I imagined it all! It was all just a part of my dream. Amazingly imaginative, that I could think up something so beautiful. It is vivid in my mind, but it couldn’t possibly have been real. My imagination cannot contain; it can’t fulfill such inspiration. I imagined it all.
And so he told me a story about how he too used to go for walks in the park. He said he too concealed himself with a thick, black overcoat. And on the inside he was free to float around like he was dancing on the moon. He said he saw planets and galaxies and gigantic clusters of nebulous fog. Apparently, he doesn’t go on walks anymore. I listened and cared. I think he imagined it all. But I’m glad. He won—he saw a fragment of heaven, even if it never really happened.
But me? I wasn’t just imagining. It was real. Nothing can change that. Though now, it’s a memory for me to doubt.
I look down at my body, my life, what I did today. When I see all that I do, I remember those times in my life I couldn’t eat. I tried to sleep; I tried to turn myself off. Those times I felt the sun pierce through my curtains, I didn’t want to open my eyes. Those times I could do nothing but lie, crouched in a ball, squeezing and pinching my skin. It is hard for me to imagine what kept me from eating. I really wanted to. I put food in my mouth. It would slosh around but my throat would not take anything.
Those times I would have paid any price for life, for release. Nothing could bring me out, not even to be a cloud. I couldn’t listen to music; the saddest music was too sweet. Nothing, not to be good or great; death in a living body has no price.
Having tasted such, I fear nothing else. If I live without water in a place of nothing, I will not fear. Or for those there, I will not pity more than a soul with nothing. I will choose anything and give up everything to be able to eat.
I look down at my body today and ask God to take from me everything and give me everything; for truly, I’m learning to fear God more than anything.
Following the traces of a guiled leader’s end, listening to my roommate’s preoccupation with his own religiosity, and then, reading “Richard the Second”, I’m dazzled by the rays of moonlight that strike my bed.
Tucked away in my corner, I hear someone say, “Have joy. You are free. No one and no thing has you. You are mine and I set you free.” The voice breaks in; it is that soft, deep, familiar timbre. Jesus makes me smile, calls to me by name. He calls me Beloved. He calls out to me, “Beloved…” He offers me sweet refuge where my soul’s thirst is quenched with all kinds of goodness and godliness. Sometimes His love falls from precious faces flowing past me; it covers over my roommate drowning his spirit in pornography, and over the seemingly welcoming and honest face of my president—over to the rays of moonlight, to sweet John of Gaunt.
I am here and away and I needn’t return but when Jesus, standing, sees me crossing back he reminds me, “Your freedom is true.” And I crawl from this drawer and stand in honor with everyone and call “Friend.” to my roommate and “King.” to the president, and “Man.” to Richard.
If the stillness of a pond is rippled, and if no
one is around, can it be felt?
If by a mere walk through the forest you gather the
admiration of the ferns, the evergreen trees,
if even the sunshine smiles upon your path,
Surely, God listens, with eyes closed, to the
music of the leaves crackling beneath your feet,
to an essence that can’t be compared to the fragrant
oils of creation.
Surely, what we share of God’s beauty is