Sometimes I come back from the place where apologies and forgiveness do not attend to each other laying the bought bundles of dreams down next to the stones thrown into the lives of children separated from all sense of fairness in humanity where tragedies ripple forever across time and space tripping all notions of common sense remaining for any gathering of grace. And there I find outside all the realms of logic created by reasoned patterns for the comfort of those who believe the improbable place where sometimes things just happen.
Grace enters slowly in between the world's noise from under the trash.
There is a fine line between prophetic initiation and righteous indignation. The first brings about a flowering of possibility while the latter begins with the assumption that what is right for one is right for all. That path leads only to regret. I once sat down upon a log to think of the moments when I shared my thoughts and to feel the times when I shared my feelings. There was something there. So often I have held a pen that is too short to write upon the page before me. Then, complaining that life has somehow shorted the three of us, me, myself and I, I have simply not said what needed to be said for fear of appearing somehow inadequate. Having more than one thing creates stress around which one to use in one particular moment. Call it, a complication. An anniversary passed not too long ago, with all those fourteen-year old memories still ripening in the present. How I long to take a quiet stroll around the neighborhood pushing a stroller holding my sleeping child; to create a space for the possible in between what I long for and what calls for my attention, hoping, common grace appears again.