A Lotta Good and Some Ugly Too

I’ve unintentionally taken a month long hiatus from writing.

Its generally my tell—an indication that I am getting caught up or entangled in moments without allowing myself time to reflect.

So. I am slowing myself down. Getting still within and remembering that Abba Father is God. Remembering that Jesus is the lover of my soul. Remembering that the Holy Spirit is my comforter.

Caught up.

I started to get caught up in a lotta good happening. I am getting settled, more and more everyday, into a new apartment with a new roommate in a beloved city full of people I love to encounter and talk with for hours.

I just finished working a summer program at the Montessori school where I worked with an incredible woman who taught me so much about following a child and being still enough to observe. I bonded more deeply with the kids in our class. I watched their faces light up when they accomplished a hard thing. I celebrated with them.

And.

The friendship between me and this incredible woman shot up like the flourishing greens in the backyard of Primary 1.

The good kept coming.

Most recently, my cousin who I hadn’t seen in years, flew out to Atlanta for work and we were able to see each other a couple of times after being separated by an ocean and 1000’s of miles of land and all the daily distractions of life. We laughed until we nearly peed ourselves. We prayed together. We were like little kids again.

God blessed us with a place in Him that neither distance nor time is able to define—a place in Him for me and my always there cousin.

Then.

Another cousin, one of my beautiful older cousins, and her husband made an unexpected detour from Greenville to Myrtle Beach to Savannah to Atlanta where I met them for dinner in East Atlanta Village and talked about love and God and children. My cousin shared with me stories I had never heard about her living places I had never known about.

They were hard times and hard places for her, a juxtaposition of my cousin’s soft heart.

A lotta good—friends, children, family, love (for a man).

Love.

The beginning is sometimes a foreshadowing that we refuse to look at too closely because the spark would surely be snuffed out—and the spark of a sparkler is so pretty, isn’t it?

It was a sultry July night. A friend invited me to his house party where he planned to play a set along with some other friends of ours.

I hesitated attending because I was tired and unsure of the crowd dynamic. But. At the last minute I decided to go.

It was on this sultry night I met him. He couldn’t even remember my name.

Yet and still.

We crashed into each other like some kind of cosmic bang. And. Over the past month and a half, telling stories of our times before meeting on that sultry July night, we found we had circumnavigated each other.

Touching toe to toe and palm to palm, I later discovered that we are still circumnavigating each other.

Entangled.

The beginning, the middle, and the end of our story is, for better or worse, a passionate dispensation of energy.

I met him right where he was—met him with love (agape, then phileo) and mercy. I met him with a warm touch in the moonlight and snow where he stood heavy-hearted. I am in light and he is in shadow.

While I did not walk the line perfectly, we were not unevenly yoked. He is saved, whether he wants to be or not. He is a sheep gone from the 99. A younger brother with a spent inheritance.

We had a lotta good moments in the briefness of us. These moments are like those little trinkets that the children of yesteryear used to collect into tin boxes and hide behind or under loose tiles and boards.

I had not experienced a connection as deep as the one I felt with him, more than flesh and feelings, in maybe not ever. I can certainly say that I had never experienced with any other man the precise moment in which my love for him deepened and became another kind of love.

But we had some ugly too.

Alcohol. Alcohol darkens that shadow he is in and makes him somebody that he is not. As much as he wants to be loved, and as easy as it is for me to love him, a romantic relationship is not the help he needs.

And. A romantic relationship with him not receiving that help is not one that I need.

His love for me, whether he knows it or not, is agape and phileo, and eros. It is a conflicted love.

Last night, I went to Abba and wept. I wept until I fell asleep in His arms.

Today, the tears pool in the corners of my eyes and fall against my cheeks sporadically like the showers from the sky.

I want to keep my tears in my heart with God where I know they are safe from mockery and speculation and judgement.

If I avert my eyes ever so slightly, only Jesus can see my tears when they spill over across my fingertips. And. He will comfort me. Because. He always does.

 

The Lord is close to those whose hearts are breaking; he rescues those who are humbly sorry for their sins.–Psalm 34:18, TLB

 

 

 

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2 comments

  1. Now that’s a good entry. Be real but keep yourself safe.

    1. Thank you, Lee.

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