A very quiet rain fell. A Tennessee fainting goat stepped out of the barn, sniffed at a patch of dew-wet hay, peered in the direction of where yesterday the old horse was shot then buried. One remembers lilac more than one sees it, don't they. What does not lead to an interior experience of joy is a distraction.
God is the opposite of seeing outside what one fears to resolve within. Tricky lights! After the storm passed, I made tea and walked with the dog towards the field, watching as a handful of stars appeared behind slow-floating clouds. North is not a direction anymore but we are still coming to terms with it.
She wrote there was another way but neglected to adequately explain. The horses once pulled a wagon in which a simple wooden casket had been laid by weeping bearers, and once pulled a bride and groom, both of whom seemed surprised to be there. There is no Jesus, not anymore. Seedy cucumbers, yes, but basil, no.
Saint Francis was right: all one wants, really, is to be helpful where help is needed, and kind, where kindness is needed, and loving, where love is needed. All these busted coffee mugs and no glue! It was that way once and it can be that way again. A sweetness that comes only from hearing – from only hearing - the Holy Spirit.
What matters more than peace of mind is hidden in a rotting storage shed, the map to which was shredded and disposed of long ago. To see the world – or any of the bodies in it – as needing help (especially a sort of help that only you can offer) is a trap. Ministers fall at the gate, recovering drunks stumble through like angels lost in a theme park. I love you – more than you – more than I even – know.