crust

the week has been long and hard-pressed and too fast all at the same time. the previous weekend feels like ages ago with everything that has happened during the week. through everything the one memory that keeps me is the singing at the edge, looking on at infinity. the heart of praise being thrown out into the vast expanse of air and sea in front of us. well, the whole time is a memory that keeps me. but that most especially.

notes from that weekend:

1 may, 0752.
en route to a weekend away from the city lights sounds words rhythm.

the season's soundtrack plays as the kapitan gracefully weaves through gradually-building-up morning traffic.

as buildings turn into mountains, these three souls are recharging, feeling the weight of their own as well as those they hold close and carry along the uphill path. we are quiet, mostly. allowing music to permeate and envelope. verbal communication is terse and concise. but our silence sits together, close and knowing.

2 may, 2221.
the last evening. it has been a blessed weekend. the company i brought sits mostly untouched - my laptop, a book - except for this little notebook. these are the days that make all that is painful and difficult worthwhile. i think i would like heaven to feel like this. a quiet family life. perhaps in heaven there would be no need for muni muni time and everything will just be praise. praise God for the good food we can cook and draw nourishment and fellowship from, that we are able to in a small way serve k by taking care of food. praise God for waters that cool and suspend our weight. praise God for the moon at dusk and the colours of the sky. praise God for rain that envelops and blesses through the heat of the day, for the promises it holds.

i wonder if there is some kind of relic of pain in heaven because it is after all the vessel of the passion. and because here on earth i can thank God for the pain that draws us near to him, to each other. thank God for sadness that can be the strongest bridges through words, and music, through touch.

what is it about the human condition that makes sadness and pain such a powerful reminder of life. all the earth is groaning. waiting and clawing to go back home.


*    *    *

better a dry crust with peace and quiet
than a house full of feasting, with strife.
(proverbs 17:1)

but what about a dry crust with strife? when sadness and pain are unable to present itself a reminder of life? when there seems to be no juxtaposition to hope in?

we are saved by trusting. and trusting means looking forward to getting something we don't yet have - for a man who already has something doesn't need to hope and trust that he will get it.
(romans 8:24)

are we still asking the right questions, Lord, are we seeking you and following you the way you want, the way we ought. because some of these times looking forward is impossible to do. these dry bones are weathered raw by time. by its long stretch, its hasty disappearance, its subjectiveness.

i want to be able to ask like Mary did, and ask in faith, in belief. how shall this be? how shall this be, since all odds are against? how shall this be, when we are so far apart in running speeds? how shall this be, when we can't seem to kick upwards from under the wave of anxiety?

and then there are the butterflies. i haven't seen one this season yet. but i drew a chrysalis. hope is the thing with wings. perhaps they carry hope in the times we are not able to.