The light fades in the western sky. I would love to see the stars this night but I know it is rather unlikely. Instead, I shall set my back against the sun-warmed rock and pull out my notebook and attempt to scribble something worthy of what I have seen this day. My whole life I have longed to witness the grand and beautiful and be a part of something bigger and greater than myself. I have longed to be living a story that could properly be called epic.
Yet as any seasoned reader knows, it’s a perilous thing to wish to live in the stories that so often thrill us. The highs are high yes. But oh the lows. The pain and the anxiety, the heart pounding in your throat and the bile rising as you fear you’ll lose all you ate that day. I do rather wish now to go back to my little town and enjoy a quiet evening by the fireside.
I saw death today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it up close in the raw and wild. And it was a friend. I will talk of her later, I don’t think I can bear to think further on her now. We started this quest together in joyous abandon, sure that it was our destiny and what had been writ for us in the stars. Now a bare few weeks into our adventuring, she is gone and I remain and there are no stars this night.
Tag: prose
Sabbath Meditation
I sometimes wish I lived in a little cottage at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea. It sounds picturesque, does it not? Imagine hearing the waves crash ceaselessly against the rocks far below. Look far out across the grey sea and smile as you imagine the sunset that is soon to be. Take a walk in the garden and feel the wind whip against your shoulders as you hear the gulls cry in melodious cacophony. Well, perhaps strike that last. But still, can you imagine sitting on the porch of your little cottage watching the soft rain fall and with a book upon your lap breathing deep the sea air? Perhaps you have a little lantern next to you for that light which becomes necessary as the sky slowly darkens. And inside you know the pot of tomato sauce bubbles away and perfumes the air for the moment when you shall step back inside to stir and inhale the scents of garlic and oregano. I think of what it would be like to have a cottage as I have described and I smile. Maybe someday. But also I know there are drawbacks to such a life. How far away the grocery store, I wonder? Perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps more! And if it is storming, of course I would not risk the muddy drive. And where are my closest friends? Perhaps not nearby. I would be lonely at times, lonely enough that my heart be sore to hurting. And the nearest library would be quite a distance away and I would know all the books on all the shelves by the sixth month, surely. But then, I suppose in this little cottage of mine I could build quite the cosy little library, could I not? So no disadvantage that.
But still my heart yearns for a quiet little home on a cliffside far away. Though at times I would miss those whom my heart holds dear, still it would do me good to gaze upon the beauty of that wine-dark sea each and every day. There is something in my soul that craves such. I would love to walk the garden path and lift my eyes to the stars above and pray to God aloud and relish the fact that He hears me true and sets his hand upon me in firm affirmation of my place at his feet. But then, I suppose I need not a cottage for that last. I can even now on my couch in this little city apartment raise my eyes to heaven and cry out to the God who knows my name. Maybe someday I’ll have this cottage to call my home sweet home. But for the now, I smile and rest in the fact that eternal life is mine no matter where this feeble frame resides. Someday I shall receive the call that even now eternity in my heart prepares me for. Someday I shall walk the garden path with the God who knows my name. Someday soon even I shall see that perfect beauty for which my soul longs. Someday I shall look into the eyes of Jesus.
In All of Time and Space
A momentary beauty and a fundamental truth encourages me in this day that feels so real and present yet I know by tomorrow it will be yet another wafer thin page quickly fading in my memory to mist. But does that fact that the existing moment in the present is quickly shoved aside to become ever less important in the grand scheme of the timeline that rushes stubbornly in one direction mean that moment is in actuality less important or is it only a trick of perception? I would argue so though it is difficult to state my case when I can say for almost certainty that if this earth still spins a few hundred years hence there will be no one left alive who remembers my name (and certainly not my face). I’ve had the thought myself when looking at old photo albums – who is that? No clue. Turn the page. Page turned and accomplished and we move forward in swaggering sureness of importance of self. Hard to think otherwise when one exists as one does and can only reference to self because well one thinks as oneself does one not? Oh pardon me for this angst induced overly indulgent existential rage. I am proud and selfish as most of us tend to be, us mere humans scraping through the rubble of our shattered dreams attempting to salvage an idea of the grand reality that was promised. Does your heart thrill to that thought too? Is there a true myth that causes your heart to skip a beat and the hair to rise upon your neck as you put your hand to your lips as unconsciously you yearn for a taste of the miraculous? Or is it only again the scrabbling through the ashes of the forest attempting to construct a mansion out of trees that never could bear the weight of expectations as you turn your face aside to cry? I ask for your forgiveness, friend. My thoughts dance ahead of my reason and I fear the turmoil of my heart is now bare for all to see. What is this lot of mine, this suffering? Do you hurt too? I ache for that weight of glory. I beg for the veil to be removed. I crave to live in a real house someday. I can’t bear this tent much longer, surely not. But there is a sense of something beautiful in the corner of my eye and I rest my hand upon the truth that truly never lies. Someday resurrection will be seen face to face. For now though I see not, I believe. I can’t help but otherwise when the fire burns within me so.
