too sacred to share

You will wander.

You know this.  Scour the world looking for yous.  Ewes.  Lambs.  Lambs that are being prepared for the slaughter.  You are to help prepare them, as you prepare yourself, for the slaughter.  You’re scared, I feel it.  Your hand races

& you stop – once again afraid that you have silenced me- afraid that your voice – the one you do no trust – the one that I’ve sent person after person to tell you you have & each time you say the same thing – thank you – I needed that.

No.  You do not need that!

Yes.  I will, I do, I always have & will continue to send encouragement, but you need to let me encourage you. 

They can affirm what I’ve already said – its cool – you like that.  Trust Me, I know.  All of My children are like that.  You all like to know you’re not nuts.  Isn’t it nice to know you’re in good company?

Why have you not read their stories?  Their journals, their little pink books are being handed to you & you turn up your nose.  I’ve given you incredible resources.

You had Wifi this week.  Next week you won’t.  Why didn’t you blog?

What’s so personal, so sacred that You can’t share.  Yes- it’ll fall on deaf ears – they’ll secretly laugh & yet politely nod as you attempt to light a fire with no foundation laid – no smoldering log as a promise of what once was.

You will grieve next week.  Know that you will grieve – not for yourself – this is not a relapse, but don’t be afraid of tears.

You can’t tell Don its ok but not let yourself.

I know what you need hun

 

— I pause, search for a pen, hoping to fight this out with God in the privacy of my own notebook, the one He promised to fill with words for my eyes only.  He’s not buying it.

I pause, hesitant as to what should and what shouldn’t stay private, bothered by a sense that God is tossing me into the spotlight, much more than I know or desire but that is where he wants me.  He handed me a mike and now  — now  — I’m standing up there with it facing down- a coat hanger – hold this.

 

He handed me a microphone and now I’m singing, passionately, eyes closed, unaware or at least unconcerned about the Sunday morning crowd.  It was cool. 

 

I pause, scared that my tendency to verbally vomit on people when given the chance will once again take over my better judgment.  I pause, scared that my tendency to keep to myself what God told me to share, might stifle growth all around.

 

The phone rings and I must check on the soup or get it into the oven or heat it on the stove or idk.  The instructions should be hanging up.  Too often we tend to wait, seek direction when all we gotta do is check the wall or the drawer or wherever the work is. 

 

This blog will probably end up a book.  Or at least book length.  I need somewhere to let it out. 

 

I haven’t been blogging. Even the journal entries haven’t been profound or enlightening or frequent.

I have to write, yes, and journals let me do that, but I need an outlet. Voi- an outlet for insights.

How do I keep from repeating myself- talking in circles which is generally all I do.

I crave affirmation that I’m a decent writer but when all I write is personal, in order to share my writing, I have to share my heart and then it comes back unwelcome.

I’m not a story teller.

That should be the first line for a story.

I’m not a story teller.
I’m not a singer or an artist or a musician or a bohemian.
I’m a wannabe.
Growing up in suburbia, I’m not even a true wannabe.
True wannabes try, but that option does not feel open to me.
Six brothers and two sisters later I, I catch myself telling another story. It’s always been that way. I’ll event a life that can turn heads. Which heads I don’t know.
Yesterday Bryan, that kid wearing the lime green shirt with that logo for something weird, asked – asked. No, that’s a story too.
I’m sure some Bryan, somewhere, has at one time been a child and it’s remotely possible that at one time he asked a question while wearing a lime green shirt. It’s possible. He didn’t ask me.
What could he have asked? He may have wondered the time, oblivious that the clock was right behind him and I could have pointed instead of answering, guarding my fragile gift of silence, the china that I’ve held – the one I have been told to drop by it’s owner.
I can’t. This china is gorgeous! Imagine not the old flowery grandma type patterns but something chic. Modern, classy but looks like it belongs in the fanciest post modern classic new restaurant that you can find. Stunning.
That china stays intact. I have not yet said a word. I am not a story teller.

Nothing is too sacred to share.

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