I see you.
I see both of you.
The one you want people to see
and the one you keep inside a distorted painting,
locked in another room.
I see you.
I see you for all that you are.
And for all that you don't want anyone to see.
And I am here to tell you
that I still love that person
That divided person
that split person
I love that person.
I hate what you have done with yourself
I hate that you have allowed the darkness inside
that you have allowed it to live there... within you
I hate that it is slowly beginning to consume your heart
I hate that it is beginning to shine through
to the side that you let people see
And I'm afraid for you
I'm afraid that you'll let it continue
that you'll sit passively as it creeps out of your Self
And one day
You will look at your reflection
And all you will see is the painting
the distorted, disfigured, detestable painting
You will see your perverted heart
and I don't know if you will live to see it change
if this is to continue,
it very well may be
that your twisted heart
will pass away
into numbness
into selfishness
into idleness
into nothingness
your heart will give up on Love
it will forget.
and on that day
you shall meet Death.
But, Hope lingers still
Love longs to transform you
and Love will not give up on you!
Love will never give up on you
so take heart!
Take heart dear Divided Soul
Take heart!
Let Love change you!
Let Love make you whole!
Let Love give you abundant life!
And may your divided days be long forgotten.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, November 12, 2012
purchased
She refused to look me in the eyes.
ashamed.
ashamed at her own weakness.
Fluttering about me
my hair
my makeup
my clothes
Her words came in harsh whispers.
Short commands but no apologies and no advice.
Enter the little one.
The spitting image of my younger self.
She knows.
This is her fate as well.
She always knows. And her youth protects her for now.. but I know the truth.
And so does she.
And there's something in her gaze.
Her fix-ed stare.
Is it confusion?
Rage?
Saddness?
no.
It's compassion.
She feels it.
She knows my fear.
I can't let her know it truly until her time comes.
I look at my reflection for the first time- I really look.
And I harden myself.
My heart is as cold as ever.
My eyes die.
I embrace the revulsion.
And now
I meet her eyes once more.
And she does not recognize me.
So small. She knows too much.
And it won't be long before she will know everything.
And I'll be there for her
ashamed.
ashamed at my own weakness.
fluttering about her...
her hair
her makeup
her clothes
And my words will come out in harsh whispers.
Short commands with no apologies and no advice.
She will know the one truth of our world:
anything can be purchased.
ashamed.
ashamed at her own weakness.
Fluttering about me
my hair
my makeup
my clothes
Her words came in harsh whispers.
Short commands but no apologies and no advice.
Enter the little one.
The spitting image of my younger self.
She knows.
This is her fate as well.
She always knows. And her youth protects her for now.. but I know the truth.
And so does she.
And there's something in her gaze.
Her fix-ed stare.
Is it confusion?
Rage?
Saddness?
no.
It's compassion.
She feels it.
She knows my fear.
I can't let her know it truly until her time comes.
I look at my reflection for the first time- I really look.
And I harden myself.
My heart is as cold as ever.
My eyes die.
I embrace the revulsion.
And now
I meet her eyes once more.
And she does not recognize me.
So small. She knows too much.
And it won't be long before she will know everything.
And I'll be there for her
ashamed.
ashamed at my own weakness.
fluttering about her...
her hair
her makeup
her clothes
And my words will come out in harsh whispers.
Short commands with no apologies and no advice.
She will know the one truth of our world:
anything can be purchased.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Blood, Tears, and Hope.
I have special powers.
Or at least I think I do.
I have this insane ability to take on the feelings of another person.
Even a complete stranger.
... not exactly what one wished for as a kid.
Yesterday, I arrived at the school where I volunteer at about mid-afternoon..
I hadn't had my lunch yet. I was eating it on my walk there.
And the first body I see is this little shirtless boy.
I recognize him at once.
My violent little troublemaker.
My sweetheart
My baby.
Why isn't he wearing a shirt?
He was all alone. So of course, I was going to go over there and check up on him. After all, he's pretty much my son. And my baby looked cold.
He was seated on a faded wooden bench, bending down low, and working on something. As I got closer to him, I saw what he was working on.