Fits and Starts
Sidewalk strolls seldom feel entirely purposeless when the sky so shyly smiles as she does presently. Involuntarily I smile and lift my head up in silent prayer. It is good to sing a new song this day. Puddles abound and the birds chirp. The earth has been freshly washed and the bayou runs high and I marvel at the many waters flowing underneath my feet. The bridge bounces as past me runs another who loves the early mornings. The sky’s face is veiled behind a thin layer of clouds. Some would say this early morning grey is a bit of a dull affair especially when the air has chilled so. I would beg to differ. There is a special kind of beauty in early morning sky when the predominant colours are soft grey and pale gold. My heart sings in harmony with the notes of this new day. I close my eyes and lean over the bridge and let my imagination run afore me as I ponder the now and not yet and think on all that is to come when I am truly home. I open my eyes and see in the far distance the skyline rising through the fog. There is a shimmer or sort of sparkle as a ray of sun bounds through. And my eyes change color too. From grey to green they progress in the light of morning’s fullness.
A Mock Severity Demonstrated
See how the storms howl outside? Yes of course I’ll be safe, but let me open the door for a second, just a second I promise! And let me stick my head out to feel the spray of the rain on my face and feel the raw wind in all its glory. Too often the safety and security of our modern life aids in our forgetting the fragility of our frames. We are used to being master of all we survey. Stand for a moment as the thunder rolls and you will not feel as if you are much of a master at all. Perhaps it is good to feel small now and then. I close the door once more. Only a little wet, see? Now I don’t need to take a shower for the water falling from the heavens was sufficient to wash me clean. No I won’t shake myself on the mat. Throw me a towel and I’ll dry off and then let’s turn the oven on as we prepare for dinner. I like the natural beauty of the outdoors but I also crave simple comforts like dry clothes and hot food. Electricity is pretty nice too.
A Moment of Music
She sits at the window looking out over the courtyard in all its wintry glory and wonders why the vista before her looks so grey in a way it never quite has before. The cobblestones shine in the remnants of the afternoon rain and though it looks like there could be a rainbow, as hard as she tries she cannot quite make one out. Rainbows are fickle creatures, really. So the view before her dazzles in shades of brown and grey and even some dirty white here and there where some of the whitewash applied last fall still sticks to the fence around the square. Why did they even make an attempt at that, she wonders. A solid black wrought iron fence looks much more dignified after all, a white coat atop simply an unnecessary fanciful gilding, really. But her thoughts wander. She usually liked the dreary days, the days when the fog shimmered in front of her face and her hand disappeared when she held it before her. Those foggy days all seemed hushed and still and her thoughts belonged to her alone. It was glorious. But this day her friend the fog had fled and she sees the wet and dirty square for what it is, a faded dream of a once proud city. Perhaps that was why she feels so sad. Her own dreams dance before her eyes and she is not too proud to deny the tears that swim up to meet them. And so the girl looks out over the square and tries to see the beauty that had once met her there every day. Those were beautiful days really, those when she sat underneath the springtime blossoms and written poetry in her little notebook. Those days would come again they would say. She knows that of course. But right now she doesn’t quite feel it. Feelings are fickle creatures, really. Perhaps someday her heart would ring again in a resounding symphony of colour. Perhaps someday she would write again of summer and waterfalls and green grassy cliffs looking out over a far ocean. But for now she sits at the window and can do naught but pray.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Blizzard on the Bayou
There is a sentiment within me that swells when there is the prospect of snow. Then quickly I suppress such, for the adult portion of my brain recognizes the stress and hassle that necessarily accompany a blizzard in the south. Yet still! Snow in south Texas, who would have thought? I imagine that someday I shall tell my children of the day I survived the great blizzard of ’25. Rewind that. I sound like an old person already. Of course, if I want to avoid sounding like someone who has lived through far too many winters, I should probably also cease from using phrases that refer to ancient video technology. Back to the snow. Shall we indeed be so blessed with a wintry wonderland? Perhaps. We’ll wake up in a few days and I shall do something I’ve not done in years – peek out the window in the early morning hours to see if there indeed is a white blanket over all. And you can bet I’ll then gulp down some coffee and put on my hiking boots and wool coat and warm hat and gloves and tramp out down the lane to feel the fresh fallen snow underneath my feet and marvel at the beauty that is upon us. Of course it is hard to fully enjoy this thought when I also worry in the fullness of my grown mind of the effects of such an unusual storm upon this land. We do poorly enough with hurricanes and heat waves – how shall this city’s creaking infrastructure stand up to such as the icy blast that in providence descends upon us? The city planners and power providers assure us that the grid is hardened and prepared. One way to find out, eh? At the end of the day I wait and pray for I know these crazy weather patterns are overseen and held together by one who is far more powerful than I. I still hope to see a little bit of snow a few mornings from now. And hope the lights don’t flicker so I can enjoy my hot coffee in peace as I look out upon a winter scene. Even so I sit in silence now grateful for such little things as running water and steady heat. I pull up my turtleneck a little higher and snuggle into my favourite couch. Time to hunker down now and ride this thing out.
