Endless

It just “struck” 11:11 so make a wish.

It might be nice to hear a clock strike, especially one full of wishes. But tonight, it was actually digits that determined the time.

It is rather late (probably early again, by the time I finish writing), but I haven’t a care about it. I am off tomorrow! It is a widely-recognized holiday, and lucky me the USPS takes more of them than the banks. The holiday, here in Portland, has been officially declared Indigenous Peoples’ Day, and it has been renamed across the planet as well. For good cause, it is no longer Columbus Day, and I will say no more about that. If you wish, you may read his journal here:

https://www.swarthmore.edu/SocSci/bdorsey1/41docs/01-col.html

and some commentary here:

http://www.understandingprejudice.org/nativeiq/columbus.htm

Determine your own views. I have not honored Cristoforo Colombo since I read his journal many years ago, and tomorrow I will not be celebrating, except to enjoy a rested body and to practically die of gratitude for the day preceding, which is still today. Glorious!

Today, day one, was such that I must simply share it. And that is my wish: that I may share it with you. All of it, and all of them—these days—I wish to share with you.

I will.

I intensely enjoy the mornings of all Sundays, and today was no different and yet it was. Faith, hope, and love—yet another kind of holy trinity—are in abundance these days, but oh God how present they were this morning! And bothered not at all really was I with a sense from earlier last week that I may be facing challenges of a not-entirely-unexpected sort, and that perhaps I may go into deeper exile, even than I am already and that not by my own desire to do so. I will go anywhere without fear, hence the lack of bother. I know what I know, and that buoys my spirit and renews me sufficiently, believe me. I will face anything, endure anything, and every other verb there in that Pauline book.

I will.

These gifts, however, they continued to flow! You know already my high regard for this church of which I am a part, Imago Dei, but that death by gratitude almost came today during the 9:00 a.m. service. What a prophetic message was uttered there and then, not only by the preacher (I think, perhaps, I have yet to hear a bolder proclamation from a pulpit to us humans), but from the very first chord of the anthem and all the other music as well. I do believe Capon would smile . . .

Stunning, really, it was. An exquisite hour of the essence of the gospel was presented, and I will dissent in only one respect: the preacher said that what he was saying was challenging. To some, perhaps it is. And I hold myself in no higher view than I view others, please believe me, but this message today was no challenge at all. It was complete liberation and confirmation. It was a thing of wonder, beauty, “truth, justice . . .” and not the American way. I may leave this church someday, but I will not be pushed away, only pulled. I will go anywhere, anytime, anyway he leads, and I want you to know that.

I will easily sell my possessions—a very small list, although my records would bring some nice change—and go proclaim what I heard today to anyone, anytime, wherever I am pulled. But, I will also settle for a bit (or for a lifetime, IHNI) and proclaim that same message. It matters not where and when, only the what. The what is the gospel, and each where has its own when. I do earnestly, passionately desire sooner rather than later, and it matters with whom, but that is why I must share, of course.

I smile and then laugh at the way that the Unknowable makes himself the Known again and again. And again. I wept many times today tears of joy for his many, many wonders as they unfold before our very eyes.  There are no words for it, really, and when there are words, I have written most of it anyway, as you know thank God.

Yet there is more. Always. That is the glory of it.


And that, my dear reader, is only one day. Imagine the others.

They are endless. And I wish to share them all.


Photograph Untitled © 2018 Timothy Waugh

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