Posts tagged “Laity Lodge

Deep Bone Rest

I asked Jesus to scootch up really close to her bed. 

There wasn’t much else I knew to do.

While a friend hours away pushed back against a sometimes debilitating disease from a hospital bed, I reminded myself that tapping at His window isn’t just a matter of helpless hand-wringing. Asking Him to do it was a better thing than scootching up to her bed myself.

No matter how I would have liked to do that.

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Small Things

This post may not be for you.

I only wrote a few essays for Mr. Palm, even though he assigned one a week for the entire school year. Somewhere in that first month or so I reached the pinnacle of sixth grade writing which, curiously enough, meant I wasn’t asked to do it anymore. He handed me his blue grade book and my classmates’ work instead, a stack of lined pages with the tattered edges torn from a spiral notebook.

It wouldn’t be the last time I started, and stopped, writing.

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Some Mindless Reflections from the Dock

The whisper of the river, out long past curfew, steals through the trees only to be swallowed in the scuffling of my shoes against stone pavers as I slip down the steps in the dark. The sun will soon enough crawl out over the top of the bluff. The lounge chair still feels damp after a rare dribble from a drought-cracked Texas sky and I smile that just a few hours before, this now silent dock rang with shrieks and laughter as avatars sprang to life.

Relationships birthed between pixels took on a less finite dimension.

I’d stood back then, to watch a while, and to take in that such a thing could even make sense this side of the end and the beginning.

But now, stars flicker alone in the night sky, arranged in a certain constellation whose name I should know, but don’t, and my ignorance doesn’t matter to them in the least.

A pair of bats flies over the Frio, fluttering into their last swoops before finding their own rest in the dawn, and it seems a very good time to pull my hoodie up past my ears.

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On Stewardship

The best sort of pain, I hear myself mutter when I think no one is listening, is the kind I don’t feel anymore. 

And when I’m feeling particularly cynical, the scene oft replays wherein Westley, still thrashing about in his own, dares mock the grief of his beloved.

Life is pain, Highness, he chides.

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Slow Burn

Throwing down swigs of ice cold water to chase the aftereffects of a deliciously spicy Vietnamese soup, I remembered Cafe Latté’s jalapeno chocolate cake.

“Wonderful chocolate cake,” I told the friend sharing space with me at the big wooden table. I could see the river in the distance and it made me want another cold drink. “But a slow burn sort of sneaks up on you after the chocolate is gone.”

I’m feeling rather in the midst of that jalapeno chocolate cake slow burn right now.

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