Monday, July 30, 2012


Ever since Calvin hit me with predestination and tulips, the best part of a decade has gone by in a blur. I may be slow on the uptake but 10 years is simply ridiculous and yet I would not have it any other way. During this painfully slow process (still processing), it would be alarming to conceive that my years of raging, sulking, whining and tantrum throwing may even be considered "communing" with God but I suppose some mammals were simply born stubborn. Two in particular were of special interest to me and broke down the concept of predestination in my head in a foolish enough way to render me thick.

It is no easy task to feed on the Living Word. It may be balmy words of wisdom to some, but to others it pierces the void with nothing but the stark realization of naked emptiness. From the time I even dared imagine that God's sovereignty meant more than merely an assent to my choice, my soul has been slowly shredded inside out and what was once self-righteous tapestry now more closely resembles tattered jellyfish without the dignity of any sting. This is the battle I wake to these days and the dreams I live through each night. That as I chase to stuff my life more of Word, it eludes me like a secret ingredient that refuses to be named.

I thought that once I answered the question of whether I was a sheep or a goat, that all other questions would fall into place but in seeking to know the answer, everything that once held joy has fallen out of place. In seeking to find and maybe even create myself, I have lost the reason that prompted my seeking; in seeking to know, I now understand even less. Tonight despite a ringing migraine and an urge to kiss the loo bowl, it crept up on me that the answer lies not in whether I am a sheep or a goat. For my being a sheep will not justify my inaction and my being a goat will not excuse my action. Indeed, if I am a goat, and this I may struggle with for the rest of my days, then may I burst my innards for those who may be sheep.

I rest tonight in green pastures, turning my woolly-brained head to the hills, waiting for my shepherd to come.

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