david-nathanael-jones

I sit staring though the silent window out over the frozen paper world outside--buildings, grass, pavement--caught suddenly in perfect articulations of this morning's perfect light. Nothing seems to move; what does move shouldn't be moving; I don't know why.

Four geese fly by in a jagged line. They strain ahead with those funny necks, I look at them. They are gone.

I still see them now that they are gone: frozen in a perfect line in light so brilliant that everything else disappears in white behind them.

And I sit still, reading my own words in to this screen, into this screen, into this screen. . .

I keep waiting for the break-through: tearing paper, burning grass, shattered geese. Please, "while it is called today" remove this frozen heart and teach me how to live in a world where things move (and move strangely); teach me how to want this--for You wanted it. Teach me how to love, to take a risk with motion, to speak into another: to be spoken into.

I always imagine You seeing things as light sees things: still, and by their stillness: set and settled into sleep: and so my heart becomes miserable. I forget the incarnate mind of God which somehow sees all everything unfolding--while You yet incarnate YHWH, YHWH, YHWH.

How much must melt? How much of even this must melt!? (for my heart is always cleaver with deceptions!)