Like a low hanging branch, or the sound of a gunshot, the thought startles me and seizes my attention:

"What if I'm MEANT to be still, hungry and tired most of the time?"

It makes sense if you think about it for more than a few seconds:
"If I'm made to love with a sacrificial love, then no matter the amount of a thing I possess, I will give more than I can afford and trust God to replace what I need."

If I only ever give to the beloved from my excess, from my "extra", what does this say about the quality of my love? The beloved will only receive what I do not keep for myself.

Cheap.


But if I give from deep within my personal stores, from that which sustains me, it shows an entirely different kind of love. It says that the beloved matters more than my own entertainment, comfort and rest.

Dangerous.

Dig as deeply as you wish in most human hearts; lift the heavy blankets and layers of fabric, the stacks of wet newspaper, moldy photo albums, jewelry, old ticket stubs, stained sheets and once worn bride's maid dresses...cast aside the ribbon-bound greeting cards, the scribbled promises and panting pleas, and you will find beneath it all something cheap: love extended from personal excess.

But look no further than the quiet servant, to the one whose name no one knows, and there before you, without guile, disguise or adornment, without shame, motive, nuance or intricacy,  burns a glaring love. Fueled by the mystery of the Great Other, relentless in its devotion to the beloved, all consuming:

Dangerous.

"If the Great Other does not replenish my stores....I will die. To love another with sacrificial love then, is simply to trust the Great Other."

I become the conduit for love which flows in from outside the clamoring, panicky and CHEAP efforts of those who hoard their resources. I daily empty my stores, I become still, I become hungry and I become tired as I see to the needs of the beloved. I make room for the Great Other to replace what is needed....and so love flows.

Inland Waters are safe and Sound, gentle winds and trees surround.

Cove and inlet, shore and bay, lighthouse, markers show me the way.

But open water, ocean swell, boundless vista who can tell,

which way is home which way to Hell?

Christ of the Mysteries, can I trust you on the sea?

Approval hangs over my head like a giant black cloud.

It’s always there…always promising a down pour, but only delivering earth shaking thunder….
....lightning that suddenly flashes out of the heavy darkness and strikes the ground of my life,
rupturing my ear drums, causing me to cower with my head between my legs, eyes clinched, crying as loud as I can in a vain effort to drown out the overwhelming noise.

That’s not all…it starts fires too.  

A dry cloud.

If I manage to gain enough courage to move from my hiding place, I can scramble to maybe two or three of the small but growing fires that were recently started. I frantically dance upon these little fires, spitting out angry curses like my mouth is full of sand, and crying at the same time…

...desperate to put the fires out, wishing my tears of frustration were so voluminous as to drench them altogether but they just fall from my cheeks as I madly stomp and spin…hissing as they evaporate…useless in the growing flames.


There are the occasional victories.

A fire, that after great effort, is finally extinguished.

As I pause, panting and smiling for just that instant, I become aware of how much I stink of soot and sweat and dirt, and my eyes take in all the smoldering hot spots. Dozens…hundreds. The fires still burning just beneath the surface of the dry needles and twigs.

They’re everywhere.

Thunder rolls again and I look up, desperate for rain.