In his right hand, he gripped a quarter-sized shard of glass.
And his "work" was a 2 inch bloody gash carved into his ankle.
My baby was cutting himself.
I'd say he's about 12. Maybe.
All alone.
And forcing his body to visibly show the pain he was feeling.
Most likely the humiliation he endures from a certain heinous teacher at his school.
My poor little guy.
I just stared and the blood, and then at his face.. carved out in anger.
My lungs stopped accepting oxygen.
And my heart was trying to make up for it by pumping out my blood too fast for my body to handle.
And my eyes began to burn as I fought the tears from showing themselves in front of my boy.
And I sat down beside him, not even thinking about what the "right" thing was for me to do.
I knew I had to get him to give me that piece of glass, but I knew I couldn't force him.
Because I know that force will lead to retaliation, just as oppression leads to revolt. I couldn't take away his freedom of choice, but I also couldn't let him hurt-- not on his own like that.
My voice took on a single form. A quiet form. A gentle form. A form that presents itself when I'm about to cry. And I said, "эащо?" -- "why?"
And he furrowed his eyebrows in his anger.. in his hurt. And he dug harder. And the blood dripped slowly down his ankle. And the only thing he would say was, "така..." which basically means "because." And I tried to give him a piece of toilet paper to wipe up some of the blood. Of course.. he refused it.
And then he got up and began to walk away from me.
I followed him.
I had to get that glass from him.
and he hated that he couldn't lose me.
I didn't chase him. I never made him run. But I wasn't going to let him suffer alone.
Finally he stopped. He turned around and looked me straight in the eyes. He held up the piece of glass. And he threw it as hard as he could. And he held up his empty hands in surrender. A bell began to ring, telling the kids on the other side of the school that it was time to come back inside. I looked toward the sound of the ringing, and then back to where he was standing, but he wasn't there anymore. He was already heading back inside. I stood there, looking around frantically for the piece of glass in the grass. I began to allow the tears to flow down. I had to find it. I had to bury it deep in the dirt. I didn't care if the blood got on my hands. His hurt is my hurt. And I didn't want it to be found ever again. But I never got the chance-- not 2 minutes after being called inside, he was being sent outside by one of the teachers. I wiped my eyes on my sleeves and walked toward him. He saw me, and kept walking away. He crossed the basketball court and I stopped following him. I dropped my jacket, my bags and my lunch on the ground, followed by my body. He was sitting directly on the opposite side of the courts. And I looked down at my lunch and began to eat. My thought process was if he wants my company, at least I'll be around where he can find me.
And he did.
He crossed the expansive cement and sat down beside me. And he showed me his most recent "work."
And then the evidence of his other works.
They were many.
I asked him "why" again. And this time, his face was downcast. And he just shrugged his shoulders.
And I decided that since I didn't have the vocabulary to discuss it, that my best bet was to distract him, and cheer him up. So I showed him my homework. He was impressed that I was learning Bulgarian.
And I began to practice with him. Mostly my numbers. We had a lot of fun with that. I purposely messed up to show him that even "grown ups" mess up on their school work. Then I took out my new phone and handed it to him to see. Kids love technology these days. He asked me, "музика?" --"music?" Sadly, I shook my head, "No." But! I had my I-pod. And God bless that little thing. I made his day by letting him listen to it. I showed him some songs I thought he might like. And you wouldn't believe how his sweet little face shines when he smiles. His eyes! Oh his eyes. So vivid, so piercing, so expressive. They soften when he smiles. My heart began to swell. I slowly convinced him to share my lunch with me. He was very hesitant. I know this boy doesn't eat except at school. But he was so worried he would be taking away my lunch. He kept saying, "No, you eat it!" So I ate some, and left out some crackers for him to eat if he wanted, which progressed to some lunch meat and cheese And something happened in this moment. We sort of bonded. And suddenly, all day long, he went out of his way to protect me. I mean ALL DAY LONG. When it came time for snack time, he tried to give me his snack. I wasn't hungry, so I smiled and said "no thank you." He insisted, so I took a tiny piece. But still... it meant so much to me that he wanted to share what little he had. I know what it's like to be hungry. And hunger does something dreadful to you. It makes you angry. It keeps you from thinking rationally. And when you have food, you become sort of.. greedy with it.
