This is how to write, how to live: so unaware of self that you become the thing that you really are. Napkins within arm’s reach bleed blue with your psalms – how you notice the spider’s immaculate web by the kitchen door, how dark rain ushers Autumn in her explosion of color. Your voice is making song, words healing, hands creating. Your children see you like a window to God. You become like the thing you love most.
Your sense for shame is hound-dog good. In a room with thousands, even, you can find it, and you are not afraid of it. You wait outside all the camps (the liberals, the conservatives, the disgusted, and the right) because that’s where she always is: the desperate ashamed. When you uncover names, you find her choked tight.
Teeth of a saw, it has tangled in her hair, grown to the skin of her feet and inched into pores. Careful, careful. Balm of grace, you are. Sometimes all you do is hold hands, vessel girl, full of oil and light.
Everywhere we look is a battle, and you know it isn’t yours. The battle belongs to the Begotten. Men down everywhere.
Lo, He is with us, even to the end.
We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father.
Our words are fruit from His planting. The fruit of praise is the only salve for the wounded soul.