Posted on: January 25, 2011

I sit in my car, dry leather seats sticking to the back of my thighs, scribbling in a journal.  Does God exist?  Sure.  Is Christianity ludicrous? Sometimes.  Is Christ for real? (this is the real question, the only question worth answering.)  I have to say yes.  It has ceased to be an opinion and has become the purest of convictions. Ink on the page. I know it, just as surely as I suck the air deeply into my lungs, milk it of oxygen and pollute it before pressing it back out my mouth. I know it like my tongue knows the back of my teeth, like my right hand knows the curves of my name. I know it and… I hear Him.  Am I going crazy or just having conversations with myself.  Am I obeying myself?  What is happening?  There is this impression upon my mind, my heart.  It cannot originate with me because it’s implying things I never would have come up with!  Leave your boyfriend.  Give away your clothes.  Smile when they cuss at you.  Do your roommates month-old pile of dishes. You don’t need the make up, dress down today.  Run. You’re beautiful.  Call her up, she needs a friend today.  You’re complaining again.  Come, sit with me a while.

How beautiful the quiet hours where communion is glorious and complete.  I walk through a park, a garden and marvel at the number of trees, the different kinds of trees, the number of leaves, the intricate leaves, blades of grass, ants climbing grass, warmth in light and cool moisture of earth. Dirt!  How have I not seen You before.  You are not me.  I am not You.  But You are making me again, and this time I will be more like You than the first.  And You will make me again.


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