But he wasn't greedy. He was generous. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be "indebted" to me, but it was more like we were taking care of each other. He was just more insistent with me. My little sweetheart.
I used to regret my superpowers.
I thought I was overly sensitive...
overemotional...
I thought I was weak.
But I'm not weak.
If it weren't for this anomaly in me that allows me to feel what another person feels.. I mean to truly feel it,
none of this would have happened. The blood would still be flowing. And he would still have been hungry. And that hunger would have kept him angry. And deep down, my baby would still be hurting.
I'm not so naive as to believe that I took away his pain. I know I don't have that super power. But, if he was distracted from his hurt, even for just a little bit, then maybe that was just enough time for a little bit of healing to take place.. just enough time for a tiny flicker of light to shine in the darkness... just enough time for something to rise up inside him.... just enough time for Hope, to make her appearance.
Or at least I think I do.
I have this insane ability to take on the feelings of another person.
Even a complete stranger.
... not exactly what one wished for as a kid.
Yesterday, I arrived at the school where I volunteer at about mid-afternoon..
I hadn't had my lunch yet. I was eating it on my walk there.
And the first body I see is this little shirtless boy.
I recognize him at once.
My violent little troublemaker.
My sweetheart
My baby.
Why isn't he wearing a shirt?
He was all alone. So of course, I was going to go over there and check up on him. After all, he's pretty much my son. And my baby looked cold.
He was seated on a faded wooden bench, bending down low, and working on something. As I got closer to him, I saw what he was working on.
In his right hand, he gripped a quarter-sized shard of glass.
And his "work" was a 2 inch bloody gash carved into his ankle.
My baby was cutting himself.
I'd say he's about 12. Maybe.
All alone.
And forcing his body to visibly show the pain he was feeling.
Most likely the humiliation he endures from a certain heinous teacher at his school.
My poor little guy.
I just stared and the blood, and then at his face.. carved out in anger.
My lungs stopped accepting oxygen.
And my heart was trying to make up for it by pumping out my blood too fast for my body to handle.
And my eyes began to burn as I fought the tears from showing themselves in front of my boy.
And I sat down beside him, not even thinking about what the "right" thing was for me to do.
I knew I had to get him to give me that piece of glass, but I knew I couldn't force him.
Because I know that force will lead to retaliation, just as oppression leads to revolt. I couldn't take away his freedom of choice, but I also couldn't let him hurt-- not on his own like that.
My voice took on a single form. A quiet form. A gentle form. A form that presents itself when I'm about to cry. And I said, "эащо?" -- "why?"
And he furrowed his eyebrows in his anger.. in his hurt. And he dug harder. And the blood dripped slowly down his ankle. And the only thing he would say was, "така..." which basically means "because." And I tried to give him a piece of toilet paper to wipe up some of the blood. Of course.. he refused it.
And then he got up and began to walk away from me.
I followed him.
I had to get that glass from him.
and he hated that he couldn't lose me.
I didn't chase him. I never made him run. But I wasn't going to let him suffer alone.
Finally he stopped. He turned around and looked me straight in the eyes. He held up the piece of glass. And he threw it as hard as he could. And he held up his empty hands in surrender. A bell began to ring, telling the kids on the other side of the school that it was time to come back inside. I looked toward the sound of the ringing, and then back to where he was standing, but he wasn't there anymore. He was already heading back inside. I stood there, looking around frantically for the piece of glass in the grass. I began to allow the tears to flow down. I had to find it. I had to bury it deep in the dirt. I didn't care if the blood got on my hands. His hurt is my hurt. And I didn't want it to be found ever again. But I never got the chance-- not 2 minutes after being called inside, he was being sent outside by one of the teachers. I wiped my eyes on my sleeves and walked toward him. He saw me, and kept walking away. He crossed the basketball court and I stopped following him. I dropped my jacket, my bags and my lunch on the ground, followed by my body. He was sitting directly on the opposite side of the courts. And I looked down at my lunch and began to eat. My thought process was if he wants my company, at least I'll be around where he can find me.
