a bemused beginning
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| looking over an old poem I wrote — jónsi sang go |
…and so it begins. And beginnings aren’t often beautiful or dramatic or clear-cut. Often, they overlap with endings or middles, all of them muddled together into a minty mess that is sometimes tasty and sometimes overpowering.
I prefer my beginnings to be precise. And so I wait. But precise beginnings only come in retrospect, not in the living out; it’s when you’re telling the story that you can pinpoint the start of something. And so today, I merely begin in the middle, where I find myself on a Monday, right smack dab in the middle of a day, a few days into a new month, five months into a year.
I worked at my church for the past six years until I quit at the end of april. I never set out to work at a church, nor really wanted to, but my church is not a churchy-church; it is very real, genuine, creative, intelligent, unafraid. Yesterday marked the fourth sunday of me getting to simply sit in the pew, and I finally felt it. And the feeling I hadn’t experienced in over six years was the surprise of a Sunday amid my week. A day not simply set apart, but one that rises above whatever triumphs or failures or forgetfulness you’ve lived through the rest of the week. A day that reminds you, you are not alone, you can make something beautiful of your life, and even better than that, you have help — all you have to do is trust the help that is offered to you. I’ve been so used to thinking about church all week long as part of my job, that I forgot how powerful the truths of the Gospel are, how they are not separate from daily life, but actually at the core of life itself. And yesterday rose up out of my week, and out of my first month of unemployment, and set me straight on the path I did all this for — to write. So here I am, typing a muddled first blog post to give feet to my dreams and a path for my trust to walk.
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