“…and the one who comes to Me I will by no means cast out.”  John 6

Three months out from my surgery and I’m still picking up pieces that were not lost.  This, to me, is a sign of God’s incredible care.  (“Not the least lash lost,” you know, everything that is beautiful is washing away but still being washed over us.  “Kept with a far greater care.” Etc.)  I should cite those properly but as you know I am not in school, ha.  (Sigh!  Wist!)  These wonderful notes from you, Franz, and you, Nat and Austin and everyone are just … well, my living is soaked in these thoughts, and I’m getting on.  God is taking far greater a care.  I wrote this last night:

I remember things in the hospital cloudily, the first  few hours in the room there at the end of the hall cutting in and out of memory with wide blanks and only half-recalled moments.  It’s strange how others’ memories are awkwardly fitted into the sequence of my own, how I imagine Samantha crying but can only remember her and Nick’s faces when they first came in, such profoundly troubled eyes, such a weight of care that I had to remember and remember now with something beyond wonder or gratitude.  How strange, that I had to lie in that bed in such a ridiculous gown and with such a preposterous amount of drugs washing through my heart, through fingertips, heart again, fingertips.  That I hate it when I have to be gotten out of bed by someone already up, hate to be blotchy and frumpy when everyone is put-together, and yet I was watched in that bed by parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, pastor, old friends, new friends.  And I wanted it, somehow, I could have kissed them all.  Even though I could hardly change my knees over from one side to the other.

That series of moments, from getting into the blue gown to getting up for my first walk down the hall and back to the first night or second or third sleeping at home, these moments, so strange (my eyes filling over and again), like one of those old window panes that’s washed with blemishes and irregularities and distorts the view.  Because I felt underwater, then, grown gills somehow, somehow able to open my eyes underwater like I’ve never been able to do since a child.  Breaking the surface or backing up from the window—mixing metaphors–sorry–terrible—I just want to somehow be able to say before these moments become indistinct, and unwritten, lost, that the glass or water with waves in my vision in those days recedes, and I can take a minute to cry for something I didn’t know to grieve, then.

The weight of our existence has to be measured to us, I think, Emily Dickinson thinks, and Kierkegaard (yes! what an incredible quote! “Suffering is the characteristic of God’s love”), by piece.  It opens up my brain like a door, to know that the pressure of the real things of the universe are keeping our shape, keeping our guts in, but they live another life outside this that could crush us inside the seed of a second.  Christ, the one outside the press of time, the one himself the press of the real, who holds off; weighs; measures; precise in his amounts as the builder of bombs or clocks, he’s the one who measures to me what I can balance and no more.  Oh my scales are crazy.  God I want the time and mercy (I drink it like water) to make the balance, reach equilibrium again not with jerks and upsets but with the slender crossings of legs, the hearing of birdsong in the early morning, the word in my ear, word in my mouth.

This is the word, then, weighed and whispered in my mouth, enough until the next one, that who I am right now is enough.  I shade toward something right since the press of the real, the press of Christ, one grain at a time, Jesus Christ, he’s building me a building, calling me, and I’m called, am being called.  Today, even though I have a terrible cold and am aching from top to toe, I believe in the care of God so much I could be shot for it. 

Also, I miss blogging!  Hell!  Look what happens when I’m away!  New power cord maybe next week, shipped perhaps from Hong Kong.