And he did.
He crossed the expansive cement and sat down beside me. And he showed me his most recent "work."
And then the evidence of his other works.
They were many.
I asked him "why" again. And this time, his face was downcast. And he just shrugged his shoulders.
And I decided that since I didn't have the vocabulary to discuss it, that my best bet was to distract him, and cheer him up. So I showed him my homework. He was impressed that I was learning Bulgarian.
And I began to practice with him. Mostly my numbers. We had a lot of fun with that. I purposely messed up to show him that even "grown ups" mess up on their school work. Then I took out my new phone and handed it to him to see. Kids love technology these days. He asked me, "музика?" --"music?" Sadly, I shook my head, "No." But! I had my I-pod. And God bless that little thing. I made his day by letting him listen to it. I showed him some songs I thought he might like. And you wouldn't believe how his sweet little face shines when he smiles. His eyes! Oh his eyes. So vivid, so piercing, so expressive. They soften when he smiles. My heart began to swell. I slowly convinced him to share my lunch with me. He was very hesitant. I know this boy doesn't eat except at school. But he was so worried he would be taking away my lunch. He kept saying, "No, you eat it!" So I ate some, and left out some crackers for him to eat if he wanted, which progressed to some lunch meat and cheese And something happened in this moment. We sort of bonded. And suddenly, all day long, he went out of his way to protect me. I mean ALL DAY LONG. When it came time for snack time, he tried to give me his snack. I wasn't hungry, so I smiled and said "no thank you." He insisted, so I took a tiny piece. But still... it meant so much to me that he wanted to share what little he had. I know what it's like to be hungry. And hunger does something dreadful to you. It makes you angry. It keeps you from thinking rationally. And when you have food, you become sort of.. greedy with it.
But he wasn't greedy. He was generous. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be "indebted" to me, but it was more like we were taking care of each other. He was just more insistent with me. My little sweetheart.
I used to regret my superpowers.
I thought I was overly sensitive...
overemotional...
I thought I was weak.
But I'm not weak.
If it weren't for this anomaly in me that allows me to feel what another person feels.. I mean to truly feel it,
none of this would have happened. The blood would still be flowing. And he would still have been hungry. And that hunger would have kept him angry. And deep down, my baby would still be hurting.
I'm not so naive as to believe that I took away his pain. I know I don't have that super power. But, if he was distracted from his hurt, even for just a little bit, then maybe that was just enough time for a little bit of healing to take place.. just enough time for a tiny flicker of light to shine in the darkness... just enough time for something to rise up inside him.... just enough time for Hope, to make her appearance.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
[Un]locked.
I think there is something sad about walking up to the door of a church in the middle of the day and expecting it to be locked. However, I was happily surprised to find that the old Gothic styled building I happened upon a spontaneous walk today, was indeed unlocked. It was also very silent and very empty.. so of course, I explored the entire thing. Sitting in those old pews while rereading Joshua 6 and 7 was a great time of meditation, reflection, questioning, and prayer. Before leaving the silent sanctuary however, I felt compelled to leave some traces of my presence, so I wrote a long note with all my questions regarding what I read and a prayer that I seem to pray consistently, on the inside of a tithe envelope, placed in a pew Bible.
I am so thankful that the sanctuary was open, and ideal for a time of prayer and meditation.
But now, I am very aware of how rare this was, and it has me thinking.........
When did cathedrals become Museums?
and Why do we lock our Church doors? Is it because of all the "stuff" we wasted money on? Are we afraid it will be stolen?
LET IT BE STOLEN.
What if, when Jesus told the rich young ruler to go and sell all his possessions and give the money to the poor and THEN come follow Him, He meant exactly that? What if we occasionally took Jesus literally?
Why do so many Christians assume that this passage is just a story to prove a point? Why does no one seem to think that this is what we are called to do? I mean... perhaps not everyone and certainly not always.... but definitely some people and surely more often than we think.
