Paul

He was always so quiet with me.

So still.

I know he was other things to other people.

But to me, he was still.

A deep breath, a calm pillar.

A picture of the God Who Listens.

He seemed to know when I needed to hear that my earrings were "cool." When I needed to know that I was noticed.

So quiet.

So still.

It is - no - it was strange to think that on another man, on a different man, his size would be intimidating. That there would or could be something about him to fear.

When everything about him made me take a deep breath. To relax.

He'd always stop, always say hello.

Once he sat and looked at every one of my nearly identical prairie pictures from an afternoon's hike. He appreciated each one of them too.

Made sure I knew he was paying attention.

There was never a question that he was paying attention.

His words on my birthday, "Happy birthday, Amy!!!" "How your servant heart shows through in all you do is such a beautiful thing to see. Serve on in the Great Kings love and know that He is pleased."

His GI Joe still sits on my office shelf. He was a welcome present, just for me.

Just for me.

These Paschal Losses

I was dead in the grave.

It all suffocates. So deep, so choking.
Too much.
And the weight of not-yet-loss nearly breaks me in two.

I was covered in sin and shame.

I heard Mercy call my name.

He rolled the stone away.

Right now, that seems far too good. There's no way to process the words other than feel them out inarticulately to their ends.
It
is
Too
much.

Emotion howls its presence, and this death-quiet weight kicks up into a nascent storm. I look down, feeling almost as if I should be able to see it, shadowed in my skin along the faint cut I couldn't quite make.

I'm alive because He lives.

It's far too real

this aching Resurrection.

Far too real.

The sorrow of my own partings takes my breath.

This I know, this I have lived. This solidity of knowing. I know him who said it. He would not lie. If he is there... come hell or high water...

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow

It's too much.

It's fear

it's loss

It's sacrifice and reunion.

And friendship.

I am unable to sort one Resurrection from the other - His from mine.

Or rather ours.

I know He holds my life, my future in His hands

Because He Lives - Matt Maher

Fernweh

It's a surprise, this God-With-Us. 

This is no place for the Holy. 

But.

There it is. There He is.

Unexpected, but inarguable. Sunlight filtering through shade, dancing in the shadows below. 

With apologies to Emily

Stupid Emily.

Hope is the thing with feathers?

It's hard to even type that without a sneering heaviness.

Feathers.

I've never known it to have feathers.

Unless they were coated with such pitch and tar that Dawn couldn't begin to cut the edge.

Hope is that thing that gives a half-dead flutter, like the skittering of dry leaves, or desiccated insects. That keeps skittering about at the most inconvenient, painful of times.

It's the questions that remain unanswered in spite... despite... the longing for silence.

It's the acknowledgement of time passing. Of labored breath.

It's more Dickensian than Dickinson.

It's stumbling forward when there's no memory left of 

why 

other than that you said you would.

Now, I long for it to have feathers, or rather wings. Even broken ones. 

But I'm not sure it does.

At least I've never know it to.

Coffee and biscuits

He's just a little too jovial for this early in the morning.

But truth be told, it's a nice counterpoint to the stale, still air that permeates my heart and thoughts.

Between the noise and the coffee, we may just make a morning of it yet, despite it's inglorious beginning at 4:30.

Or whatever time it was, seen from my allergy-blurred eyes.

There really is no outlet, I come to somewhere over the gravy, other than stumbling forward.

Anything I can think to do, to act upon - tattoos, cuts, color, or similar rash action - I can project far enough ahead to know will not effect the cure they promise.

"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seems all the world to me."

Or however Shakespeare put it.

Over the sound system, faint above the clanks of the kitchen, the words of a forgotten 80s ballad start to coalesce.

"Kyrie elision down the road that I must travel."

Mr. Mister give words to the unknownness of my heart.

Kyrie elision.

Christie elision.

Breathe life and flesh into these desicated bones.

Threads

There's a stillness over this crowded, threadbare living room.

She was too shy to volunteer to read, waiting a full beat before agreeing.

But she gained confidence as she progressed through the sentences and paragraphs, a little narrator to this moment in time.

And it feels terrifyingly holy.

A half-breath of regret, drowned in thanksgiving.

All these saints and souls

I really should feel the weight of all these saints and souls. Really, I should.

But today, I only feel the substance of mine.

And mine's busy being vaccinated against lockjaw.

And trying to figure out the meaning of a Scottish Italian.

And all the forms and figure of a discipline I only half understand.

"Man's search for meaning" - or is it reason? - indeed.