Annie Proulx asks, “For who has not heard music at the end of the day, [the most impressionable time] the quarter-light infused by somber harmonies that say everything that has ever been said?”
Yet even after glimpsing –and thereby eternally believing– this revelation, I still chase the black dragon of writing; believing in even stronger than moments that cannot be expressed in words, the ones that only can. There is a profound statement that mystifies the ages in the opening to John’s gospel, and meditating on ‘Christ as God’s word’ carries me to these far reaches of human belief: that not only can we define the indefinable, but it is our duty as writers to pursue the journey.
The dog will come close when the baby’s sucking and sometimes will want to lay her head either on the baby’s head or my arm supporting her. She reminds me of the adoration of mother in civilizations that far exceed the one in which our little trio finds ourselves, in the innate ability to love. She reminds me too that we can all be instantly transported to one –- say, Christ’s time—by exercising such love. That’s the answer to our prayers, “…May your kingdom come.” We, not God who already wills it, permit it.
Yet, I still, despite my decision to be submissive to my husband (I know, a dirty word among my generation) in certain matters, have a problem with the Baptist church inviting all the men of the congregation to come forward and pray for a good service. What kind of Christ-like church asks only half of their body to pray? Well, I have seen the answer and I do not question that this church seeks in their hearts to do the will of God, but I must question how willingly they allow Christ to work in their hearts when they are so attached to prejudices within their own Body.
People are not ideas; they could never be so pure. When they try and live out their lives like they’re walking ideologies –- and inevitably fail—they become depressed. We are so much more than ideology, even so much more than thousands of them. We are able to see the shape of our souls by writing poetry and the lines outline the shape, but what is all that space within the shape we’ve drawn?
© 2014, Amaya Engleking