Though some might see God as a watchdog in the sky, just a guard dog on a leash held by a bishop to keep religion safe from harm, or you from getting too close.
God’s not
A pet.
Though some might see God as something to pet in prayer, or maybe like something to stroke during the gunfire scenes in an action movie, or when you see people in love dissolve right in front of your eyes.
God’s not
A buddy.
Though some might see God as blindly loyal waiting by the door at night, or maybe like a road trip partner sitting next to you in your truck, nose out the window, living the way you wish you could, but never can.
God’s
All we need.
Fortunately, some see themselves like lost dogs abandoned by cruel owners wondering why the world seems empty of the love they need more than food, and then by grace taken into a warm home and bathed, fed, given a place to sleep in their new master’s bed — finally able to see who God really is.
what comes upon me frightens me so much I run away
and thrills me while it chases me; leaves when I beg it stay.
who wrote that?
I remember doing it but now it seems at odds, a face without a name staring at me staring at it.
if I say it only came from me then I am alone denying the is of other.
then nothing else matters — only me and mine.
if I say it came from me and not me, I am not alone admitting the is of other.
then something else matters — not just me and mine.
who? from where? from what? by self? by chance? I ask; it will not say for sure; it grabs my hand to dance —
it goes to all I am
a body prone to pleasure mid suffering and pain, a thinker where my thoughts alone will never fully reign, a feeler where feelings need not say all I need to know, an actor where each action does not say the me I show, a creature where what I am is absolutely there for all to see ever and always becoming exactly how my other sets me free.
who wrote that?
a force I can not fully tame, a face without familiar name, strangely always wants to be
As time rolls us along in a chair diminished of all within our care.
Time will take our pocket knifes, our car keys, phones and money, our pets, our homes, our clothes and, finally, our precious dignity.
The losses will compile. The creeping cunning will hide an advancing daily shuffle, an encroaching daily slide.
Time!
Please take your time taking our time!
All sinning, all suffering, all pain leaves us with no earthly role, leaves us with joy or fear, our untethered soul with only one more thing to get or loose—the great all or all done.
There is so much time in eternity, all we ask is a few more minutes of mortality!
Sorry, the take won’t wait.
Oh yes! Oh no! Oh I don’t know! What to where? To grave? To end? To heaven? Or just the end?
Oh time beyond, time outside of time, grant us a sure sense — approaching death cures us of indifference—to beg the question, blessed to now confess our helplessness.
Before the take, grant us all one last dance, one fleeting chance to finally know your neglected name, to cast our needless wills in flame…
Corn Crib 