When Rocks Cry Out: A Letter

We’ve been cleaning up the house, and we keep finding old, hand-drawn pictures and letters, so I looked up a couple of pictures on my phone.

I showed the pictures to my Mom, but she didn’t want to look at more than one.  She just handed back my phone.  So I curled my soul up around them, and looked at your smiling faces, and was glad you were at least still alive.  At least one of you almost wasn’t (nobody told me, but I knew in my gut what had happened).

It still twists in my chest, some days.  Fire is not just light – it burns and destroys too.  So I go from beautiful moment and joy to hearing people’s brokenness, their darkest secrets that they pour out to me and I don’t know why, and I have to fight to lift up my hands and let go of my burdens.  It feels like even the rocks cry out, groaning under so much shed blood and spirit.  When my eyes get heavy, I have often forgotten the crucible of the story – that Christ died the deaths of thousands in one life, and that He carries my load.  But this still feels like a thousand small deaths, even after so many years.

Continue reading When Rocks Cry Out: A Letter

//covered in gold (or, a library older than light)

(started here)//for all the burdened who chase the Son

the light was exhausted from shining.  volcanic air had thrown so much dust and debris and hurt in its face as it rose, and refused to let more than weak strugglings of light reach the ground in mexico.  it cheered up when it saw georgia, but choked on the atlanta air and pollen. finally, it stumbled into the broad, comforting arms of a library.  the struggled through the window, even though the sky was finally clear again, and fell into the library’s lap with all the exhaustion of a child.

‘i need rest,’ the light said.

‘then rest until the morning, when you are new,’ said the library, and stroked its hair.

Continue reading //covered in gold (or, a library older than light)

shake paranoia

I get angry when I’m afraid.

Not my icy kind of anger.  No, that’s reserved for more genuine injustices in the world.  I mean the downright, take-me-by-the-fists-and-start-punching-and-running kind of anger.  Normal, even kind comments become an insult as soon as they reach my brain.

It’s a miserable conviction to realize fully.  It’s easy enough to see in hindsight, after you blow up at Person A over what they said, that you felt threatened.  Your self-imposed dignity, your history with that person, everything in your heart screams that “NO! YOU CAN’T BE RIGHT ABOUT ME! I’M NOT THAT KIND OF PERSON!”

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jar & summering comes

I have an adventure jar full of coins on my dresser.

Well, technically it isn’t /full/, but it does have coins. Most are loose change, a few are pennies my boyfriend hid for me, and a quite a good number are parking lot finds.

This is my adventure jar, for when the day a traveling adventure spontaneously takes me along with it. I don’t know how much money is in there: sometimes I sort the coins by type, without counting, when the urge takes me.

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Breaking Broken

Last night I saw a student production of The Tempest.

I’d never read the play, but knew it featured a shipwreck and a character named Ariel, as well as (in this case) a circus interpretation.  Usually, I try to read the play first: my synapses take a while to sync with the nuances of Shakespeare’s words.  But, as I did not have a chance to read the play beforehand, I sat back and tried to track the flow of the narrative instead.

At first, I hated Prospero.

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enough in insufficiency, or the art of moving islands

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
shred it
and curse it with
fortified words.

Continue reading enough in insufficiency, or the art of moving islands

God-Forsaken Place

He said ‘You’re never going to lose my love’
‘go ahead and try’
so you drank from the river
until it all ran dry

and you run from your conscience,
fast as you can
‘cos you’re going to Hell
again and again

but oh,
even then,
there is hope, there is grace:

even Hell is not a God-forsaken place

– Andy Gullahorn, Fault Lines, ‘God-Forsaken Place