I’ve started writing this out so many times that it actually hurts to think about it, again.
Words usually come so easily to me. Almost like a switch that never needs to be turned off.
I would play the phrases like I dreamed of playing my horn, bluesy and improvisational.
Introspection and observation intertwined like playing 16 bars, opening up new sound.
Like a second sight that pierces through the ordinary to find divinity redeeming it.
Accents and internal monuments on the upbeats, standing out of an ordinary existence.
Yet, if I had only been a spectator, the journalist inside of me would have written it down.
Yeah, I’d have been proud of the insight and perspective that I now had.
Except, I didn’t just get to sit by and watch this unfold, like some television drama.
It was intercession, and it was availability. It was time on knees, and it was resting on His shoulder.
Unbeknownest to me, I found myself invited in, and I stood with the Man behind the curtain.
In places that I didn’t really acknowledge that existed, I became torn down in the process.
Because grace reaches that far, and mercy fills the gaps in the story.
I watched the world unfold and cover my understanding, then shrink to the head of a pin.
All on the behalf of someone so loved, that even thinking about it hurts me.
So transformed is my own point of view now, that I no longer even accept it as my own.
Like my own rationale was cast away, adrift on the waves of uncommon sense.
But now, that which could be proved and substantiated, no longer is the rule.
Thus my words fail me at every turn to try and describe what my eyes saw and my heart felt.
It still trembles to speak about it for fear of it proving to be something made up inside my mind.
I suffer from what seems like endless heart attacks, as my chest is going to explode.
Just as it did so many times in the middle of the night, with the cold rivulets of sweat coating me.
In reflection, I wasn’t invited to see firsthand the incredible constructive redemption of grace.
It honestly was demanded of me to stand in the gap between God and His beloved.
There are scars that stand as tribute and testament to the power of merciful love, and I wear them.
No pride, no confidence, and no ego. But, also no guilt, no blame, and no shame, either.
Unabashed was a word that I had used before but never had seen until 3am became regular to me.
In the midst of being overcome with fear, terror, aching, & anguish so real that eyes stopped crying,
I found the end of self, and hopefully the beginning of simple service to others.
Now, I sit here, writing about one of the few things in my world that have transformed everything.
Nothing is the same anymore, and the questions of “who” and “whose” don’t even make sense.
Because of the time last year, I am no longer able to intercede without knowing an instant matters.
I cannot look in the mirror because I don’t recognise the person staring back at me.
I would have hoped that enlightenment would mean being smarter, and keep me from falling down.
But, I’m still a flesh and blood man, that saw a picture of the extent that God loves His beloved…
no matter how many times I try to write it all out, so I might gain some semblance of understanding,
I recognise that what I’ve seen has no words because humans have no concept of this.
Just being in the situation, my heart knows this is something that has no expression.
That, to someone who prides himself with the ability to write, is both terrifying and awesome.
Shown to me was how to embrace and consume someone with love and adoration.
Shown to me was how dominoes were made to fall perfectly to cause wonder and joy.
Shown to me was how love pervasive causes a heart to fall in love, over and over and over.
Yet, I live in the frustration that what I experienced is something that doesn’t seem to be replicated.
Because no matter how I try and try, the divine that God breathed into me doesn’t suffice.
Usually, the inability to share and describe would eat at my soul because of my pride.
But, my soul itches because I got to see a moment of brilliant orchestration.
It was an oeuvre, jazz-like and riffing that cannot ever happen the same way twice.
I know He carefully placed each note, and the harmony of the dominoes falling echoes.
It had to be absolutely planned, a dichotomy with intent and experience.
Breathless in the moment, wordless in the aftermath, changed beyond imagination.
I am grateful that His beloved will never ever be the same again, reclaimed, renewed.
For now, I understand that truth that is unspoken, and love His beloved the same.
That is why I cannot write it out from beginning to end, note for note, dominoes falling.
It began before any beloved became, and will end after He will come again.
So how can words ever hope to contain a force so uncontainable or divine?
My questions always begin with wondering how such blessings and I intertwine.


10:16 am
24 February 2012