Wednesday, December 31, 2003

"The Grim Man," a story I recently wrote for my Creative Writing class, has been posted in the Storytime! section of Glenn Song's Paradiseworld. In the archives, you can also find "War's End," a collaboration between myself and my most dear friend Amanda, as well as some of her own work. Feel free to leave feedback in the guestbook here, in addition to Glenn's site.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

For a moment, if you will, close your eyes to the flashing lights. Shut your ears to the inevitable carols in their innumerable renditions. Put away your wallet and look away from the wrapping paper.

Where did all this come from? Why is it all here? Why all the rush, and light, and noise? Why do we sing of sleigh bells in the warm, rainy capital of California? What are all these relatives doing on our doorstep? How much did we just spend?

Did anyone have to tell you that it was Christmas? And did you sigh when you realized how soon it was?

I pray, for everyone, at least one moment of silence, in which you can ask yourself, "what's behind all this?" I don't have to tell you the answer.

And I pray that the truth, the reason that this day is on the calendar in the first place, will bring you hope.

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

(and now, a bit of melancholy in the form of prose poetry.)

But those who trust in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
-Isaiah 40:31 (New International Version)

I remember when my love called me Angel. (it seems long ago, but it was not.) As now, I was no radiant being then. My best guess, and hope, is that in my arms was some security. Safety. That I was less a threat than a guardian. Perhaps that is why she called me Angel. Whatever the reason, I loved the name as I loved her.

Since, the word has floated past me, sometimes toward me, perhaps a few times. Angel. Each time, I remember holding my love as though I sought to keep her. She has not called me that in these few years. Angel. If that is what I am now, I have one wing at best. Perhaps I always have. Certainly, I have always borne wounds from the same demons I seek to protect my loves against.

It seems that, even in my most radiant days, I have always been a man with paper wings. So often, I want to be more. What can a man do? Angels fly. Angels strike with divine swords. Angels appear when they are needed, alight with strength. Angels deliver judgement. A man sees an angel and trembles.

What can a man do?

If I were to ask she who was my love, she would tell me, as she has before. There is much a man can do. I have heard the proof whispered thank you, or I love you. I draw in these words as I draw in breath or water. I feel them as I feel the warmth of light. Without them, I begin to panic.

Angels depend on the Lord alone. Men should, but do not. My idols are her smile for me, her head on my shoulder, and her hand in mine. The Lord has made these things good, but He has not made them God. The angels remember this well. Too often, I forget.

I want to learn. To love and not possess. To serve expecting no payment. To desire, and not receive. Humbly. Peacefully. Until I can do these things, I will remain a dim sort of angel. A man in a costume. No less an emissary of God, but less obvious. Less consistent.

I hope that someday my wings will not longer be paper, but cloth.