Sit with me
Lean on the wall
We're tired of talking
Tired of talk
Look at me
Don't say a word
We can speak colors
Colorful verse
Talk about God
Don't say a word
Smile with me
So good to be here
Don't fight the weeping
Pray with your tears
Talk about God
Talk about God
And don't you say a word
Jesus the one
Jesus the only
Here in our silence
Making it holy
Don't say a word
This is a draft!! And I may never finish it. Mom: Do you think this could be the start of a good short story? And yes, it is highly metaphorical.
Any sane person startles to the realization he has woken up here. It is the insane who sit back and call for applesauce. But after I push myself off the bed, dropping the mouthpiece to let it dangle, I am not sure where to go. I have no idea what to expect. My trachea could collapse, for all I know. I might die now.
"I might die now," I say out loud to myself. Something inside replies, Respirators are a promise not worth keeping. I agree. I choked on the tube when I woke up. Stupid respirators.
I seem to be alone. All I can see are the digital numbers and glowing red dots that surround my bed. All I can hear is the whirring and quiet beeping of machines. There has got to be a window in this place.
I hiss through my teeth as I remove the last tube from my left arm. Not really fond of opiates either, or anesthetics, or whatever it is. Stupid drugs.
Where is my night vision? I take a few steps forward. On the third one I meet with the edge of a table. My brief tactual exploration reveals nothing but a short plastic cup full of liquid, doubtless some kind of juice. I pick it up, sniff it. It actually smells like alcohol. I consider for a moment.
My throat is quite dry...
But not that dry.
After more shuffling around, I discover a door. It is smooth and cold with a bit of peeling paint here and there. I clutch the handle and lean against the wall, because I am beginning to realize that I have been dizzy since I woke up. Then I open the door slowly.
I am overwhelmed by more darkness, as well as a caustic, vaguely floral smell and the memory that accompanies it.———————
“Yes, what do you need?”
That was an unusual greeting from a receptionist.
“I was wondering whether I could... well, I need a place to stay. Just tonight.”
“And what can I do for you, sweetie?”
I wasn't sure how to answer her. I'd just told her what she could do. Was this a trick question?
“Uhh... well. Could I stay here for the night? I realize you guys have, like, your rules and... everything, but it's a hospital and I thought maybe if I stay here in the lobby it won't be much of a problem.”
I was flustered by how eloquent I wasn't. I had thought hard about what I would say just before walking into that foul-smelling building, but all my thoughts seemed to have melted together into a lump. I had to wrest every word from that lump.
“You're from this area,” she stated.
She had caught me off guard. “Uh, no... I'm not, I live—”
“All right. Then we'll have your signature right here, it'll give us permission to take emergency measures should anything happen to you.”
I took it from her hand and had barely begun to read when she said, “Don't worry, sweetie. It's for your protection.”
Ashamed at my rudeness, I laid the paper on the counter and signed my name.
I have a history of second-guessing almost everything I feel and think.
Guess what? Life sucks when I am like that.
So now think about the old shirt that you won't throw out because it has become so comfortable. Or the black silhouettes of trees outside my window, the latest great food you discovered, the sound of piano music, the damp smell of dirt and new leaves in early spring. I mean my nephew's tiny feet running across the carpet. My nose frozen from walking out in the cold, my fingers thawing when I return, the neon green numbers on the microwave, and the shadows cast by a series of lampposts outside in the park.
Remember the handwriting of the people you love, their voices, their faces, the ways they move, their unique ways of being in the world. Think of the exhilaration of being chased in a game of tag, the relief and mad joy of being fully forgiven for hurting one of the people who mean the most to you.
I mean how it feels to be in my grandparents' basement with my little brother. I mean my older siblings joking cryptically with each other. I mean the act of breathing, late afternoon walks, the heat of the sun on your face, the pleasure of a gardener as he works, the woman who greets you when you walk into Wal-mart, the arms of a father rocking his baby, and that person in your life who somehow makes everybody feel welcomed and important.
I mean deep shades of blue-violet and pastel pinks and startling reds, the bright expressive patterns on an African tunic, stars in a clear black sky. I mean the reassurance, as I fall asleep at night, that God is with me, deeply in love with me, and listening hard as I pray for a fresher heart.
Lately, stuff has been getting under my skin and I am not doubting it. I will not suspect that the feeling is only the temporary emotional side effect of my perception-- not when something so huge is going on. I will not shrug off the fantastic presence of beauty when I meet it (that is to say, when I meet Him).
It seems cruel to load a couple of theoreticals onto someone with no effort to give them substance. So I wrote down some examples of beauty I have known. I hope you can relate to them. But I realize that no one sees exactly the same things as anyone else. If you have anything you want to add, I would be more than happy to see it in the comments.
Like petulant frost in the passion of June
If I were a bird I'd sing slightly off-tune
I can't be a bottle of watered-down wine
A half-open door till I make up my mind
A firefly dim and contained in a jar
Don't let me be someone with half of a heart
I know you'll arrive by some time yesterday
That's just a bit longer than I want to wait
Matthew 5:8 God blesses those whose hearts are pure, for they will see God.