Oh, you know that back road path. The one no one wants to talk about, because everyone calls it “lost”, and yet it is your only way. It’s the path that the great writers only hint at between the lines of their greatest works when they just cannot quantify what caused them to arrive where they arrived.
I don’t know – it’s the space where my soul is growing, where you linger because The leaf just hasn’t unfolded yet. It’s where nothing and no one can find you, and you don’t need to be found.
“Where lunch will be weeds and heaven’s conversation,”I put it once.
There, yes, there, I recorded some songs on my old piano in the middle of a random August week.
To document and declare–I’m alive! The wilderness didn’t kill me. And the wild flowers are vase-worthy.
The great machine did not succeed in telling me I have no voice. Nor did the glamsuaries where songwriters became rockstars.
Here, I found the slow pace of growth. And everyday miracles. The nutritional value of locusts and honey. Where Jesus delivered the cream for my coffee – not metaphorical cream, but actual cream.
Where prayer – laden kitchen table conversations produced overnight miracles – over and over and over. For me, yes, but better yet, for those I love.
Jesus is the abundant universe. I roamed the ends of the earth to rediscover Him.
And songs are for sharing.
My wild hymns.
May we reconnect raw spirit to raw spirit and feel the rushing wind of God’s love, independent of the lush rug and lamp set up of today’s worship gurus and preaching goddesses.
Here in the dirt. Let’s have church.
Wild: 1. (of an animal or plant) living or growing in the natural environment.
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