It's 12:13 am.
My fingers are sore,
but only on one hand,
tired of coaxing music from a worn guitar.
Sitting on the porch,
automobiles creating a soundtrack of inconsistent rhythm.
God and I hang out here on my front porch. I sing Him songs and He listens and holds my hand and looks at me pointedly when I apologise for playing a chord badly.
Catch me if you can. Catch, catch, catch.
I feel in some ways, that I have stumbled back into leading worship, a weird sort of Blindman's Bluff.
"Hey everybody! I'm blindfolded, I've no idea where we are, I THINK I can hear the Lord over this way...follow me!"
And now I'm on fire, and now I am running, and now I am so close to Him, and I hear my heart in my ears and I just to want to be near to Him. And now the 30 minutes are up, the clock on the wall telling me it's time to wrap it up. Wrap it up, Meg.
I don't know if I'll ever figure out the balance of the church service with the desire to worship with abandon. So I have my own times, He and I, here on the porch, and by the time I'm done
My fingers are sore,
but only on one hand,
tired of coaxing music from a worn guitar.
Sitting on the porch,
automobiles creating a soundtrack of inconsistent rhythm.
I have a whole lot of crying stored up in me and nowhere to put it.