Yeah, God the Father is the source of everything and his creation is a glorious masterpiece, and all that, and it always "WOWs" me. And, yeah, Jesus was a shepherd of lost sheep and he knocked over tables and carried children on his shoulders while walking on water. The reality of his love is the only hope the world really has. But I dig the Holy Spirit. Yeah, I dig the enigmatic Holy Spirit because he is the Trinity’s counter-intelligence. He is deep, deep undercover on all these important secret missions - like setting traps for dangerous adversaries, igniting strategic revivals, and spreading disinformation to neutralize half-hearted seekers. He is a sniper in the foliage protecting the guardians of love and truth who march in the streets. He is a ninja creeping through the rafters in the dark meeting places of unholy minds. And I know you want to see what he looks like. You want very much to see a painting of him doing loving things. But that’s just too bad. You’ll have to learn to go without. His countenance must remain concealed. I dig the Holy Spirit and all that is yet to be revealed.
Haven't written for a bit...How am I feeling? I'm feeling good, creative, inspired to write because it's awesome. It's a great experience to write about amazing topics because it opens up new possibilities and opportunities. I love writing-stories, freewrites, poems and a lot more as you know. I feel great when I have the chance to write about everyday life. It's boring to read the same stories over and over again but fun to read different stories everyday. I'm running out of time but words motivate me. I won't end up being an author but I love storytelling. Some essays make no sense and others make perfect sense...
Dusk. Open country, two cars round a blind corner, one on two wheels out of control on the wrong side of the road. They hit head on. Metal explodes, pieces fly, tires screech then stop. One car flies over the embankment horn blaring, the other stopped like it hit a brick wall, much of it gone...a woman sprawled on its hood, arms at odd angles, blood pours from her head, her face obliterated coming through the windshield on impact. Another body, what's left of it, lays behind some rocks. Quiet returns. A bird lands on a fence post closeby and sings as usual, then flies off. Nothing for miles in either direction but the road, a line to the horizon growing dim. Dusk turns into night. Crickets chirp.
Some days the toil and risk of this post Adamic life dances and bangs louder than other days. Some days the toil is undeniable. The danger obvious. It could be a rainy day. It could be a sunny day. Some days I do not feel safe. Some days eternal life seems impossible.
I sit in corporation-designed ambiances, sipping corporation-designed beverage products, while corporate employees prepare for worship--which is to say, they prepare for work. I don't know. I guess what we call "the rat race" just gets to me some times. It ain't a big deal.
It's just bad news coming. I know it's coming. Death is in transit. And little pieces of it appear ahead of schedule all around me. The stress, the elbowing greed, and the ugliness of aging. No, I'm not ready for delivery.
When he started writing he didn't think that it would be the last thing he ever wrote. All he wanted to do is say thanks and goodbye and that he'd lived a long good life and that he loved his wife and his family and that his stomach hurt a lot and that he didn't want to get sick and go to the hospital because it would use up all the money they had in the bank and he sure didn't want to do that because his wife wouldn't have anything to live the rest of her life on then. Anyway, he wrote he was old and it was okay for him to GO. When he got to the bottom of the page and signed off with the words "see you" and ps. "I'm not afraid." he put the pen down and put the note on the pillow on his bed. He walked through house out the backdoor and into the garage. He'd already rigged his car with the garden hose the night before. It was waiting. As he went through the house on the way to his car, he made sure his wife has gone to the store as usual that time of day. He slid behind the wheel. Turned the key. The engine started. His last thought was about his stomach and that soon it would not hurt any more.