some were starving and too hungry to look up and some were in too much pain. Some were too alone and some were too stoned. Some were already at work and some were sleepily getting off of it. Someone somewhere was dying on a bed with a feeble view, peering through aluminum blinds at the new day and cursing their failing body for keeping them inside an air-conditioned coffin.
But I had the privilege of standing there with the lavender and the bouganvillas straining upward toward the sky, blindly hungry for sunlight. Some don't think so simply of blessing: if it doesn't glitter or shine, if it isn't rare and coveted, if it isn't a false hope or a golden calf, it is not worth noticing, not worth having. What audacity we have to say He's done nothing for us when we walk blithely past such grace every day.
This is beginning to remind me of having a Xanga back in the high school days.
But today was an exceptionally beautiful morning. If you've never understood the concept of chiaroscuro then the sunrise this morning would have defined it for you. I walked out onto my stoop to a sky-full of row upon row of painfully light-etched clouds floating aft of a warm bursting of young light from a sun faintly warming the unseasonal and delicious coolness of the dawn.
It was so beautiful I was almost angry. Angry that so many wouldn't notice it. Angry that something God has made so wonderful would just roll on and fade away and millions would and will always give it nary a glance, nor Him nary a thought. Some were starving and too hungry to look up and some were in too much pain. Some were too alone and some were too stoned. Some were already at work and some were sleepily getting off of it. Someone somewhere was dying on a bed with a feeble view, peering through aluminum blinds at the new day and cursing their failing body for keeping them inside an air-conditioned coffin.
But I had the privilege of standing there with the lavender and the bouganvillas straining upward toward the sky, blindly hungry for sunlight. Some don't think so simply of blessing: if it doesn't glitter or shine, if it isn't rare and coveted, if it isn't a false hope or a golden calf, it is not worth noticing, not worth having. What audacity we have to say He's done nothing for us when we walk blithely past such grace every day.
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