A quack is a health care professional who disagrees with another health care professional, both whose sole purpose in life is to confuse the suffering lay people.
It’s like sign language in the fog;
it’s like shouting into the wind, this barely touch and go we do—
left soul-naked and alone. And words fall.
And I can’t care more than you about connection and communion, and
I can’t expect more from the unwilling. So should I stop talking, coming,
trying to imagine your silence might be full of concern, prayer, and even
Though silence might not mean indifference, that’s what it feels like.
Though silence might not mean abandonment, that’s what it feels like. And
closing a door to a sliver of possibility is better than these quiet beatings,
these solo-sadnesses of what is repeated
hanging on and pressing in path after path,
and the end becomes more and more important than these endless turns and
blank walls. Persevering,
receiving grace for the task—
It is a selfish state of mine when all the world exists for me; and
in my mind,
I weigh worth against my own need. And
a demagogue rails and acts the fool, and I rail back because of how he makes me feel; and
it’s my opinions that hang in the balance not the fates of rulers and nations.
And a bully’s words never fail to disappoint—and
it’s my cynicism and disillusionment that hang in the balance not the fates of souls.
It is a selfish state of mine when there are so many FundMe’s and so many pictures of the abandoned and bleeding that it becomes easier and easier to scroll on by—
dismissing the problem because it is not
A lasting look might bring conviction, and I have neither time nor energy for conviction
in this worn state of mine.
My heart gets smaller as my vision gets narrower.
Enlarge my selfish self to see the needs You see.
Increase strength to carry my share.
Help me to stop crossing off crosses—
checking off tasks I am unable or unwilling to do.
May Your mind, oh, Christ, overpower my fictions and fill my soul with
If only chocolate were cruciferous, and
coffee were vegetable broth.
If only tap-tapping at my computer were aerobic, and
Facebook Scrabble were resistance exercise
for muscle, as well as mind. If only
cabbage were strawberries, and
sprouts were Snickers bars.
If only scrolling on my Cloud Reader were strolling in the neighborhood, and
faithful blogging burned the same number of calories as the hilly trail I have abandoned;
then, I would be free—pain free, fat free, guilt free, and
fit enough to write the next successful weight loss best seller.
If only . . .
. . . You won’t like me when I’m angry!