Saturday, December 18, 2004

Somehow We Become (For all my writer girlfriends)

"As Jesus left the house, he was followed by two blind men crying out, "Mercy, Son of David! Mercy on us!" When Jesus got home, the blind men went in with him. Jesus said to them, "Do you really believe I can do this? They said, "Why yes, Master."

"He touched their eyes and said, "Become what you believe." It happened. They saw." (Matthew 9:27-31, The Message)

Somehow we find each other in the dark. You are blind, and so am I. It's funny how these things happen. We don't attend a support group or braile class together. I simply hear you screaming and make my way to you. You simply hear me begging and make your way to me. I love you for that.

Somehow we stumble toward Jesus, tripping and falling, and bloodying our raggedy knees. It's not like we get much help. We're often misunderstood, you and me--a couple of blind chicks, trying to see Jesus, trying to write for him no matter that we're blind as bats. Two broads, you and me, big enough to dream that He can use us, inspite of our infirmities.

Somehow we understand each other. We are laughter pouring like fresh lemonade in the summer, down dry and thristy throats. We are wind, blowing through dreadlocks and straight hair, a little bit freeing, a little bit wild. You pray for me, and I pray for you. I offer you my meager substance, and in return, you feed me from your hand.

Somehow we find Him as he's leaving a house. We mourn what the dwellers there have lost. When Jesus moves, we want to move with Him. He doesn't mind it that we're blind. He loves like that. He loves like He's blind, too, only better.

Somehow we find ourselves before him. We've followed him, straining to hear his voice and footsteps. We've moved beyond the teachers who have said, "He's over there," as if we could see the direction they were pointing. At His feet we lift our anxious, dirt-stained faces upward to the Father, smelling the the scents that linger where Jesus lives. I am glad that you are here with me. It is fitting that we are together when we cry in one voice, "Have mercy on us."

"Do you really believe that I can do this?" Jesus asks, and we answer what we have known our entire lives. If we hadn't known, we would not have looked for Him.

"Yes, Master."

Jesus touches our dead eyes, and suddenly we are blinded by the colors swirling about us. Images startle and surprise, and we weep. We hold each other, because it's hard to understand all there is to see. Hang on to me, sister. Don't let me go. I need you.

I need you.

And it happens. We are what God has designed us to be. Pick up your scroll, your pen, your laptop. Write the vision. Make it plain. Be his voice. Be the sound of wind, and the sweet nectar of the rain.

We leave His house, but not His home. We clutch each other's hands, smiling our secret smiles, but keeping our secret...

even though we tell it to everyone we meet.

In love and courage,
Rags



6 comments:

Jules Quincy Stephens said...

You are the blessing, Rags.

Much love in Christ,

Jules Quincy Stephens

upwords said...

We are wind, blowing through dreadlocks and straight hair, a little bit freeing, a little bit wild. You pray for me, and I pray for you. I offer you my meager substance, and in return, you feed me from your hand.

You are wind, a sweet breath, milky with love, a whisper of sisterhood long lost and once abandoned. Keep dancing on keys, flying on words, breathing truth down my back.

The river parts when you hold my hand.

Sisterly,
Mary

Donna J. Shepherd said...

Yes, I desire to be His voice, His words, His hands reaching out to others.

Beautiful.

Donna

Anonymous said...

WOW.
Thank You.

Heather

bobbie said...

oh claudia, sister friend - you're wiping the floor with me this morning. stunning, moving, inspiring and grace filled - love you woman!

Dee said...

I'm crying again, Claudia. awe inspiring.