kick against the pricks

My God is a God of second chances, and third and fourth and fifth ones.When I am caught in the current fruitlessly kicking against the forces of fast water, He tells me to release. The Bible says, “The Lord shall fight for you”, but it seems counterintuitive unless my intuition is tied into His. Let each worn white knuckle cling no more. One at a time I peel my fingers back until I can no longer hold on and must be sucked into the water, tossed back to land, and admit that I am not in control, He is. God, let me try again. My “I’m sorry”s and “I promise”s have been multiplied too many times, like an exponential trajectory of sin. But please erase it, and let me start at 0,0 once again.

In the Interim

Voids of uncertainty, or maybe just a hole
Between the impressions and what I know
If I were better at logic, this might make sense
If X then Y
Which is to say, “X will guarantee Y.”
But if not?
God’s intricacies lie in constellations too blurry to make out
If I can own the principles and perhaps some wax and string
But even without, I can feel future scenes: mother, father, child in the back seat

Riddled basins of attraction make it impossible to predict
The path of physical particles
Wait. Just wait.
Caught up and dangling over the sea of confusion, held only by the force of fields.

Mission

Some things testified of until they left marks on my palms. Sentences and phrases, no longer forms of speech but living breaths of anguish and joy.

Memories attack. Waking me in the morning, crashing suddenly in the afternoon. More vivid than any previous thoughts I’ve had about past events. These ones aren’t yet past. I still breathe British air and maybe (I pray) that I’ll never let the last air molecule escape out of my lungs, so as never to let go. Roundabouts and people’s homes, the way it felt in certain, exact moments. Not exuberant flings of fancy, just flashes of time caught up and still spinning about me. It is in the present. I am still Sister James, unchanged, not gone home, not tossed out of custard, minced meat pie, dandelion and burdock wonderland. Still a castle in the forefront, still sheep and rivers and hedgerows and fantasy book names for the green hills that are constantly playing on some type of never ending rerun in the back of every other less meaningful daily task. I still take the rubbish out in Wales.

Daily Musings

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my sanity. Probably if I talked to a trained psychologist today, they'd say, "Yes." When the things that felt right fall through, what does it mean? Can I no longer interpret the voice of God? It makes no sense why I am here. Yet, I feel so much better here than I would in Salt Lake, and I don't know why. Before I left this last time, my brother asked if I would ever live in Utah again. I had to say, "No." And what of our plans to build up the family business, the long dreamed of Yonsei, Inc.? Perhaps there'll be an eastcoast branch.

The T

Green shirt, white peacoat, and long black hair. She pulls a kid size box of thin mints out of her pocket and pops a few in her mouth. She is clearly reading the Metro that the woman next to her is holding.

Nude hose, white tennis shoes, and a short green skirt that can only be part of a uniform. She is asleep, fist on hand, elbow on metal. Her brow is furrowed.