Scribbled by
Sparrow
Tonight it is hard to look upon a loved
one dying of cancer.
Tonight it is hard to stand in the
vastness of the world and have no idea how to belong in it.
Tonight it is hard to have spent yet
another birthday mostly-forgotten.
Tonight it is hard to ache with desires
that feel too heavy to hold on to.
Tonight it is hard to want.
Tonight it is hard to be tired and hard
to sleep and hard to wake up again and still be tired.
Tonight it is hard to be asked about
plans for the future and realize they barely exist.
Tonight it is hard to never be able to
stop thinking, and enduring, and feeling, and wanting, and losing,
and wrestling, and being.
Tonight is the sort of night when you
stand in the shower until the water turns cold because you realize
the only thing waiting for you once you get out is falling asleep,
but you know you won't be able to even if you try; so you linger as
long as you can and dread lying awake in the dark with nothing but
your tiredness to whisper to. Tonight is the sort of night when you
don't want to be alone, but you don't know what you would say to
another person if you weren't. Tonight is the sort of night when you
dream, and dream badly, and as tired and sleepless as you are, feel
grateful that you can at least put the bad dreams off for a little
while. Tonight is the sort of night that ends the sort of day when
you have not been able to focus on anything, create anything, make
anything matter; when you have been able to do nothing but think and
feel and grasp at nothing, and you wonder if you can endure another
day like it.
tonight is hard
I do not often allow this blog to take
on the nature of a journal. It is why, so often, time passes and I do
not write — there are realms of my heart best kept between Jesus
and me, and I am not always capable of wrestling my heart into
word-shapes that mean something to anyone but myself. But there are
some things I think it important for you to understand.
One of them is this: tonight is hard.
Tomorrow may be hard.
The day after that may be hard, too.
And this year. And the next. And some more along the way.
Life will be hard. I promise you this.
My whole heart assures you it shall be so. But I promise you
something else, and this also with all my heart: Life is hard.
but hope is tender
And
no matter how deep we fall, it is hope, not despair, that has
the longer grasp. From heaven to our hollowness and back again; on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on,
and always
Category:
1 missives
Scribbled by
Sparrow
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
Life. Living is easy, right? Breathe in. Breathe out. You need not even think about it: your body does it for you. Those delicate, spider-webbing neural pathways in your brain, programmed down to the finest intricacies of the art of Living, keep your ventricles and atria pulsing in rhythm to the heartbeat that they create.
But nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
Life. Living is easy, right? Breathe in. Breathe out. You need not even think about it: your body does it for you. Those delicate, spider-webbing neural pathways in your brain, programmed down to the finest intricacies of the art of Living, keep your ventricles and atria pulsing in rhythm to the heartbeat that they create.
But nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
Because even if you breathe, even if
you possess health and vitality, even if you go so far as to be
beautiful, there is so much more to living than just existing.
There are choices and plans,
relationships and community; there is pain and anger and hatred, purpose and failure. There are joy and sorrow and tears that are of both and neither, everything and nothing. And
after you have endured all of them, when you have been shredded to
pieces by pain and bound back together by hope a thousand times over,
when you have had all of the tears wrung out of you yet somehow seem
to have more left; when you have slept through hundreds of sunrises
and every ounce of breathing your body has ever possessed has been wracked, wrung, stretched, spent... you die.
Death is simple, really. Life ends. The
body wears out. The neurons grow tired. The laces that bind and
balance the chemicals in the brain become fragile and tear. Bones
grow brittle and bodies grow frail. Disease creeps in through the
weak points, then ravages the life behind the barricades. It ends.
Fades. Is over. The clockwork of us winds down to a stop, and as
simply as that, we end.
But nothing is ever as easy as it
seems.
Because there is more than a body, more
than dust hollowed into a cavern of vessels and organs, that lives
and breathes for a little while and then shall be dust again. There
is a Soul. A Soul, crafted with more care than the dust that became
the First Adam, a soul made in the image of the one who created it,
made to love and choose and pursue and desire. Even that was simple,
in the beginning. It was Fellowship—the creation of a second Living
Thing, to be and experience and love. A thing to find precious and be
found precious by. We were made for joy.
But nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
Because what was made for joy turned itself to treachery. That pure and enduring construction, the Soul, bent itself to reach for the Living Death of lovelessness, and achieved it, scarring itself forever. Twisted with a deformity that would ever after be passed on through the flesh, the most precious and pure of creation became the most fallen. And in doing so, that which was ever only meant to be held by its Creator was thrust away from His arms, the nature of Perfection abhorring the nature of Imperfection by law of its existence. For one to embrace the other would be to erase their definitions, and both would become Imperfection, equally tainted and fallen.
The solution would have been easy—to
destroy. To uncreate what was created, to paint the canvas over in
black and start afresh. But he didn't.
Because—praise God—nothing is ever as
easy as it seems.
To counter the Curse, the Cross.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
To
quiet the Groaning, the Grave.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
To restore the Rejected, the Resurrection.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
To gather the Lost, Love.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
To restore the Rejected, the Resurrection.
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
To gather the Lost, Love.
because,
by some queer contortion of reason
(you
will find most people call it Grace)
nothing
is ever as easy as it seems.
Category:
grace,
love,
transience
1 missives