so how is it that a lifetime of drinking deep, of hiding his word deep in my heart so that i can recall it at a moment's notice, can render me
i used to read them on sleepless nights
by the light of late summer sun, or the lowering moon.
and the day came when i couldn't anymore, like an over-soaked sponge, dripping and limp. that's a scary place to be, when your god comes folded between covers of leather, with gold-gilded pages and a tired satin ribbon hanging down (when that is your god) and your eyes look at him for hours everyday,
but don't see him anymore.
i wrote one time about the man born blind.
and how, like in the beginning, God took some of the earth and some of Himself. and he mixed something of himself into the earth and brought life and light. this redemption of dust and darkness, this touch of holy, it transforms and shifts and shimmers and lifts, and sometimes
it casts out.