I watched an insect labor across the kitchen rug tonight, somehow possessing more drive than what my own actions have revealed of recent. In an instant I crushed it, but that is not real power. I have stood in the light and in the shadow—I have stood on both sides of the crucifix. Real power was slaughtered under the onslaught of a billion betrayals. And I worry about account balances as I crush the ant. This is not real power.
This indecisive confidence has bred stillborn thoughts. I have lost everything and everything was not as it appeared. For I still have my bed and my money and my health, but my confidence is lost. I gambled that I could simply run faster and respond quicker and pray harder. But even in winning I lost everything and everything was in my confidence.
The MRI machine encircled my soul humming and drumming upon my weak points—every single place of flesh and eros. The ache of losing my confidence was now replaced by the sting of arrows striking every compromised thought. But that sting is in accord with the will of God. It is the sorrowful momentum countering my religious errands.
And so I am learning to love the silence. It is there, alone, where I am recognizing the good of all the Father’s actions. The pain was intangible and allusive, but the turning back was an injection of vitality in spirit, soul, body. Turning back—as in repenting; repenting—as in changing the way you act because you change the way you think because you realize you were wrong. I am not wrong to crush insects in my kitchen, but I am wrong to let them fester in my soul. Their existence nor their motives are up for debate. Shadowy steps, shifty positions: the enemy of the cross does not have to be logical, only effective.
And so like Solomon, I have observed the ant and it has whispered the proverbial mysteries in the night: get up and refuse entry to the strong men at the door; get up and work, for the harvest moon has begun to dim; get up and stay up, stay still, and stay in line with the sorrow that is in line with heaven.
