God, it hurts.
Carving out a personal history is sometimes like Shylock’s pound of flesh.
God provided the blood so He can kill the flesh and give you a HEART.
He doesn’t lie like Shylock. He loves. But His love is a burning fire…
I disagree with Rejection.I disagree with Bitterness.I disagree with Lust.
You shall have no entrance in me or our Body.
I am accepted in the Beloved.
I am a partaker of the Divine nature.
I am my Beloved’s, and His desire is for me.
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Yesterday I watched Schindler’s List.
*burning*
It was hard. But not as difficult as I had anticipated. I felt distanced. Disconnected. I felt; but I couldn’t cry.
Then I thought–as I shuffled back into my room to go to sleep–
They sang “Holy!” during the Holocaust.
The Elders. The Living Creatures. The Angels. The dead in Christ. They sang “Holy!” While it happened—they were there, continuing the perpetual dance of adoration. Up and down. Face lifted, face falling, face lifted, face falling. Because He is holy. And as He presided over the human affairs, the demonic affairs, the demonic affairs that culminated in the death of six million people and the continued life of a globe that had rejected His perfect leadership–there He sat. In the beauty of His holiness. Unchanged. Moved, yes—as He always His by His beloved ones; humans, I mean. And He sat. And the LambLion interceded. And angels ascended and descended…
I am a creature of rhythms.
Each day I like to play my piano.
To eat good food.
To turn on a warm light and linger for a moment, pausing before the immensity of busy life. To hide away in the startling edges of life, inside the mind and tucked away in the folds of my own experience.
I shall retire.
Where is your whirlpool's edge?
La Reisytal 