Table Talk
The windows glow golden in the early evening light. Sunlight trickles past the curtains and falls shyly on Isabel’s hands as she slices the cheese. It’s the simple things that bring her pleasure these days, the way the sharp knife falls through the cheddar and gently kisses her favorite wooden cutting board. It’s the way the hearty pieces of cheese tip over onto the board and make a pile to the side of her hands working on autopilot. These autopilot tasks can be dangerous things sure, as Isabel generally does not enjoy slicing into her fingers in tasks such as these. But for now? Isabel delights in the good work that is preparing food in her kitchen as the late winter light filters inside. There are too many tasks of late that have tasked her cerebral abilities and it is kind of nice to just use her hands and make something that will go to a good purpose. In this case, sandwiches for an adventure. Because of course, adventures demand sandwiches, as everyone knows. Because at some point in the adventure when all goes wrong and the adventure goers are cantankerous and hungry, that’s when the plucky heroine will remember – we’ve got sandwiches! And they’ll pull them out of the knapsack and pass them around. Instantly moods will be improved. Thus it has been, thus it always will be.
The door shakes a bit as a knock sounds once, twice. Thrice. And Isabel knows that pattern and she stops her slicing and tells Harry he can enter. The door opens noisily – she really must get Dad to oil those hinges – and Harry enters in beaming bright. It’s time, Isabel! Are you ready? This is it.
Isabel smiles and turns to him in reply. I can’t say that I’m ready. But I’m here.
Harry frowns at that – usually she is the eager one. But why? What’s the matter? I’ve got the paper and the pens, the compass and the old-style camera. And the raincoats. And a bunch of water bottles in this backpack. And power bars. And two flashlights. And yes extra batteries before you ask. What else? Isabel notices that he at last slows down his spiel as finally picks up on the absent vibe she’s giving off. She’s not trying to space out, it’s just her mind is whirling with deeper mysteries. Harry deserves to know. Why does she always shut him out in the moments when her soul is crying the loudest?
Harry I’m sorry. Isabel sets down the knife and turns to him deliberately this time. I think I’m a bit afraid of what’s to come. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, but now? I’m just a little scared. Sorry.
Of course, no matter. I’m sorry, Isabel. Have I been rude and pushy? I know I probably have been. I’m sorry.
Oh Harry! Don’t say sorry again. It’s not your fault. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, about the future and us and this world and my dreams and church and God and your parents and my parents and…well everything.
Harry sighs as a cloud passes across his eyes. He sits down on one of the stools at the island and sets his elbows on top. Ok. Yeah. Ok yeah I get it. There’s a lot going on. Even today. My dad and my mom. Well. You know.
Is she ok?
Yeah, she’s fine. I mean no. But she’s used to it. She shouldn’t have to be. I swear, Isabel, one day I’m really going to talk to him. Maybe it’s my fault.
No Harry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. Hey do you want a sandwich? I think I’ve cut too much cheese.
Harry laughs – only a little forced – and a sparkle returns to his eyes. Sure, I could eat something now. I’m starving since we didn’t even eat anything after church. What do you got? Cheese, cheese and more cheese?
We have some deli turkey too. Let me knock something up. Mayo and mustard ok?
Sure he replies absently as he’s gone back to gazing at the glazed tiles on top the island. Yeah those are fine.
