Why

My family.
What is a family?
Why do I hate them?
Why do I hate my mother?
Why does my father disgust me?

And it makes me hate myself.

Because what kind of happy healthy man doesn't love where he's from?
Those he's from.

They think they know me, and they're frustrated because I'm not that man.
I think I know them, and I've frustrated because they are't those people.

I don't understand this fundemental dislike I have.
Do I hate my hevenly father?
Why?
Doesn't The Son only point to The Father?

This really really hurts.

Come With Me

We are broken.
We repent too fast for sin.
Won't you let us dig ourselves to the marrow to find out what's there?
You protect us from truths in favor of one indelible truth.
Inteligible indelible.

I am sick.

How are we here again with new pain and new players?
I'm hurt.
Is this how I've hurt you?
Have you ever felt the pain that I feel now?
I know you've felt more...
But I am weak to follow your pain with your love.
You are a tremendous Spirit.
A woman has caused me pain.
Love smooshed in my face.
And you know this pain too well.
Is that what marriage is?
A once-for-all crucifixion for love?
Because you aren't crucified over and over again.
You were crucified once, and satisfyingly.
Will I ever pass through some rite or event or finale
where MY love will be fulfilled?
where I will neverafter feel the pain of rejection?
what scarifice can I make that will fulfill me and satisfy me?

Teach me, Spirit, because I am doubled over.
I see sparrows who fly high, and I'm encouraged.
A sparrow never committed suicide.

I am sick.

You decided.

You decided to refine me for use as a tool.
A tool to please you, and accomplish your will.
And you are putting me through that process into which tools enter when they too, become.
I was metal, then I was heated...
And the heat was a wonderful heat, and after yielding to the heat, I realized that the heat was love.
I never wanted to be away from that love. The heat was love, and useful for making me shapeable.
But my error was in thinking that you meant for me to stay in the heat always--that heat was the end.
And now a new dreadful thing has happened. Not only have you not meant for me to remain in that glorious heat,
I have been plunged into cold water. And the water must be cold.
The water is everything that the heat is not.
And because of that, the water seemed hateful to me at first.
And it is still hateful whenever I believe that the heat was love itself.
But the heat wasn't love, and it wasn't glorius.
It was only necessary, and appointed.
The heat was a held and weilded by you.
You used the heat.
And what is not glorious when it is in your hands?
And now you will do the same with this cold water.
Because if I had remained in the heat, I would certainly have become useless to you.
I would have moved beyond your allowance into disobedience.
And you did not purchase me that I might be disobedient, but that I might obey and prosper as yours.
And while I was in the heat, I wondered where the water was, and now that I'm in water, I wonder when the heat will come.
But one day, I will simply be who you have made me to be, without water or fire to goad me.
I will be a fashioned tool, who has yielded to you and has been made into something useful and worthy.
But you won't keep me in this water long, will you?
Because the heat was too hot, and this water is too cold.
I'm racked with wonder at where all this is going, but I am assured.
And it is not wrong for me to know that I am metal being worked, because even this knowledge is not the end.
I still don't quite know what I am being worked into...

I'm in a wrinkle.

When I'm in the wrinkle of your hand,
clutched close to your breast,
I want to be in the wrinkle of your hand clutched close to your lips.
I want to be in the wrinkle of your hand, in the range of your ear.
I want to be in the wrinkle of your hand.

Right Now

I'm lonely.
I feel alone.
Those are two different feelings.
I really feel like God has me at an arms length.
I should curse myself for not feeling the warmth of his bosom.
And if not, I should curse myself for not reveling any touch of his hand.
But I am not a peasant. I have been promised his audience and his heart and his love and his understanding.
They're mine. I did not earn them, but they are mine. And now that they are distant, I want to know what's up.
If you won an ipod and it broke, wouldn't you still hound customer service? Isn't that, in a way, an even deeper expression of gratitude and ownership and responsibility? Am I hidden in a hidden-in-God-Christ? It doesn't feel like it.
Do I need the threat of 'destruction coming nigh my dwelling?"
I feel lost without the struggle.
I want peace, but I don't want emptiness.
The brawls and the falls lend such a richness to life. As though I were hanging by an eternally strong, and eternally thin thread.
Crazy life is exciting.
And now life is quiet, and I can't find God at all.
Part of me wishes for some deep drama to take place.
I want to ride the coaster.
Those have been my only recipes for a meeting with God.
Doesn't he only come near at crisis? I know that's not true.
But the worse I feel, the harder I seek.
It's my fault. Maybe I'm crying out for parental love and understanding.
Am I not to know God's love as I know the love of my parents? But there is a hole in my parent's love. I have felt from God, a love that my parents can't pronounce. And likewise, I have felt freedoms and restrictions given by my parents that God would never allow. (Where 'never' and 'allow' are nonabsolutes)
Incomensurate.
I certainly don't feel KNOWN by my parents.
I don't know what's the matter with them.
They're the greatest people I know. Period. Nobody comes remotely close to them.
But they still don't seem to understand me, or my love.
They want their love a certain way. Which is not the way my love comes.
I have tried to play love in the key of Them.
And I learned a whole new kind of beautiful in the process.
It's not pandering. It's serving. Real, faithful service.
But this other song is inside me waiting to be writen.
Doesn't the opening act give you what you want, while you walk away challenged by the headliner?
Nobody leaves mumbling about the opening performers.
It's the main act that's the thing. You can't control the main act.
My main act, my headline, is on its way...
And as far off as it is, it resounds mightily.
What will it be?

Bill Cosby

I can't do this anymore.
I can't pretend that certain things are okay.
I can't hold hands with blind people with bright ideas.
There are no more ideas.
There has been one central idea since men were made to take hold of ideas.
There is no discovery to be made.
There is no journey to travel.
Casualties are not okay.
"Education" is NOT the most important thing.