What if we give up on all the gimmicks and bribes to get people to church... and instead... we live lives of love that are so attractive in and of themselves that the gimmicks and bribes aren't even necessary?
Now wouldn't that be something...
When we lock our precious valuables in the church, we are locking broken hearts out of redemption.
Monday, April 30, 2012
hungry.
I find myself very much alone.
I am surrounded by middle class, white americans.
and though all my life, I considered myself one of them,
i am realizing more and more, that I am not.
i am poor.
and i am hungry.
my life was not always this way.
with a father who sold 20 years of his soul to the U.S. Air Force,
we were guaranteed middle-class status because the government takes care of their own...
that is until my father decided to abandon his family
to leave my mother, sister, and me helpless
and hungry.
i don't remember much about that time. Though i was 13 and old enough to remember,
i can't
because my mind does this thing to protect itself.
it blocks out memories that hurt me.
and every so often
they come flooding back.
i remember how it felt to be hungry.
i remember how we fully relied on him.
and when he left, we had nothing.
no where to go.
no family to keep us safe.
no food to keep us strong.
he left us defenseless and weak.
and he didn't even look back
i remember cooking what little we had for my sister
two eggs was her meal.
i remember not eating because i wanted her to be strong.
she was so small.
i remember eating children's tylenol to hide the hunger
it at least gave the illusion that i was eating food
i've come a long way since those dark days.
i've been working since high school
i've been supporting myself as best i could, and my family if ever i have been able.
and being in such a nice place..
in such a nice little apartment..
with a nice little cell phone..
and a nice little job..
has all deluded me into thinking that i belong here
--that i am one of these middle class white americans
but now i see that i most certainly am not.
and perhaps i shouldn't be.
people think that i am.
i appear to be.
i wear nice clothes
most of which were all free... given to me by my middle class white american friends (whom i love dearly).
i have so many connections that have supported me and gotten me to where i am now and i am very grateful for them.
but that does not change the fact that i appear to be something i am not.
my family is poor.
we all work so hard.
but we are poor.
i work 25-30 hours a week on my school's campus--i am only allowed to work this many hours because my employer will not let me work more than this because if i do, then i will move up to full time status, and if that should happen, they will be forced to give me benefits, and they do not want to do that.
i don't have a car, so i don't have much choice. I'm grateful for a job so close to where i live. i am good at what i do, and i take pride in my work,even if it is just making sandwiches.
I make about $800 a month. Of this money, $260 goes towards my rent. $67 goes towards my phone. $75 goes towards my school bill. And the remaining amount is split up between food and miscellaneous expenses.. like plane tickets. like graduation announcements. like extra school fees. Like every other kind of fee one can encounter when trying to obtain government documents that got lost in the many times my family moved.
when it comes down to it, i end up spending $30 on groceries that will last me an entire month.
But this month was different.
This month there were many extra things.
And with my college graduation coming up, I had to purchase a plane ticket for my sister to make it home in time for her high school final exams. So this month, I have so very little food.
I do not waste.
I do not waste a n y t h i n g .
something i learned growing up..
i became resourceful.
i learned how to make myself blend in with the people around me.
i study the pretty little trinkets and things i see my companions waste money on, and learn to make them myself with whatever i already have.
and i enjoy making things. being able to think and explore and create excites me and fulfills me.
but even still, it shows that i have learned to deceive people.
and i think... somehow... i have deceived myself.
but today, as i stare at the empty cupboards and the empty fridge,
i am confronted with truth.
i am poor.
still.
i am hungry.
i work hard. but its never enough.
the growl in my stomach floods my mind with repressed memories of another time i was hungry
and alone
and afraid.
and no one understands.
they are not poor.
they are middle class white americans
with cars that are paid for by parents
parents who deposit money in their bank accounts rather than asking for help to make rent this month.
they don't understand that i can't go out to eat whenever i feel like it, even for a meal that costs $5, because in terms of my $30 grocery budget, $5 is a hell of a lot.
they don't understand why i don't want to go shopping all the time
or why i can't see that new movie saturday night.
and i don't have the heart
or the strength of mind
to explain it to them.
when i have tried, i receive looks of confusion. blank stares of discomfort.
sometimes, i receive looks of pain as kind persons who were born into good fortune tries with all their heart to understand but in the end, finds that they cannot... these are the ones who seek quick-fixes.
who think that the answer lies in their bank accounts.