Isabel’s face drops. She’s brought him down to her mood. Well, maybe she ought tell him what she’s really thinking about. For there is more in her head than the universe can contain. This day of all days. She slices a few pieces of bread off the sourdough loaf that Mom made earlier and then goes to the fridge to find the condiments. Turkey, mustard, mayo…and yes, there is some lettuce and even a tomato. She takes the sandwich goods back to the counter and begins assembly of Harry’s sandwich. Mustard on one side, mayo on the other. Turkey, a generous sprinkling of pepper and salt. Lay on a thick slice of cheddar, then the tomato and then the lettuce. Gently press the other piece of bread on top. There. Oh please help this make Harry feel better.
Sandwich in hand, Isabel walks over to Harry. Here you go, good sir. Your afternoon snack as requested. Harry’s head turns up from his studious examination of the counter top and a smile slowly creeps onto his face. You’re aces, Isabel. You know that? He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. He leans back, feet tapping on the floor in rhythm with the branch tapping on the window. That’s a delight, love. Pure culinary bliss there.
Isabel breathes a quick prayer of thanks and sits on the stool next to him. You know what I’m really thinking about, Harry? You were at church today, right?
Harry swallows a bite honestly larger than anyone should ever take and nods. Yeah, we were there. We sat in the back and left early. But we were there. Little good it did dad.
Well you were there for communion yeah? The Lord’s Supper. Isabel let her eyes lock onto Harry’s. This was important and she felt as if it were beyond her ability to communicate. I know me and my family have been going to church since before I was born so maybe it’s just routine for me sometimes. Today was anything but. Do you understand communion?
Harry nods then kind of shakes his head back and forth. Maybe? I know it’s about remembering Jesus on the cross and his sacrifice. It’s not as pomp and circumstance as it was when we used to go to catholic mass. But it still seems like a pretty big deal at Trinity. Definitely wasn’t going to walk up to that table today though. My parents didn’t either, we just watched. I saw you walk up there. You looked so solemn and serious.
Isabel smiled. Yeah. It was a moment. And I’m glad you didn’t go up. It would have not been right. You know.
Harry smiled. Yeah. I know.
Isabel closed her eyes briefly before continuing. Well the bread is there for the body of Christ – broken for us. The wine is for the blood of Christ – shed for us. I say us but you know what I mean. It’s for you if you only believe. We’ve talked about this, I won’t keep saying it again and again. Just know you only need to repent and believe and this gift of Christ is yours. Eternal life and more than just life. Eternal joy in the presence of perfect divinity and love. And the wine and bread at communion – they represent what Christ did for us. And so today…hey is this too much? Isabel bites her lip.
No, Isabel. I…you know I’m trying to figure this out. And I like hearing your passion. Please keep going.
And so she does. Well, Harry – today I was thinking about all this in a different way and it just struck me the sheer reality and power of what Jesus did. The bread we took and broke was real bread. It had substance. I was able to hold it in my hand and eat it and taste it on my tongue. The wine we took and poured was real wine. It had substance. I was able to smell it and sip it and feel it on my tongue. The bread and the wine were real and had real substance. And then I thought – this physical reality that the bread and the wine inhabited and bore witness to – well, so too does Jesus inhabit the real plane of existence. Jesus is just as real and solid and verifiable as the bread and wine on that table. The body of Jesus was able to be touched and hugged and looked upon. And then subsequently it was able to be whipped and beaten and pierced and stabbed. And it was hung on a tree. And this real body of Jesus hung on a real tree and this Jesus that was real died for ones such as you and me. And just as I today at church ate and partook of the bread and wine so too in mystery have I taken and partook and now bear witness to the real Christ who actually in reality walked on this earth. Jesus was real, Harry. You get it? He’s real. He’s not a figment of imagination or a storybook character or some lame religious icon. He’s real. And not past tense. Jesus is real. He lives again. He lives now and someday I will get to see this reality that is more real than anything in this room and I will look at his face and hug his feet and feel his body that died for me and I think I will cry because I can’t help it. Why would God send his son to die for someone like me. I’m pretty terrible sometimes. Why would the God that is real send his son – also real and also God in some incomprehensible mysterious reality – to die a terribly real death for someone like me? This is the meat and potatoes of Christianity, Harry. Jesus is a real person – and by person I mean God and man in perfect divine harmony and reality – and this real person died for me. How can I not weep at that? How can I not want to sing in bliss at the very thought? The infinite God of all grace and love and justice and holiness and perfection and mercy and wrath and patience…this God is my salvation because of the real life that died a real death that day on that terrible and wonderful tree. This is real. This is the true God and eternal life for all that would believe. And that’s me. That’s me. My mind shakes at the thought. My soul quivers in joy. Oh Harry. This is real. Not some vain philosophy. So now wherever we go or whatever adventure you join me in? I want you to know the realest reality that was ever divinely gifted me. It is life with my Jesus for all eternity. Know this is my core and this is my truth. This is more real than any thing you can imagine.
