| My supreme thanks to Laura and Amanda for making this challenge possible! |
Thick, stale coffee that year after year forms an invisible fog—a presence almost like God Himself hanging around and through and somehow above. Practical carpet and worn linoleum. Wood beams that exfoliate dust, but the pleasant kind that lets you know it was and is and promises to be. The murmur of pleasant chatter punctuated by soft soothing chuckles that burst out now and then, but rarely rising to raucous laughter. Knees and elbows covered with freshly ironed Sunday fabrics. The knees knotty on sturdy legs that rise up into the air and elbows that unexpectedly swing into the path of scurrying movement. This is a forest that forms once a week at the same time in the same place . . . and always, at the other end of the fellowship hall there are small waxy cups of Kool-Aid in shocking colors.
How do you articulate the collection of details that become your vision of God? Each year unfolds more and more of what it is to believe, but you never shake the sacred scent of mellow aged coffee—black mostly—in Styrofoam cups that are not eco-friendly. God, of course, is in the obvious places like sunsets and the first yellow bud of spring and rainbows and waterfalls and ocean waves. But isn’t He also the soft rhythmic patter of rain against the canvas roof of a tent? The sound that is second only to the after church murmurings that guarantees security and absolute peace forever . . . and ever.
Are these moments you create for yourself? Are you the only one to feel the holy ground of church basements—where even the cold gray folding chairs speak humbly of the glory of God? Does this mean that later when you discover moments of gospel magic in a song . . . a combination of rhythm, melody and voices that captures your soul in no uncertain terms . . . that you can wedge this into your fellowship with the Holy One? If not, why do the notes cast a spell so strong they mesmerize you even, no especially, in the times of Sunday worship?
Forces beyond yourself are certainly afoot. The question . . . the supreme question: are they for evil or good? Or can they be the kind of good that, like fine wine, can turn sinister and evil in an instant or, over time that seems like an instant, because suddenly nobody recognizes you any more. They begin to see only the spell you’re under. When you cannot be separated from the magic you’ve invited into yourself.
The way this music enraptures you—evaporates when you speak of it. There is a place in your consciousness where only innocence and beauty lie. How trite and yet, this music finds that place and dances in it, karate kicking and casting a yellow-orange glow. Simple sidewalk strolls, turn into loping and then a full on gallop . . . you blade up and down bridges with new-found exuberance. Even this seems unsightly and somehow tacky to attempt to capture.
Have you ever caught a butterfly? I wonder if the chase is one thing, but the capture—the powdery wings in my loosely cupped grip—is somehow just morally wrong. Yet, when I spread out my hands, palms up, immediately the craving to re-capture erupts from inside.
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write-a-thon The writing you will encounter in the following journal entries are best described as "explorations" rather than fiction or non-fiction. Like the beginnings of a rock or insect collection, the writing will at first appear jumbled. In time I will rifle through them and attempt to order and classify. You're welcome to scout along with me. Hope you find this journey worthwhile. I salute your bravery. |