Firstly because, every time I sit down with the intention to write something my mind goes blank and I sit there staring at these tan bars with an empty white text box.
Secondly, who reads this.
Thirdly, why do I feel it necessary to write anything at all for someone else to read.
Fourthly, why do I think that I can somehow write something that is interesting enough for anyone to read.
Fifthly, I'm sick of reading things and feeling like an idiot.
there's more, but I'll stop there.
Irony has me completely at her whim right now; utterly, utterly laughing.
Has anyone else felt like everything worth while has been scheduled to take place on THE EXACT SAME DAY????
why.
In other news.
My dear friend Nate is getting married in barely over 30 days. I miss him so, and feel like a long lost sister who never gets to talk to her brother.
I am: utterly utterly utterly excited about living in the community this summer. hoping that this job will work out. scared of burn out and of laziness, and yet quite overtaken by negligence and procrastination, and general lack of motivation and a foggy head. A little sad, a little looking at the light up there ahead somewhere I think.
April 25: The Rescue.
Boston.
3pm.
you can look this up further: http://therescue.invisiblechildren.com/
also, I have been wearing the same shirt everyday. Supposedly two, but only one for many days because I lost one for a long period of time which ended today when I discovered it in the laundry. So, two shirts.
One depicting an AK-47 strapped to my chest like many child soldiers in Uganda.
The other colorfully depicting my love for the LRA, which is 90% composed of abducted children forced to kill.
love these children, my friends. Love them in prayer, love them by coming to the rescue event this Saturday.
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God, I need prayer. this world need radical things, God. a radical Jesus.
3 comments:
I walked in the woods and found a cracked stick on the path.
Broken in half, it was at first simply its crack and its dried
body wrapped around on itself. Then, after I had passed,
I turned around to look again, realizing that at the last
instant I had recognized a shape. It was a heart,
and I thought of you. The stick, the crack, our crossed paths.
A single instant reflected so many things that have happened.
Like me, the stick was cracked. Like you, like the children
on the border that cannot leave the woods without a weapon
and will never be free of a killing past, a broken body,
like mine, like yours, like the back of a radical Jesus
gouged by lashes. If a real heart was shaped like that
it would be flattened by bleeding into the gravel,
but somehow, when the world is twisted into a hollow
tube, when our lives are pushed end to end like the poles
of repulsing magnets forced on each other, when we crack,
the symbols we assign tell our minds that we need not
lose shape, lose blood, or find ourselves alone.
There are designs designed to help us hope,
a finger draws the lines that guide us home.
I told you I had tracked you down at last.
Carl that is beautiful.
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