my muse, the paralytic
I had been reading The Shack. I had been talking about God a lot to my children, saying He is this. He is that. I had been cleaning and organizing, making the pantry look roomier for house-lookers who might think they could have it all organized and scheduled here in this spaciously perfect dream of a home.
I had been writing. I had written a poem about my grandmother, whose birthday may be today (I don’t know). I had written about her birth, how doctors had to push her out, forcing palms down on her mother’s abdomen; how the next day, they weighed her at the candy store on the bologna scales. She was a 12 pound red-head.
I had written about God – again – His this and that, the Hows, the Whys.
Then, there slammed down the writer’s block – or rather a few blocks: a stat-counter (informing me of my readership), a friend’s disgust at chatty happy christians, a book that became my dread, a three-year-old child who decided that God doesn’t live in our world, and my awareness of my heart flinching 92 times a minute in the middle of any normal night.
All of this has turned me so inside myself that my spirit-ears have become bedridden.
This is a quenched spirit, total self-awareness, familiar to other edge-walkers, I know. You cannot serve one and love the other, Jesus and fear.
When I write again, it will be in hallelujahs. It will be when I let Isaac believe for now that God is indeed a “magical band-aid.” I will come with a raised muse when I can see like a child (like Isaac), neck craned far back for the one speck of blue in the sky, when I say, “See there! That is beautiful. Look at the beautiful things. God makes the Blue!”
Feast here: My Utmost for His Highest.