Tuesday, January 17, 2012


The cat and I sit on the couch. Stripped of its slipcover the upholstry tells the tales of pets and children learning to relieve themselves appropriately.
It is a gray drippy day. The cherry tree's branches are part of the picture framed in window sill. Dark and segmented they contrast with the clouds. Some how I feel them, reaching from all this earth and cold. Wanting something more. Grounded and free at the same time.
I wonder how many oreos it takes to negate even the need for a workout. The videos just purchased sitting shrink wrapped on my desk.
I want to think coherent thoughts, but I remember this morning. Trying to make it from house to T@arget to library and home again. The ugliness with which I responded to childish disregard. Days worth of practiced self-pity reigning down on one caught up in story and wandering off with the book and another tormented with nail grown long enough to pick at.
They cried and I've been empty since. The only reprieve -- we read three snuggled in a little rocker. Then I felt.
I read an article by my friend. About evangelical upbringing and the scars of worry it left her. Not even an indictment just a quick glimpse into her world and hear. It brings back the indictments lowered on Chris by his brother, accusations of right-wing disregard for humanity and earth.
It makes me angry to be found in their minds in these ways. I struggle to have a true and authentic relationship with my Creator, to value the things He values, to live whole before Him. It is assumed I who attend a CMA church wear Republican colors, that this homeschooling mother of two cheers Santorum's announcement that if he's elected homeschooling with happen in the White house, an announcement I skim the headlines of. And I am sickened and empty.
I know of my friend's worries. I carry them now deeply as I tuck two children into bed desperate that Jesus will be real to them. Heaven forbid I do another thing wrong! What more can be taken but that which would utterly destroy me?
And I don't believe. But I want to.
I pull quilt over my head, assume fetal position. With phonics rules as background, I listen and whisper truth. That He who ate with tax collectors and met after dark with Pharisee still is, and He is still upsetting the rules of perfection. And I find I do believe. Maybe I'm a little more free. And perhaps I need to go deep again with that friend. Because she has traveled where I must go.

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