Grateful to the last minute

Father, thank you for this particular moment,
to speak in this particular voice, with
the simple and peculiar instructions to
speak,               without hearing the sound,
as birds, who fly, and cannot see the wind.

Some seven months ago my last formal, written piece flopped into Dr. J’s mailbox, and I haven’t written one since. I only mention it because you aren’t here to see how thrilled I am to be writing this first entry. My heart is fluttering, yes, like a silly girl in love.

And I’m not one who typically connects her emotions to bodily reflexes. Usually I’m too dizzy from thinking in spirals to notice a crop of goosebumps on my arm to tell me I’m startled or in awe. How bizarre is it then that hammering away on this banana slug-slow computer is completing me. This odd discipline—speaking to you while I sit alone—un-contains me. It’s what the great Joy Himself crafted me to do.

So as I ask, weave, and dream, I won’t be creating a new gospel, but I pray that what you find, my dear reader, is Truth: divinely inspired, spoken freshly and full of love.


[where thanks are due]
-Mom, Dad, and C, for the best Thanksgiving yet
-my friend, for your patience and mercy with me during my disappearance
Jason Gray, for talking so much about Jesus (“Joy Himself”) in your liner notes
Downhere and Jars of Clay (aka, “Jabs of Day”), for crafting music I can wordsmith to

Jesus, for holding up your end of the deal, even when I forgot we had one.

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