let’s conspire to ignite
all the souls that would die just to feel alive
I stay up too late reading Harry Potter, again, and find frustration in eyes that stall their way towards awake when the alarm rings. The morning routine is just that, almost rote and certainly familiar. Coffee. Emails. Breakfast. Bible. God. Me. I do the work I can only to find some work will have to be put off another day. I procrastinate on updating my books, though the tax man will force a race to catch up come June. It is a day, just a day. Photographs and friends. Running and food. Phone calls and text messages. The story of a day.
Some days I feel my knees buckle at the mundane-ness of it all. Didn’t God whisper “go,” time and again? And yet here I am. I know that word by heart: Go. It is plane tickets and journals, guitars and shoestring budgets. It is language without words and ever-trumping fears with unwavering and wavering trust. That word? Go? It is my catalyst.
And yet here my roots grow guzzling rain and basking in sun. The longer I am here the greater the hope I have for, well, here. It’s not that I want to stay. That’s not my word at all. It’s just that the mundane is filled with people and relationship and conversation and simplicity, and here I work out salvation with fear and trembling by doing life, day in and day out in community.
They come over and make a slideshow. A friend walks with me and my dog. He rides his bicycle. My sister emails and another calls. I reschedule a lunch, marveling: today is too full!
And that is stretching, a different sort of catalyst, I suppose. These people throw their lots in with mine, and they look at me and love me. And they are flesh to His word; they are grace upon grace upon grace to me. I think I know why John wrote the first chapter of his gospel so poetically.
I stay up too late with these musings inspired by the boy who lived (oh how Harry Potter inspires me: leadership, friendship, love conquering death, a reality bigger than what is seen) to think about life beyond here and let my mind wander down paths of what if. Staying, leaving, knowing, being…word becoming flesh time and again. It gets quiet at night, and the silence allows pause and a glimpse into the fullness that is here. And that makes me wonder what happens next.
Incomplete thoughts perhaps, but more to come. I don’t pretend to have much of anything figured out, but I’m not bumbling around aimlessly either. That, I think, is grace.