Confession

Doubt and longing are my recent repeating anthems. Recent being years old.

Normally I shoulder my insecurities with laughter, but have recently found myself too weary for mockery.

I find this flow of my brain rather melodramatic, and yet, though I wish to be someone who can shrug off the judgement of others, who can laugh at oneself and at the inelegant plight of being human I sometimes find going from one activity to the next all I can do.

In the silence I must admit that I am not always sure. Of myself. Of others. Of God.

I cannot fathom how to hold my posture in all this chaotic shuffling, in these griefs present, past and waiting. I long to be be strength and stability or to at least feign these foreign figures. Truth of late, however, seems to seep from my eyebrows raisings, from my jests, from the way my body slumps. Truth and confusion, or the truth that I am confused.

In these moments I am thankful for the landscape of the earth and the huge, unreal looking clouds - the yearning of them, because they help me to step out of my own insistent dreads and doubts and make me feel more certain that there is more, that there is hope.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." Ps. 34:18

"The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup, you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places: indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance." Ps. 16:6