my heart wasn’t made for this.

{ source :: pinterest }

There are times when I feel like all the seeing and knowing and hearing and reading . . . all the immediate access we have to everything in the world at the same time can’t be good for our wee God-woven hearts? And to top it off we have a veritable highway of opinion and commentary for the entirety of it. And this million-lane-wide-opinion-highway is without speed limits or traffic violations or ticket-writing-police and there are engines burning at 8000 rpm’s and can someone please let me off at the next exit?

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Do you ever wonder if your heart wasn’t made for it? The internet, I’m speaking of now and the other night a popular justice-fighter made a very public mistake and every web-avenue was bursting with this “delicious” and “titillating” news before anyone could say “Bob’s your uncle”. Jason Russell of Invisible Children was hit hard by God only knows what kind of invisible force and I only read 5 minutes worth of responses from people sitting on their self-righteous couches before I was screaming, screaming inside. And weeping over my tea kettle and telling Jesus that “my heart wasn’t made for this”, this expansive knowing of what is being said and done to just one man {let alone the world} and with the breadth of meanness and judgement coming off my computer screen? I hurt so bad—everywhere—for the unconscionable abuse being kicked against him while he was already down. And I was burning-in-my-lungs mad. Any madder and maybe someone would’ve found me running naked in the streets doing strange things, scandalizing polite society.

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Love,

Erika

Snow ::

The snow finally came this Saturday past after very much yearning and praying and watching from the little-lad division of our family tribe. But, you know? Right next to their sides I would squeeze up and I would press my face to the shivering glass, sing a prayer-sonnet or ode-to-snow and stare with such great hope that the sky would start dropping white magic over our land. And when it came 12″ thick?

I was born that day.

Again.

Because snow always feels like grace to my courtesan-heart and I need this winter elixir of nature’s cathedral to symbolize Christ’s purification of me, for as much and as long as my wandering heart . . . wanders.

So it descends . . . deep like grace, a flawless and impartial alabaster-velvet shroud to cover all the begrimed. I can see it in my spirit-eye, one by one the flakes are gathered from the cradle of a far-out comet, where everything is still clean. And it comes slipped down the slide of the forgiving Divine fingers and the metaphor-for-pure passes thru the age of the earth, the damage to the atmosphere . . . the contamination of trash and time. And yet, it’s still so white? Because the cleansing kind of grace doesn’t get dirty, it seems, no matter what we humans do. It never effects the color that grace makes you—the color of clean.

No wonder I am born every time snow spills.