Isabel breathes in quick. And then sighs. Her hands press down on the table as she looks into Harry’s eyes. He has been listening this whole time. What does he think? His mouth opens.
And as he starts to speak the thunder grumbles outside. The storm had come quicker than Isabel thought it would. Where had the golden light gone? Or no. The windows glow a bit brighter now with the flashing of the lightning.
Isabel I…Harry stumbles over his words. You are the best person I know. I still don’t fully know if I can go all the way to being a Christian here. It still is a bit much for me. But. I get what you’re saying. I think. It’s real to you and I don’t deny that.
Harry. Isabel interrupts. That’s the point though. It’s not just real to me. This truth is reality incarnate. This truth is real to everyone, whether people want to believe or not. And you must reckon with that truth. Either you deny it in its entirety or you accept it in its entirety. There’s no going halfway here. It’s not some religion you can kinda just keep what you want and we all agree to disagree. This is life and death.
Harry’s eyes widen. Oh no, did she frighten him in her intensity. But this was real and the words that had come pouring out of her mouth could only have done so with Spirit assistance and Isabel didn’t think she was sorry for anything she’d said. Her spirit felt free and clear and she felt energy pulsing through her in harmony with the songs of stars. But Harry. Are you ok?
I think so Isabel and I want to continue the conversation but…look outside. Isabel glances out the window over the sink. The light pours through. But it’s not night anymore and it’s not storming. It seems as if midday. And she sees a grove of pine trees out beyond. A quick intake of breath. It’s time, Harry. Oh it’s time. Get your backpack. Isabel rapid fire stacks sandwich upon sandwich in the drawstring bag she had prepared. And then she turns to Harry. You’ll follow me? Harry nods, eyes wide. Ok. Hold my hand. Let’s open the door.
And Harry and Isabel walk up to the door as the daylight dances through the curtains draping the window. Isabel looks at Harry. Remember what I’ve said today. That’s all real. And Harry? So is this. They open the door. There is a moment of music spiraling around them and a flash of light. Isabel hears a voice calling her name. Then she is somewhere else. And she feels Harry’s hand in hers. We made it.
Laresnova
She’s dreaming of lighthouses again.
Still and silent in her bed she lies yet her mind rages in beauty as images of seas crashing on rocky shores flash vividly in black and white. There is a cliff that reaches higher than the rest of the surrounding land and sea and on that cliff points a lighthouse up to the heavens. At the base of the lighthouse is a little path that winds to the edge of the cliff. On this edge stands two figures silhouetted against the grey sky. These figures, one taller and one smaller, are slightly angled towards one other, as if to protect each other from the winds swooping down on them from above. Down at the base of the cliff the sea pounds relentlessly in rhythm that the spray echoes back in delight. Back on the top of the cliff the two figures huddle closer together. Wrapped in long and bulky outerwear, these figures still seek to conserve warmth in a hug that lingers in its intimacy. Dark clouds move closer to the island yet there is no rain. The sea spray calls louder in sweeter harmony with the low percussion of far off thunder. One of the figures raises a hand pointing to the heavens. The other figure moves closer still to the first. Symmetry of sea below and sky above as both reach to meet the other in stormy union. The two figures break apart and pull up their hoods. They stay a moment longer as the rain washes down upon them in sheets, the pure water washing down upon the rocks and lighthouse and figures alike. One figure laughs out loud, her laugh joining the song of skies and rocks and seas. The other figure pulls her close and together they walk up the path back towards the lighthouse. The light next to the door burns cheerily. The figures pull open the door and enter in. The lighthouse now stands alone on a cliff. The lightning flashes once, twice. Again it flashes. The seas below roar in delight and dance towards the cliffside in chaotic beauty. There is light behind her eyes as she opens them wide. Still and silent in her bed she lies thinking on these things she’s dreamed and wondering what they mean.
She doesn’t mind these lighthouse dreams that call back memories so aching sweet. And she sighs in harmony with the song of that sea spray.
Something Weird 