I try to fill the spaces of my life with words, words, words.
Desperate to connect ends with means,
to fill up empty places,
to overwrite uncertainties,
to tame unruly emotions,
until it’s all neat and orderly
and easy.
I’m totally kidding myself.
The frantic buzz of the strings – busy, busy, busy boy.
The lilting chime of the bells – sweet, charming girl.
The rock ‘n roll squeal of the electric guitar – dramatic, fun girl.
The delicate dance of the woodwinds – gentle, beautiful girl.
The deep thrum of the bass – steady, brilliant man.
The every-changing melody of the lyrics – clumsy, passionate woman.
This is our song.
The syncopated beat of everyday routine
The discordant strains of conflict
The lighthearted whistle of totally adorable
The crash of tantrums
The faint hum of grief
The trill of humor
The every-changing tempo of life
And always, the counterpoint of
purpose
prayer
joy
This is our song.
It’s the only one of it’s kind!
So here’s us, in this Five Minute-ISH Friday. Not exactly by the rules, written one line at a time throughout a morning of errands and border waits and toddler chasing. But I loved the prompt – SONG.
Linking up to Lisa-Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday post
1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Be generous and leave an encouraging comment for the person who linked up before you. That’s the best part about this community.
And if you don’t have a blog, feel free to leave your five minutes of writing as a comment. And we’ll love on you there.
I watched a documentary about the Amish last night. It reminded me of drives to St. Jacob’s for the farmer’s market and Amish bakery. Sour Northern Spy apples. Giant sugar cookie pigs. Sweet buns and fresh bread. The quaint characters we craned our necks to see as we zipped past in modern convenience. But most of all, it reminded me of me.
The program explored this strange subculture, both good and bad. The ones who left. The ones who stayed. Neither ones the villains. Both the victims, in their own way.
The customs. The secrets. The lines drawn in the sand. Tradition. Conviction. Fear.
And it all sounded so familiar. Not only from family stories of our strict Brethren sect, but from my life here and now. Because we draw lines in the sand too. In different places, but they are still there.
This is something I wrote a few months ago. It is a little different. I usually keep the rambly “poetic” pieces securely hidden in journal pages, but I’m running low on time and energy, and feeling a bit brave today.
How do we separate “us” and “them”?
We try to wrap our skinny arms around it, digging in our nails, gritting our teeth. So we can throw it down and beat it into submission.
We’re the church, we’re big on submission. Not the doing, but the saying.
White knuckled and wide-eyed. You can almost smell the fear. In whispered rumors and wild innuendo… cause that sort of thing is contagious, you know? We have to keep that shit, excuse me, sin out. We cannot let them win.
So we create our own. Our own music. Our own slang. Even our own breath mints.
But we are them.
And they are us.
No matter what brand of candy we chew.
Culture was never the problem. Creating a new one won’t save us. Bullying “them” pleasantly, with our kind intentions, until “we”, happily deluded, feel safe.
But we are them.
And we are as full of shit as anyone.
And it’s clear enough, isn’t it, that we’re sinners, every one of us, in the same sinking boat with everybody else.
Our involvement with God’s revelation doesn’t put us right with God.
What it does is force us to face our complicity in everyone else’s sin.
Romans 3: 20 (MSG)
So here’s me, and yes, I used the word “shit.” If that’s all you can think about, then you probably missed the point anyway.
And I’m not kidding about the breath mints. “Testa-mints” – has anyone tried them? They’re like Certs, with a righteous after taste.
So Here's Us... 