Droplets

He is standing at Pisgah. He is standing at Pisgah, and he can taste its honey in the air, but he cannot touch it, and he dare not drink too long. Its flavor is tinged with resentment, and it burns as it runs down his throat. He is staring at the Land and he is crying for release. He is reaching towards the forbidden, but he cannot see his sin. One sip has left him craving more, and he knows it is wrong, but he is still begging. Truth does not come with understanding. And he does not want to understand God's plan.

A formless hand engulfs him. He will know suffering no more.

And when the Temple falls, he will not bear witness.

This is a different humanity now. We have watched walls crumble and mountains shatter and bombs burst in an angry sky. We have watched natural disasters and human disasters, and have prayed to God for answers. Behold the generations who have lived with His silence!

I am a different human. I have known not the comfort of feeling God tremble. I have not known his smile or frown.

I still believe. I still hope. But I do not ask to understand.

Summer Storm

There's a boy learning to ride his bike outside my window. His father's urging faster, faster, and promising he won't fall. The training wheels are off. We're on two wheels now. Two wheels. Two feet. But that doesn't mean we have to stand alone.

I'm taking my road test in two weeks time. I'm leaving for college in six.

I don't have to stand alone.

I'm keeping a catalog of things that matter- like who stood beside me in the rain, like who held my hand as it thundered, like who has let me push them away. And who hasn't.

I'm standing outside under raindrops. I'm letting the current sweep me away. I'm leaning into your embrace a little more surely. My smile's growing a little stronger. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I can allow myself to feel.

Trust.

The storm is raging. I succumb.

Almost Independence

With the corner lamp on, it almost feels like twilight. Through the air conditioner breeze, I cannot hear the rain. I practice what we call pretending.

I'm shivering in 80 degrees.

I don't want to any more.

There's something beautiful about the make believe. There's something beautiful in knowing you hold the answers in your hand. But I don't. And I never will. Can accepting defeat be just as liberating?

I told the doctor there was too much life in me. She didn't seem to understand. But maybe you've felt it- those days when you feel the enormity of the world around you, when you remember something long forgotten and realize how much time has passed, when you want to stop and watch for a bit... but you have to keep walking. So I walk. And I walk. And I watch the world passing. And I'm a part of it... but I'm not. I'm separate too.

She didn't seem to understand.

Maybe some of us have less life to live, so we pack it into all the big moments that take our breath away. Maybe we grew up too early. Maybe we grew up too late. Sometimes, I can't find the distinction.

It's overwhelming, but it's beautiful. And I think that's what it's supposed to be.

It's a new month and a new era and a new sort of independence. I've fought a different battle than my Fathers, but I've been fighting.

And I still make eyelash wishes, but I think it's getting better.

And you know what?

I am happy.

I am happy and maybe, just maybe, that is all that matters.