The greatest question

When she was falling to what was to be her death, and I when I chose to fall to what was to be my death - my first thought was, "I am not going to let her fall, at least not alone." I didn't.

We are both alive. I pose this question to you: What is the greatest question?

The greatest question that will ever be asked for me - Will God allow me to be alone?

If God will not have me be alone, then there is not hell. If God will leave me alone, then there is. If we can be alone from God, then the person, a young kid who I sacrifice my life for, who rejects Jesus, that person I will have be left alone. If God has us alone, then the Halocaust was a symbol of reality that is greater than the reality we can feel in this life. If God has us alone, then pornography is a more twisted image of togetherness than we will ever come into contact with before bodily death.

The second greatest question for me: Does God choose to leave us alone? Or, does God allow us to be left alone?

The third greatest question for me: From how I have lived, what are my answers?

The fourth greatest questions for me: Does Jesus' existence and his recorded life change my previous two answers?

The Agenda

Do I believe in an agenda? Is this different than having a particular will? Can they be separated? When I have heard the phrase "God's will" I have always understood it to mean, what God wants to be done. But it seems to me, that what fits with the way this world works is that its God's agenda? Does God's agenda get carried through every time in every situation? I have no clue! I have seen it and believed that his agenda has obviously been carried through and implemented, setting the course and guiding certain events. Other times, I strongly doubt it, and tend to err on the side of "No it hasn't been implemented." Well you know what? I'm done with erring in doubt on the side of "No."
So, does God have an agenda? Yes. Everyone does. Trust this. Jesus had an agenda.
Do I have agenda? Yeah. Does that agenda mean that I want things to happen, and that may not make everyone happy? Yeah. I want a good, righteous, giving, agenda of love that shuns darkness, shuns immorality, that HATES EVIL, that does not want a child to starve to death, that rejoices when a good decision is made rather than a bad one, when someone holds onto their innocence and their joyful smile rather than giving into anger and beating their fists in rage for something over nothing. I want a righteousness that is sorrowful for those who don't see it, that is joyful for those that do, that wants and likes to have fun, that does not want people to be hurt, nor wants people hurting themselves, but loves their freedom repeatedly until it hurts, and also longs for their healing. I want opportunity for all, but I just as equally want those who are given that opportunity to do their best with it. And on some level, I DO want that opportunity to match up with what I want.

I have never been asked to not have a want or desire, I have only been asked to change what I want. I should not change and live apathetically, and I cannot - doing so is killing me, and I refuse to die in this way. Shoot me, because I love you - but I seek to have a pure love. A love that would rather die pure than live impurely.
I will have the strength to call you out, for not calling me out on this. I will have the gentleness to speak softly but the firmness to be direct. I will sit with you until truth that is necessary is revealed and a decision about that is made. I will lose sleep, I will not eat, I will cry, I will smile, I will bleed, I will laugh, and I will lay prostrated for all my life. All the aforementioned is my agenda.

I am sorry if you are offending because I want these things, but I am going to start saying with honesty and open conviction something I have been afraid to say in a long time :
you are wrong,
God is right,
and I wish you to join me.

I am not afraid of being wrong, not anymore. I am only afraid of not living with a pure heart, not having truth. I am not afraid of hurting people anymore. I am only afraid of not living in the righteousness that I have.

I am not afraid of being stupid. I have been called stupid before, I have been stupid before. I am afraid of not accepting it, and not repenting.

I have been wrong most of my life, and I have been wrong about mostly the wrong things, and it sucks. But the right things are becoming clear. You are the right thing. Your life is very important. My life is very important. I am the right thing.

I have learned hard way, and guess what? Its hard. Now, I am probably going to learn the hard way, how to stop learning the hard way, and someday I will learn an easier way.

The battle began, it begins today, it begins tomorrow.

PhazeBook

It's been three days shy of a month since I deactivated my Facebook account. It was hard at first, I found myself out of senseless habit moving my mouse to click on the bookmark as I wait the quarter second for a website to load, then abruptly realizing that it was now an empty urge that would no longer be satisfied. Five minutes later I found myself doing it again. Two hours later, returning to my email, I found myself again trying to shake the impulse.

Slavery comes in many forms. Habits are their indicators. Freedom is the power to leave the jail and return when it chooses, its not to never live in a cell.

Last year Facebook was a canal for friends to import and I to export news and relational cargo. Since then, with much empty unemployed time I have morphed into a homebody that uses Facebook like a twitch of nervous habit. I wouldn't consider my usage of Facebook overbearing on anyone, not even myself. This culture has a funny way of slipping under our skin and requiring the slightest interaction and stimulation every instance. Our brains are living organisms, they have the ability to function differently from year to year. Its scary.

