letters and numbers

November 17, 2004

stairwell accompaniment: Guster-Live from Portland

Matt said something at small group last night that has stayed with me. God has sent the Spirit to be our living water-to flow out of us and fill us until we run over. Yet I am always concerned about having a perfect, tall and shiny glass from which I can pour. But itsn’t it the broken and cracked cups that empty the quickest? Darren said today that he doens’t believe in regret because everything in his life has somehow shaped him into who he is today. And if he were to regret any aspect of his life it would be like wishing he was not himself-that he was someone else. So my cracks and broken parts are for a reason. Useful. Meaningful. Still very able to pour out the Spirit.

I’ll leave you all with a much overdue email sent today from a disheveled girl in Dayton to a one Mr. Bookie (aka Cheney, Catter, wearer of wife-beaters, Mad Rapper):

“Have we met? You look strangely familiar. I faintly remember our lives once intermingling on the rickety wooden stairway of an ancient Indian burial mound. I remember wanting you to hold my hand and wanting desperately for us to lay on our backs, side-by-side with the sun on our faces and not caring at all what the passersby whispered.

Is that why I feel like I’ve met you? Maybe it was the night the stars danced for us and the instant you whispered “did you see it?” and I smile because I did, indeed, see that wildchild star streaking its light across the sky for our amazement. Did you recognize me then?

I faintly remember the outline of your face and the lazy way you sipped a mango smoothie that you didn’t particularly want on a green metal swing overlooking the gloriously impressive river of Dayton. I poured my broken heart and you painstakingly held the pieces in your hand. I laughed-you made me laugh-because isn’t this just life. Just life and that Everlasting Water that we so desire does flow even more freely from a cup that is broken.

Let’s be broken together and. and laugh.



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