Growing up, the river and the mountain were a fountain of life for us. We knew how to play in the water and how to rest in the shade and navigated the currents and recognized the way that the face of the mountain smiled just like our fathers, and the song of the river sounded just like our mothers', and the sunsets in the valley glowed just like our worldview, and the lightening had not yet torn that world in two.
When I saw one of the sparrows fall I knew that when she hit the soil the earth would break like our heart-quake until it could not be called that at all.
Of course the world is grey.
Of course the mountain is no longer a mountain and the rivers have turned to snakes.
I will never forget the way that her father writhed in the dirt the day that he wept over the grave he made for his daughter after begging you to let her stay.
So where is the lullaby that our doctrine sang? Where is the house on the rock when even the rock couldn't withstand the rain? What does it mean, you who uses spit to clean the eyes of blind men suddenly guilty for all that they have claimed to see?
It's not that I don't believe. It's just that sometimes faith feels more like cataracts than clarity. Please,
Go gentle on me.
In obscurity and silence and absurdity and violence the quiet reminded me that the surest sign I don't understand is to be sure that I do. I knew more before I knew more. He said, "Just outside the room, I watched her die for forty-five minutes while they tried to revive my child and when she finally pulled through I thought of death and resurrection and how much I hated you."
I love you for it. You've been gone so long I've been raging at the night in all its emptiness, all its nothingness, all its silent, darkened sky. I've been searching for the sadist who keeps taking his sweet time to let us see, or let us leave, or let us move on with our lives. Now that you've finally shown yourself again, I've got my fists raised high for the bliss it is to finally have a christ to crucify (and then to kiss). You let me lose my mind and I loved you for letting me hate you, and I barely recognize the lines the rivers make on the mountain face or the color of your eyes.
I thought that they were black and white. I thought I knew the creeks. I thought that they were black and white. Keep forgiving.
Let god be wild. (Let me be free.)