Walking on Water, Looking at Comets
I
spent most of the day intermittently bursting into tears, having begun
the day facing a substantial bill. The roommate fiasco is still having
bankrupty repercussions. Several things hit simultaneously this morning -
including various doors slamming in my face, and me left holding a
crowbar in the metaphorical jam, wondering whether to let go while all
my senses said it was more adult to hold on. (And cry.)
Most nights I go down to Starbucks for the last few hours to write. And being a mess at home, and needing the exercise, I went tonight - heart pounding as I pounded out mechanical and desperate Aves.
The passage about walking on water came to mind; it was today's Gospel. And the thought, every time I started balancing the books in my brain: "Emily, look up. Look at Me." It felt foolish. "It's safer in the boat," I complained. "It's ADULT with a JOB and a PLAN and You-damn SAVINGS in the boat. Besides:
HIM. Get out of the boat, Emily. Do not look down at the waves. Dance across the water.
EMILY. I can't dance.
HIM. I'll teach you.
I got to Starbucks. Nearly deserted on a Wednesday night. I sat down. Opened up my laptop. Pulled up the stalled COMEDY OF HEIRORS.
Looked up. At Him. Danced. Wrote and danced through poetry and prose, and There was God. And there was Peace and Purpose. Wholeness; Serenity - and far more potty humor than you'd think for Divinity...but then, He made intestines, too. And He really *can* take the piss out of anything.
And now, I am home. On my couch. Laptop as ever at the ready. Writing Abby Wilde a soliloquy about imposter syndrome under the guise of a much-disguiséd twin...because we write what we know, right?
I listened to the finale of The Great Comet
on the way home: "Where do I go now? Where can I go now?" I finished
the last decade and was half-way through the Salve Regina when I
literally stopped and gasped at the low and large full moon: perfect on
the sudden horizon. "To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.
To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of
tears."
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow I will fight to get back in that leaky vessel, because the waves are rough and my faith is small. I am writing this to remind myself that I am wrong. And if He is God, then HE IS GOD. And if He gave me gifts, then He is not a monster to demand that I don't use them. And if He is Lord of All, then who am I to deny Him, and wail and cling and claw against the doors that He has closed?
"Give us this day our daily bread," is not a metaphor. I purchased some food today, and found in my purse the exact eleven pennies that I needed to complete the order. He sent down manna each morning, and the Israelites could keep no more than what was needed for the day.
But still I clutch my hands around the sand and wish for more than what I've got. Why? Why? Because if I had more, I could rely, smugly, on myself. I wouldn't wake up each morning and go: "Alright, Lord. How are You going to solve today?" He is the Bridegroom who must keep His Bride in Holy Poverty - solely so she will speak to Him. Yet, like the proud and faith-less Bride I am, I hate it.
Love is exercise. Trust is exercise. Faith is exercise. And all He asks is that I stop grasping and instead open up my hands that He may nail them with a rosebud to His own.
Most nights I go down to Starbucks for the last few hours to write. And being a mess at home, and needing the exercise, I went tonight - heart pounding as I pounded out mechanical and desperate Aves.
The passage about walking on water came to mind; it was today's Gospel. And the thought, every time I started balancing the books in my brain: "Emily, look up. Look at Me." It felt foolish. "It's safer in the boat," I complained. "It's ADULT with a JOB and a PLAN and You-damn SAVINGS in the boat. Besides:
...This spirit I have seen"I'll be adult," I thought. "I'll...balance books or do Something Money."
May be the devil. And the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me...
HIM. Get out of the boat, Emily. Do not look down at the waves. Dance across the water.
EMILY. I can't dance.
HIM. I'll teach you.
I got to Starbucks. Nearly deserted on a Wednesday night. I sat down. Opened up my laptop. Pulled up the stalled COMEDY OF HEIRORS.
Looked up. At Him. Danced. Wrote and danced through poetry and prose, and There was God. And there was Peace and Purpose. Wholeness; Serenity - and far more potty humor than you'd think for Divinity...but then, He made intestines, too. And He really *can* take the piss out of anything.
And now, I am home. On my couch. Laptop as ever at the ready. Writing Abby Wilde a soliloquy about imposter syndrome under the guise of a much-disguiséd twin...because we write what we know, right?
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow I will fight to get back in that leaky vessel, because the waves are rough and my faith is small. I am writing this to remind myself that I am wrong. And if He is God, then HE IS GOD. And if He gave me gifts, then He is not a monster to demand that I don't use them. And if He is Lord of All, then who am I to deny Him, and wail and cling and claw against the doors that He has closed?
"Give us this day our daily bread," is not a metaphor. I purchased some food today, and found in my purse the exact eleven pennies that I needed to complete the order. He sent down manna each morning, and the Israelites could keep no more than what was needed for the day.
But still I clutch my hands around the sand and wish for more than what I've got. Why? Why? Because if I had more, I could rely, smugly, on myself. I wouldn't wake up each morning and go: "Alright, Lord. How are You going to solve today?" He is the Bridegroom who must keep His Bride in Holy Poverty - solely so she will speak to Him. Yet, like the proud and faith-less Bride I am, I hate it.
Love is exercise. Trust is exercise. Faith is exercise. And all He asks is that I stop grasping and instead open up my hands that He may nail them with a rosebud to His own.
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