"let me get your dinner" or "this one is on me"
that's not what i want nor what i need to hear.
that doesn't change anything
if i've learned anything from my father,
its the importance of being self-sufficient.
but you see
here is a dilemma.
God is not a God seeking self-sufficient people.
God is a God seeking fully reliant people
and all i have ever known is independence.
God is truth.
and I am deception.
I've worked so hard my entire life to deceive.
I can't do it anymore.
I don't have the money that it takes to deceive...
...irony.
I am weak with the wars waged within me.
...alliteration..
sigh.
i am exhausted.
and hungry.
and lying.
i'm lying to everyone
and i despise liars.
and i don't know how else to be.
because i am all alone in this.
even professors who proclaim radical living-- who promote bearing ones cross and selling possessions and giving to the poor...
even they can not understand.
because they don't know what it feels like to be hungry.
and even a book series can't help people understand what its like to be hungry.
and i am convinced that i can not help people understand what its like to be hungry.
the christians read their bibles.
and they see this Christ figure proclaiming
freedom for the oppressed
rest for the weary
love for the hated
forgiveness for the sinners
and food for the hungry
and these christians think,
what a great guy.
and they feel really good about being on the side of such a great guy.
and they go out to the nice restaurant for lunch. and complain about the bad service.
and the radical ones pray for their servers.
and the Christ figure weeps.
nothing has changed.
the oppressed are not free.
the weary are not rested.
the hated are not loved.
the sinners are not forgiven.
and the hungry do not have food.
i guess... we are all liars.
God, please come. the brokenness is killing us all.
I am surrounded by middle class, white americans.
and though all my life, I considered myself one of them,
i am realizing more and more, that I am not.
i am poor.
and i am hungry.
my life was not always this way.
with a father who sold 20 years of his soul to the U.S. Air Force,
we were guaranteed middle-class status because the government takes care of their own...
that is until my father decided to abandon his family
to leave my mother, sister, and me helpless
and hungry.
i don't remember much about that time. Though i was 13 and old enough to remember,
i can't
because my mind does this thing to protect itself.
it blocks out memories that hurt me.
and every so often
they come flooding back.
i remember how it felt to be hungry.
i remember how we fully relied on him.
and when he left, we had nothing.
no where to go.
no family to keep us safe.
no food to keep us strong.
he left us defenseless and weak.
and he didn't even look back
i remember cooking what little we had for my sister
two eggs was her meal.
i remember not eating because i wanted her to be strong.
she was so small.
i remember eating children's tylenol to hide the hunger
it at least gave the illusion that i was eating food
i've come a long way since those dark days.
i've been working since high school
i've been supporting myself as best i could, and my family if ever i have been able.
and being in such a nice place..
in such a nice little apartment..
with a nice little cell phone..
and a nice little job..
has all deluded me into thinking that i belong here
--that i am one of these middle class white americans
but now i see that i most certainly am not.
and perhaps i shouldn't be.
people think that i am.
i appear to be.
i wear nice clothes
most of which were all free... given to me by my middle class white american friends (whom i love dearly).
i have so many connections that have supported me and gotten me to where i am now and i am very grateful for them.
but that does not change the fact that i appear to be something i am not.
my family is poor.
we all work so hard.
but we are poor.
i work 25-30 hours a week on my school's campus--i am only allowed to work this many hours because my employer will not let me work more than this because if i do, then i will move up to full time status, and if that should happen, they will be forced to give me benefits, and they do not want to do that.
i don't have a car, so i don't have much choice. I'm grateful for a job so close to where i live. i am good at what i do, and i take pride in my work,even if it is just making sandwiches.
