Texas summer sky–grandeur, the vastness of the Father. Ashy blue sage brush illumined by stark moonlight. Things here are out in the open not hidden and misty like where I grew up in North Carolina. There, river scents, tobbacco leaves, mounain laurel and honeysuckle. So many parts of God, so many nuances and expressions. His contours endless. Each of us, a collection of these nuances, a composition, a poem, a night somewhere taken in, beheld by someone. The saints and angels behold us if noone else, and friends. Outside of marriage, friends seems to be one of the clearest expressions of how God is–accepting us as we are, loving us through seasons and geography.
I’m rereading Brennan Manning, feeling his struggle to see himself as a royal friend of Jesus. Seeing his struggle to overcome self hatred and seeing himself as nothing more than ragamuffin. Thinking of Rich Mullens and how keen a eye he had, how authentic amid so much religion. We remember ones who managed to be themselves, and let God love them as they were. Things are beautiful when they are being themselves.
St Patrick tumbling between the church and the druids, managing to follow The Spirit and feel God’s pain and love for both. Realizing it was all grace from the beginning. That we can’t even tie our shoes without the cross. And then back to the night–the distances, the silences between states, coasts, countries. Thinking again of how it will all look when it surrenders and is once again itself, cored in Christ. How people, places and things ache to be.
