Ode to Self
Have you ever buried yourself beneath the weight of your own thoughts and wanted so desperately for someone to rescue you? But like the body hidden beneath the feet of soil, the soul lies hidden beneath the thoughts of man, leaving others blind to both. I am not so ignorant to think more thoughts are the answer to the problem, but perhaps I am naive enough to hope release might lie in good thoughts, sound thoughts, logical thoughts. No, there is no release...only more dirt.
Why do others seem not to care? Are they afraid to get dirty, to ruin there Sunday’s best? Lets be more generous and pretend they care but they simply do not know what to do. They feel inadequate, without tools. I would lovingly tell them all it requires is a second of care and their ears will be the spade and save me from the hole I have made. But no one will lend me their spade.
And when I do get a chance I always mess it up. Isn’t it funny how you always say that one snide remark when all you really want to say is someone please love me? Even then why do they not see it? Do they really expect one who is sinking in the mire to call for his rescue with perfect unbroken English that flows with rapture? Would they not exert their last strength to save him if only he gave a cry for help, a peep? Why does no one hear my peep? Perhaps it is not as it first seemed. Could it be I am not sinking further from the world of men but closer to other already sunk? Am I going alone to the alone to be together with the lonely? No I cannot resign myself to this. So I start to fight, but as I move the earth closes in tighter around me and I am encompassed. There is no hope, it is now impossible.
Yet, I know this is not the end. I think of another who was once alone in the belly of the earth. And with the thought of another I gain one more breath, as finally turning away from oneself seems often to provide, but the breath was my last. What I needed was not better living it was better dying. I want to know Christ, but it must first be in His death so somehow I might attain to the resurrection from the dead. I find it odd how easy it is to muse on death, how vivid it appears to the senses and yet how elusive the story of resurrection and life. It is simply not human. I cannot finish the story. I can articulate the pain and misery of many felt hurts and heart aches, but the story of redemption was never mine to write...He is writing, He is writing my story, our story, His story. So I wait infinitely resigned, yet full of faith...though He slay, yet I will hope in Him for He is my rock and my redeemer.