I make about $800 a month. Of this money, $260 goes towards my rent. $67 goes towards my phone. $75 goes towards my school bill. And the remaining amount is split up between food and miscellaneous expenses.. like plane tickets. like graduation announcements. like extra school fees. Like every other kind of fee one can encounter when trying to obtain government documents that got lost in the many times my family moved.
when it comes down to it, i end up spending $30 on groceries that will last me an entire month.
But this month was different.
This month there were many extra things.
And with my college graduation coming up, I had to purchase a plane ticket for my sister to make it home in time for her high school final exams. So this month, I have so very little food.
I do not waste.
I do not waste a n y t h i n g .
something i learned growing up..
i became resourceful.
i learned how to make myself blend in with the people around me.
i study the pretty little trinkets and things i see my companions waste money on, and learn to make them myself with whatever i already have.
and i enjoy making things. being able to think and explore and create excites me and fulfills me.
but even still, it shows that i have learned to deceive people.
and i think... somehow... i have deceived myself.
but today, as i stare at the empty cupboards and the empty fridge,
i am confronted with truth.
i am poor.
still.
i am hungry.
i work hard. but its never enough.
the growl in my stomach floods my mind with repressed memories of another time i was hungry
and alone
and afraid.
and no one understands.
they are not poor.
they are middle class white americans
with cars that are paid for by parents
parents who deposit money in their bank accounts rather than asking for help to make rent this month.
they don't understand that i can't go out to eat whenever i feel like it, even for a meal that costs $5, because in terms of my $30 grocery budget, $5 is a hell of a lot.
they don't understand why i don't want to go shopping all the time
or why i can't see that new movie saturday night.
and i don't have the heart
or the strength of mind
to explain it to them.
when i have tried, i receive looks of confusion. blank stares of discomfort.
sometimes, i receive looks of pain as kind persons who were born into good fortune tries with all their heart to understand but in the end, finds that they cannot... these are the ones who seek quick-fixes.
who think that the answer lies in their bank accounts.
"let me get your dinner" or "this one is on me"
that's not what i want nor what i need to hear.
that doesn't change anything
if i've learned anything from my father,
its the importance of being self-sufficient.
but you see
here is a dilemma.
God is not a God seeking self-sufficient people.
God is a God seeking fully reliant people
and all i have ever known is independence.
God is truth.
and I am deception.
I've worked so hard my entire life to deceive.
I can't do it anymore.
I don't have the money that it takes to deceive...
...irony.
I am weak with the wars waged within me.
...alliteration..
sigh.
i am exhausted.
and hungry.
and lying.
i'm lying to everyone
and i despise liars.
and i don't know how else to be.
because i am all alone in this.
even professors who proclaim radical living-- who promote bearing ones cross and selling possessions and giving to the poor...
even they can not understand.
because they don't know what it feels like to be hungry.
and even a book series can't help people understand what its like to be hungry.
and i am convinced that i can not help people understand what its like to be hungry.
the christians read their bibles.
and they see this Christ figure proclaiming
freedom for the oppressed
rest for the weary
love for the hated
forgiveness for the sinners
and food for the hungry
and these christians think,
what a great guy.
and they feel really good about being on the side of such a great guy.
and they go out to the nice restaurant for lunch. and complain about the bad service.
and the radical ones pray for their servers.
and the Christ figure weeps.
nothing has changed.
the oppressed are not free.
the weary are not rested.
the hated are not loved.
the sinners are not forgiven.
and the hungry do not have food.
i guess... we are all liars.
God, please come. the brokenness is killing us all.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
trapped
from the crevices surrounding a door
seeps her heated lies
there is no escape from them
she taints the silence
with her noise
COMPETE
counter this attack
in rushed movements
drown them out
drown her out
sit in silence
breathing slowly
slower
still.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Church Search
God... please help me. I know I shouldn't be so critical. I know that we are all so imperfect and these generalized pastors are probably being as faithful as they know to be. I know that they are probably doing amazing loving things in their churches and surrounding communities. But please.. .help me find a place where I will grow. Teach me Lord.. and humble me. Clearly, I need it.
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