Because if I said all the things that there seem to be going on in my heart at any given time, I'd always be in tears. Because I think and think and think on my thoughts and why I think certain things and how and why certain things effect me and I think until my mind is racing. But sometimes it stops. Sometimes there are brief moments of clarity and I think that there is a purpose to all of the thinking.
Something about loving everyone.
Something about being open to everyone.
Something about being honest about my faults.
Something about being gracious with myself and my apparent special needs.
Something about not being quiet about the unique way I work.
About not being ashamed.
Something about that light flickering inside me.
Something about the big thing that is happening from the outside of the now institutionalized church.
Something about taking away its' glory.
Something about the hostility it breeds when it fails to meet the physical needs of the needy.
The emotional needs of the cast outs.
Something about the fault of ignoring the arts.
Something about love.
Something about honesty.
Something about the travesty that is being a beacon of light and a pillar of righteousness when one is a leader in the church.
Something about being above the falling.
Something about ignoring the frailty of the faulty human chosen to have His loved poured out in a clay vessel.
Something about failing to be quiet to listen.
To Him.
To others.
Something about respect.
Something about the failure of stewardship over this place we live.
Something about quiet.
Something about being broken for others.
Something about me not being able to be broken for others.
Something about being light.
Something about regaining the freedom once again that He gave so lavishly through the cross.
Something about something bigger than the smallness of one persons' vision.
Something about being so very human.
Something about respecting the writings of other very human humans.
Something about finding myself.
And finding that I am small.
Finding that I am silly.
So so silly.
Some thinking on the things men and women in power ignorantly spoke to quench who my small little me was.
Some thinking on the poison I spewed on others when I refused to think for myself.
Thinking on the irony of education and my lack.
Thinking on quiet.
The failed art of conversation.
The failed beauty of sitting alone.
Of listening for still small voice.
Of the travesty of strain man's vision can place on sacrament of marriage.
On the bullheaded foolishness loneliness sins to.
On how I have limits in my humanity.
On how the past is alive all at once with the present all too often in my reminiscences.
On how a perfect life, perfect marriage, perfect wisdom don't exist.
They are lies.
On contentment without bitterness.
And the peace through patience.
Something about being honest creating a usable clay vessel.
Vessel to be filled to be used, cracked, and broken and usedcrackedandbroken.
Broken often.
Often to be sorry and to wrought change.
Honesty the conduit to change.
Changing struggles to honesty to freedom from poison laced truth.
That I'd not be a poison.
That I'd not be a wall.
That I'd not be a soldier, but a listener and lover.
A talker only respectfully, but on the page as free bold vagabond.
On page fighting past fear.
On page free to free boisterous and please-be-quiet-you-talk-too-much carefree silly child again free again thinking in quiet me.
If only in incomplete fleeting doughy in the middle not finished hot dishes of fragments of thoughts.
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