As a kid, the almost ethereal, bright tone carried an irresistible hope.
In retrospect it was an 80s synthesizer.
But these old words carry new weight, and they're shaded by the decades of dust between then and now.
And its melody scrabbles for purchase on the surface of my heart.
"Whither shall I go..."
The sky is truly the world all around, barely tied down by the swell of earth and shading of the clouds.
Even from this distance, the 60 shades of green - did you know there are 60 shades? - are broken with riotous orange, the stubborn clump of flowers sprouting precisely where it was planted.
Everything in me wrenches and chokes. All I can think of above the howl of the wind is,
"Even the wind and waves..."
The phrase roils about, getting lodged in my throat along with all the feelings, and it's tamped down almost reflexively.
The respite is brief, a matter of hours, until a message a week in the making - and at just the right time - comes, and everything escapes, blood oozing from the newly pulled scab, the sob finally releasing.
And all that can be done is to let it bleed,
let the tears come.
And listen.
"...whither shall I flee from Thy presence..."
Somehow the place has a tropical cantina feel to it.
Maybe it's the tin siding, or the humidity that's been building from the early prairie morning.
But the sweat builds up, broken only by the occasional breeze that makes it past the open garage door.
Somehow it's lonely despite the crowd, despite the World, despite the signs and wonders.
And the choke begins to knot again.
And then I see Him.
Nestled between the chipmunks and the commemorative decanters, but tucked under the TV."... loves me here in America."
"Thou hast searched me and known me" indeed.
Help thou my unbelief.
