Thursday, February 21, 2013

confession



I entered the tiny room ready for a clean slate.

“Here’s the thing,” he said after I had finished, sitting across from me wearing his black collar.

“You’re a mess. But you are a beautiful mess. You are a redeemed mess. We all are.”

This world seems to only leave room for messes sometimes...because it is a messy, messy world. But knowing the truth of his words means that we finish this race winning, that we don't always need to be pressed and folded, and that life has meaning.

So the only question left is: how are you going to leave the room a little cleaner before you go?

Monday, February 11, 2013

soaring



We run through the wilderness of God. Pressing through the overgrowth of love, down paths of peace, basked in mercy and compassion. We jump off the cliff of our own world’s madness towards the divine and find the journey is more like flying than flailing. You’re met with wings rather than thorns and branches. You didn’t ask to fly. You just wanted to walk. Maybe that’s the most beautiful part--you didn’t know you could fly. Too much in the world told you otherwise. Too much happened that made you limp. But evidently, not enough. Because suddenly, you’re soaring. More yourself, more true, more honest than ever before. You can never be able to define or distinguish the moment when you made the leap because the leap was always there—only waiting to be taken. But suddenly, you’re soaring. And you want to stay forever in this wilderness. And go where the wild things are.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

You are light





"Jesus says ‘You are the light of the world.” I like even more what Jesus doesn’t say. He does not say ‘One day, if you are more perfect and try really hard, you’ll be light. He doesn’t say, ‘If you play by the rules, cross your T’s and dot your I’s, then maybe you’ll become light.’ No. He says, straight out, ‘You are light.” It is the truth of who you are, waiting only for you to discover it"

                                                                                                                        -Greg Boyle, SJ, Tattoos on the Heart  

Shine on.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

killing time






I ducked into the coffee shop thankful for a respite from the pelting snow. I had an hour to kill and, after picking up a bottle of wine for the upcoming dinner in an hour, I felt this café in Cleveland Park to be a sanctuary. My mint tea and half-finished book invited me all the more to the cozy seats. I settled in only to receive a phone call and began a conversation with family that lasted for most of my stay. The hour melted away. The man cleaning the surrounding tables, however, alarmed me. Would I have to leave the café prematurely? Were they getting ready to close? I looked around.

“Do you close at 7 or 8?” I asked.

“A las ocho,” he said, signifying the latter.

‘A, cierran a las ocho? Gracias,” “Oh, you close at eight? Thanks.”

“Hablas espanol?” he said, asking if I spoke Spanish.

Before I knew it, the man from El Salvador stopped and began what would only be a ten minute conversation.

A father of four. An employee with two jobs. A lover with a broken heart. A sage with wisdom.

He spoke of many things. The different weather. The past 11 years in D.C. His son in Texas. The love of his life. The pain of finding her with another man.
“You’re single?” he said “soltera?” And after a quick jab of “my son is your age,” to which I could only laugh and roll my eyes, the wiseman emerged.

“There are different types of love,” he began. "The artificial and the profound. The type that looks to the external and the type that looks within. I’ve given and received both. But the latter is pure, the latter is true. Wait for the latter,” he said, “don’t put up with anything else. Wait for the man who looks at your soul.”

I smiled, acknowledging the truth of his words.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “Good luck and all the best. Adios.”

I picked up my empty cup, closed my barely touched book and pulled on my down coat before emerging once more into the white flurries outside.

“So much for killing time,” I laughed while walking across the snowy bridge to Woodley Park.

So much for killing time.