There is only glass--impossibly thin, that amorphous molecular structure that has always fascinated me, the little grrl picking up pieces of green and brown and clear from city sidewalks to the horror of my parents—between me and baptism. But I’ve already given myself to Christ so why are my wet eyes pinned to those insistent trails of heaven’s tears? What is... what is the Lord telling me? Why isn’t He speaking in words, sentences, paragraphs, novels? You know... like usual.
The table is small and round and black-and-white checkerboard. We could play chess but Alyson has already won. MMA submission on the red sparkle lino.
“It’s all or nothing, Angel...”
“How assuring.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hm. I wasn’t.”
And I watch her carefully over the rim of my chai with chocolate. I am wary. Today she is a redhead with crimson lipstick and as predatory as a velociraptor. Though, considering the avian connection, far more cold blooded. Under the table, my hand is turned palm against the glass café wall. The rain falls down the cold glass. I can feel my heart beat where my fingers meet. I...
*I censor myself. I think you’ll find me--*
*Baby, you don’t need to edit with me.*
*I dream of you. Bathed in light. So much it aches. Fills my chest with desire. The divinity of pleasing you washes over me. I want to whisper softly, your pulse under my lips, your curves and hallows under my hands. I want to discover the poetry of your body with my eyes closed so I come to know you first by touch and taste and scent. I'm a visual thinker, yes, but I want to share you with all my senses. I just....*
*Why would you hide that?*
Why am I hiding this?
Why am I visiting that day in the café again and again in my dreams? Lord? Some answers please.
I’m waiting.
“Talk to me about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, than it isn’t love.”
“What?”
“I implore you, Angel...”
“What?!”
And I remember psychology class. That truth about the mind leaving reality during trauma. I didn’t think that drinks with Alyson counted as a trauma. Blunt trauma. To the chest. I wish I’d had some warning.
Do you remember the last time you thought that? Or prayed, quietly, not quite angry, but not real amused, “Christ, a little warning... a little warning that I’d walk in on them together when he was suppose to be mine... a little warning that the pink slip would come three days before Christmas... that the car would blow... that the bike would crash... some kinda writing on the wall... it would have been nice to have had a hint, to catch a clue.”
“You have to make exceptions, being in the public eye.”
“Concessions.”
“You’ve changed, Angel.”
“We’re always changing.”
“You’ll wrap her up in lies.”
“In my arms.”
“There are consequences.”
“I'll change my name.”
“You already did.”
*Tell me about your morning. I want to feel like we’re together.*
*A thousand miles... more...*
*Lots of couples are apart for work. Tell me about your morning?*
*Okay... This morning... I woke in pale new light but my pupils were dilated, wide with passion. My skin tingled with heat, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. My shoulders, stomach and thighs were tight with exquisite tension. I wanted you above me or beside me, but close enough that your every breath would press you nearer. What did I dream? Did you send me kisses and slow dancing? I think I dreamt of your strength. Your intelligence. Your gaze. When I say that I want you, I mean it in a great many ways. Some of them physical. Some of them sexual. Some of them spiritual, emotional, creative. But this morning? This morning what I felt for you was *primal.**
When you believe, as I do, as all New Testament Christians do (and a couple other religions as well) that the Lord speaks to us through direct communication, allowing for private revelation and a Living Word, personal scripture and verse, it is hard to remember – to accept -- that sometimes He wants us to try harder. Sometimes He doesn’t want to make it easy.
We have to work for it.
“But she can't stop shaking and
I can't stop touching her and
this time when her kindness falls like rain
it washes her away. And Anna begins
to change her mind.
These seconds when she’s shaking
leave me shuddering for days...
Am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“You’ll pin her down like a butterfly in an album.”
“I’m not going to bend on this, Alyson.”
“Keep her at a distance, a beautiful thing.”
“I’m not going to break.”
“How can you live with yourself?”
“My name’s on the lease.”
“How can you sleep at night?”
“I don’t really...”
Sometimes, even when we pray, Christ does not answer in words we can understand. He wants us to learn not just the right path but how to find it in the wilderness. He wants us to go the long way around.
I’m not fond of these lessons :)
But sometimes you have to live it to learn it. You have to have that experience in your hands, your heart, your head. Sometimes the answers simply will *not* be there. Christ didn’t walk this Earth to make it easy for us. He walked this Earth to make it more real. The mortal coil should not be spent in oblivion any more than eternity should be.
“She's talking in her sleep.
It's keeping me awake.
And she begins to toss and turn.
And every word is nonsense
but I understand them all.
Oh Lord, am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“If you won’t listen to me...”
“I am listening.”
“You can’t possibly believe this is safe.”
“Still listening.”
“You’d throw your work away.”
“Listening.”
“The work you claim is God’s work.”
And I stand up. And I push my chair back. It falls over and the silver metal hits the empty table behind us and there is a sound like anger and even though my face is composed my eyes give me away. “I have *never* made that claim.”
But even then I trembled. Even then I shied away. Because I should have shouted: “How dare you suggest my love is not divine.”
*I want this time done. This waiting.*
*You've never said that before. You're always so patient.*
*I’ve been faking.*
*In His time...*
*Ugh! I want you here. Now. Before me. I want your hands in my hair, under my shirt, against my skin. Want your mouth on mine. Want to shout for you, throw my head back and shout your name. Push against you, crying tears I can't stop because you make me feel so fine it's like dying and being reborn. Want to whisper to you what I like... guide you... kiss you. Feel your breath against my neck. Sink to my knees for you. Whisper that I love you. Forever. Beyond forever because forever would come too soon to contain what I feel for you. I want to shout that I love you *now* because this is the golden moment that Christ gave us.*
*You just did. All of that. Perfectly.*
Sometimes, we have to accept that Christ does as He did long ago. Because long ago and right now and into the future are all pretty much the same to Him. Sometimes He speaks to us in abstract signs and symbols and methodologies that seem strange and impossible and mysterious and way better than fiction. Sometimes when we pray for angels, He drops white feathers on our black leather jackets. Sometimes when we pray for rain, He makes a friend email us a description of a thunder storm. And sometimes, when we pray for clarity, He makes a song replay for us and unfold for us like origami and the verses recount a RL conversation and the chorus repeats our general disposition and we realize... our friend has assured us. He gives us all... even when He gives us nothing.
*Do you?*
*Hm?*
*Do you know?*
*Know?*
*I prayed about it. So much. I want you, too. Under my lips. In my hands. Pressed against me. I want to feel you. I want to cry with you, let go of reason and control. To feel completely wild and in love. I want to grow closer, our paths becoming one path. To whisper my secrets to you between kisses. To hear you make that sound you make unbidden every time I pause or pull away. I want to inspire you... in every way possible. I want... *you.* Yes, in so many ways.*
You are whispering to me, the things which are divinity to only my ears. Ragged and worn, He washed me up on your shores, moonlit blue-white sand, strewn with rose petals. And you are sweet on my tongue. The salt of the water is the salt of my tears. Your face is feathered by the moonlight. And this is why we're together. You are a voice of Christ incarnate in my life. You are here when His whispers aren't loud enough to be heard over the din of my life. I dreamed of you in my personal mythology... but I never dreamed you would be so *right* for me... for all of me.
I'm thirsty anyway... so let it rain.
I'm watching for signs, Lord. So carefully.
I'm watching.
EJ
