When I was young, I dreamed big dreams of earth and sky,
of progress and promise.
Context was safety, and I was so safe as to not know what real danger even looked like.
Though it would not have been right to stay in that cocoon of love and acceptance,
I often wonder
if that young girl had known what was really afoot in the wide, wide world,
the wild, wild real world,
would she have dared to traipse beyond the green fields,
the treehouses, and sandy riverbanks,
the hot-breath Holsteins, the feral cats made tame,
the safety of happiness, of home?
Would she have dared to sling a Harmony archtop guitar over her shoulder and run headlong into the unknown,
to explore the more complicated
and often darker underbelly of the world.
But can I go back home now?
Maybe community as a group doesn’t exist. Is there
a place to belong, to breathe deep without fear of regulation and restraint—
to be who I am and am becoming in safety—
knowing and being known,
Maybe community as a group doesn’t exist.
Maybe community comes in ones and twos, bits and snatches
of love and connection.
Maybe it comes in those broken times when my fear and doubt, that in some eyes would threaten the stability of all Christendom, is rather met
with understanding and the ah-ha’s that underscore I am not alone in my loss and alienation.
Maybe community is found in the stumbling along, the leaning on, the my picking you up and the your picking me up stuff of life,
not in the largeness, and the rightness of group but
in the ones and twos,
fellowship of the weak.
“We now have this light…
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