Have you ever tried to have an out-of-body experience? Or how about just imagining yourself siting next to yourself, a mere ghostly observer? I gazed and found myself in a fit of incoherent A.D.D. who had thoughts skipping like a five year-old on hot, sticky asphalt jumping around the purple chalked hopscotch grid. I rose from my kitchen table, five unconnected thoughts a second, aimlessly pacing to fill the gaps, and then somehow five or ten minutes later one of the former thoughts would find the next rational step, and then five minutes later I might conclude the thought or forget about it completely, moving on to something else that wasn't concluded. I reached for the cupboard and fumbled a Cheeze-It box and shagged a few in my mouth, not really realizing why, or what they even tasted like. With nothing to fill the gaps created by Facebook and the English language songs and ads, nothing except aimlessness, I realized I have surely adapted back to America. A place where if I am not under stress and doing something, a different task or thought every five minutes or a next thing, I don't know who I am or have no control and have forgotten about the inner stimulus and how to be inspired to from that and to be self-initiating.

Since my brain is used to taking in ten different stimuli a second it only allowed for one congruent and complete train of thought every ten minutes. Then when the gap filler, the nervous twitch, the outlet of all that - Facebook - was gone, my brain skipped the gaps, but didn't squish the thoughts together. If my thoughts were water and they flowed that would be enough. They wouldn't even have to be a smooth river or stream, just a waterfall, anything but the puddles they've been. As simple and fanciful as I would like, I must admit, I am not the five year old running through the street sloshing up muddy water in his glistening yellow galoshes as he tromps from one puddle to the next.

Clear the mud, let my thoughts flow and be conscious and strong in memory. Maybe I need the stimulus of stress? Maybe I should write more. Although I am slow, and typing this took me about 40 minutes, it does help. Now I push myself, to think faster, to stream like a 4G network. No, to stream like a human brain that is creating the 5G network.

To Be Chased

The left side of the couch didn't feel soft, and his leg itched more when leaning that way; moving to the right side made the kink in his neck sting; lying down just felt like he was flat out lazy. The screen-door slammed behind and his steps thudded on off the porch and onto the pavement. Pacing like a flee bitten dog as he wandered tracing the dirt road around his neighboring, vacant home and back again to his porch.

There is foliage of 17 different bushes and trees, and just as many insects and animals. His house is hugged on the back the shade of a big live oak and kept safe by a slope too steep to allow anything but roots to build upon. After fifty feet the creek trickles and when the birds have their afternoon tea break from singing, you can hear it from the porch. It’s strange how living in a beautiful place can, at moments, feel like its squeezing you out like a wet-fish.

When he was about 15 minutes away, he thought that talking might stop what caused him to start driving in the first place. No friend was available at the moment. The grey suede of the bucket seat held him like a royal throne the day before, but today started to gnaw his thighs. The streets and turning down Barry Rd. was all instinct, so was turning left and then right after that when Regal St. ended. Everything was too familiar to appreciate. Reaching back into his memory he headed towards a beloved cafe shop, Stone and Larry's. Catching a glimpse from the storefront from a hundred yards, he let out a breathless and unsatisfying sigh of relief. Waiting for a blue Toyota Ranger to fill with the driver and three passengers and back out, a thought slipped in mind like a spatula in chocolate pudding.

He was running, and the only way out. So he thought of her, mystique and voluptuous with a full-bodied smile. He fixed his gaze, stern with a strong brow on the tip of anger, and said, "No."

He stepped out the car, dropped the keys in his pockets, grabbed some coffee and started to type: "The left side of the couch didn't feel soft, and his ...."

Old and Sick

I wonder if this is how I will feel when I'm old? A fever crept up on me last night and hit a summit of 102.9 degrees, leaving my body achy, flashing back and forth between the Sahara and Alaska. Not preferable over the typical health of a 20 something. But am I living in luxury now? And when I hit my 80's I'll wake up to reality? Is this is the kind of pain I'll have to put away daily to just enjoy the simple pleasures. I have seen old people groan when they sit on couches, and struggle to get up from them after they have sunk down deep. My grandmother was old, but I don't remember her groaning.

Idaho wasn't the friendliest of places in the depression, nor were many others for that matter. A vision my grandmother shared with me once was her mother feeding those who came to their front door to beg for food. When there was work, so that they would be dignified in their request they would do it, when their wasn't, they ate just the same. I don't know how many people she fed when she was small, nor how often, but she grew up dignified, working right along with those men. Feeding chickens in the blistering cold, tending to soil writhing with weeds and 4am milking appointments is bound to make you tough. So it is no surprise to me that Grandma would get up from any chair without a sound, and it is no surprise to me that she walked a few miles everyday until she was diagnosed with cancer, and passed two weeks later. And it is no surprise to me that her sick body went unmentioned by her, because she minded not her own aches but the aches of others, whom she continued to serve and feed since the farm.

Awaken my mind to words and stories.

Reprise

My fellow bloggers, I return to you. Expect me to read what you write as often as I used to check Facebook, since I have deactivated my profile.


Flesh me out
Would people know
if you were sitting next to me?
The eyes surrounding me at this coffee shop,
would all eyes string to you and weave
a quilt, pitched like a tent, draping
from your very presence, art
greater than anything my grandmother has made.

Or,
would people know
nothing of what we speak.
Our cairn stacked word by word.

Experience

"The religion Jesus gave the world is an experience, not a body of ideas or principles. It is in being lived that it lives, as it is in loving that the love which it discloses at the heart of all creation becomes manifest." - Malcolm Muggeridge