"... to say the very think you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that's the whole art and joy of words... When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces." ~ C.S. Lewis in Till we have faces

A week has gone since seminary and the strangest thing happened on my porch the other day. I prayed, spontaneously, honestly, without pretense or burden, without agenda or obiligation. From my soul, I found true words to express me currently. Laying aside my book, I traveled to the feelings that aroused my courage to sit face to face with the gods. Me in my sandles, me with a glass of ice tea, me still dressed in my Sunday best, but most of all... simply me.

Hushed in my soul
Tightened in my core
I tilted my head back
and smiled out
thank you.

It was the only prayer
to emerge
from years of books
and floods of thoughts,
wrestling with the gods
who once had a face
now illusively larger.

thank you.

hope and faith,
wonder and dismay,
all laid within the smile that spoke,
daring to unveil the face
which betrayed feelings.

Could it be that the truest face is
thankful
grateful
remarkably humble and small
alongside a face so large?

Does anyone, with their face
delve to other words
than thank you?

Do we dare to linger
with our truest self
to speak what comes next?

Perhaps words will not be necessary
as our faces will reveal us.

transition

When leaves take the blossoms,
Trees are quite odd looking.

Toward a spiritual autobiography

My grandmother almost always lived in the same house with us. And, on Saturday mornings, she would make “share eggs.” A share egg is a soft-boiled egg, which she timed with her yellow egg timer, over a piece of wheat toast. She cut the egg in half so the warm, custard-like middle could soak into the bread. And, she put a bit of salt and pepper on top. She made two and put them on the same plate.

My memory tells me that my brother Robbie and I would sit on each side of her chair, she in the middle and we would share the egg. Each got a bite in turn.

My other siblings, David and Kristin remember, “share eggs” too but for I suppose because they were younger, I remember eating it with my brother Robbie. I suppose that a memory like that holds different meaning for each of us. It’s kind of like how different everyone’s faith is, it comes through memories, through things passed down.