for the one who finds music and fire.
some days it feels
like i am an island
bombarded by the cynics of the world
some who mean well
but they still strip meaning from life
and curse it with
and to stand still and let them
tear it apart tears me up too
but i don’t have a response
and it’s hard to remember that i
have to answer them out of a whirlwind
and that maybe if i let go
of that well-meaning pride
it wouldn’t hurt so bad to try.
you still puzzle me.
motivated. analytical. practical. prankster. rebel when it’s arbitrary.
you are a rational
in an equation I need but have yet to balance.
sometimes the hurt of the world hurts doubly
and the cynics get to me.
chasing dreams gets to me.
they rattle around
like broken countries
i used to stand in.
and i want to curl up and never come out again from underneath a table
like a terrified terrible two-year-old.
and you pick me up and lift my chin
up to meet your eyes.
and you can’t fix it either,
can’t speak out of a whirlwind,
but you imitate the still small voice as best you can
and that reminder
for the day.
or. you are standing there too,
on that holy ground
as the God who spun my story and sang your music
turns us back around again–
oh, how He loves.
and how I stumble and fail to imitate that
even when I really, really want to love that much.
sometimes, I think, being falliable is the minefield.
too much, too much, too much of the weight
over and over.
but the universe still ticks at attention, dancelike,
and we can never lose Him
and somehow that spills over
if we keep looking.
we weren’t made to be islands,
we were wired to be relational beings,
needing face-to-face to make us homesick
and we are lonely because we miss Him
(lest i forget and fail to run back to the rock in the waves).
that is the ultimate reference point,
but I forget it:
i understand the explanations, the impact and shape
that the Gospel carries
but I forget to sink my head in the core of everything,
in the Story itself and how God loves His children,
over and over
even as I’m homesick.
so I spill my guts
and you listen
and one way or another
He shows me the story again.
and when you see me at my lowest points,
and you don’t run,
I see it
and how theology (knowledge of God after all) is ingrained into your soul
not as just a textbook
but a living thread in your life.
you are alive and living and still being written,
and you aren’t by yourself, either.