My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. - C.S. Lewis

Start with the first source.
The primary. The true.
I set my lines in water and expect
them to hold fast,
hold fast, and wonder
how long such meridiens can last.

Tonight there was a good unquiet, the kind of restlessness in which, sometimes, I hear things. Lately, what I hear are prayers -- the other ones people must have had (and must still be -ing) prayed over me. That's a poor way of describing it, but it is two A. and M. I will let my own inconsistency slide, as usual.

I wish I could say that feeling like praying meant that I've actually been carrying it through, but sometimes just the "feeling like" of it suffices. I let it make me think I've done my share.



The night comes on, doesn't it?

Well, here is a prayer. It's an old one, but I still mean it. A lot. When I was little, I used to calm myself by imagining that God had an actual hand that, His being God, was just big enough for a five-year-old me to crawl into. I was a literal, if imaginative, child, and songs about "the palm of His hand" suited my need for dark. For Quiet. For a place to become and to be safe in the dark. I can't pretend that that same image works for me anymore, but all the same...In this particular moment, I fall asleep gladly in the unknown, one step closer to the rest of this small life, and thank you for being the God of its Becoming, the God who Became, and the Spirit who beckons.

In spite of all of my unholy racket, You are still the deep and the abiding.