church and underwear

Yesterday I was reminded of the beauty of childhood innocence. We have been having house church in one of our region's apartments, and there are always plenty of kids around to make Sunday mornings quite interesting. Yesterday, Darcy, a 2-year old, curly-haired mess of a little girl, went into her bedroom and brought out all of her underwear and training panties and laid them on the end table for everyone to see. After laughing hysterically, I realized how beautiful it is that children know no shame. Carrying all of her undergarments into the house church circle required no logic or explanation. A child's existence is one of freedom and precious whim, unjaded by this world's reality. Oh to live in that shameless state again.

(However, there is no need to worry, I won't be bringing my underwear to house church next Sunday...)

honesty

Something about late nights and melancholy continually abandons me in my bed with an unanswerable question: is life empty? I know all the typical solutions, including religious fulfillment, sacrifice for others, simple pleasures, etc. But what about that loneliness that gnaws on the silences that are unavoidable late at night, when we are too tired to fight off this haunting question of humanity? What will happen when I awake years from now and realize that, after faith, family, memories, joys, sorrows, journeys, and strangers, I am still empty? I assume it is the nature of being human to never be satisfied with failure or success. And contact with deity, though sufficient to bring hope, purpose, and healing, is faithful to leave me unsatisfied with bones and spirit.

expression reborn

I am currently relearning how to translate my thoughts and ideas into hosts outside my mind. Something about life, silences, and time makes a person no longer willing to divulge the sacred holdings of hidden chests. Silence has become the safe house for my daydreams, dancing merrily beneath a patchwork quilt of intricate silhouettes. But I must begin again, starting with ballerinas, broken terracotta pots, and scrambles of letters lying open for interpretation.