don't be afraid. / this must be amazing grace, / electricity in the air, / a galvanic presence from beyond, / brought down and tangled up / in chalcedon blessing; / son of God, son of man.
It’s heavy; I don’t know if I can bear it; the whips are driving into my back; my feet are sore; beneath me the riveting rocks press in; my eyes sting from the sweat; I am hot; I am cold. “Why don’t you save yourself?” jeers someone close to me from the lynch mob that has surrounded me. Father even now forgive them.
It's not grace, but it's like it - the gap that occurs between intentions and needed rest or worship and debauchery or hatred and love. I've been in the gap of "hiatus" for about 12 months. The gap is no gaping wound or something beyond commonplace busyness, but time builds up a void like hornets on a summer porch.
It began in the orange grove. They were too young to realize that their curiosity had blind-alley eyes. The earth tone pickup truck melted into the turns and weaves of squatty trees that dripped its fruit. Michael’s adolescent senses naturally hunted for a solace space to take his girl. He was a hound sniffing out the chase.