Dear A — This Place

Dear A,

This place.

It’s a land I know well but is pointedly uncomfortable.

I said I’ve never run from anything in my life, but I do. Who am I kidding? Me apparently. I have run. I do run. And I still want to. From this place.

The days beyond the blast.

Because there’s something exquisite about the morning just after-destruction. Your ears are still ringing. There is dust in your mouth. New scratches on your arms, legs, back, prickly places you don’t even remember being thrashed. These are tangible, and unmistakeable battle wounds. Reliable.

The morning after is different. It has so much hope in it because you’re standing.

I’m not sure why I keep seeing this image but I can’t shake it. I wrote a sermon once about this place once too. It was inspired by a passage in Lamentations, believed to be written by Jeremiah as he’s walking through the streets of Jerusalem which lay in ruins:

All her gateways are desolate,
her priests groan,
her young women grieve,
and she is in bitter anguish.

Bitter anguish.

I can’t seem to shake an image of me, of Jeremiah, of countless namesless, faceless, story-less shadows standing against the brightest light in front with nothing but destruction in the back.

Like an eclipse of God.

And I can’t not see the hand

of this person

reaching to the side

outstretched

outstretched

not grasping

not clutchy

not anything

just outstretched and waiting.

The morning after, there is activated hope because you’re up. I see rubble. I touch broken rocks.

You know what I love about rocks? I fucking love rocks. I haves stones all through my home. Stones with words on them, stones with circles. Stones. I love them because they are as old as this place. Have you ever thought about that? Stones do not decompose. Sure they become sand, eventually. But a stone is as old as creation. As old as creation. I fucking love that. Sometimes I hold them against my chest so I can hear the words of the earth reminding me I belong.

The morning after the blast you’re in the rubble and there’s nothing but belonging, and outstretched hands, and darkness tucked in oh so perfectly into light. The scratches are real. Everything is so fucking real there is no where to go.

But then I move.

Leave the blast zone.

And I am Jeremiah. Simply lamenting now.

In anguish.

And the bruising in places I couldn’t see yesterday start to emerge.

A, I’m not a runner. I’m a fucking time traveller. A mystical escape artist. A magician. Because this place is not a place I want to know, yet know me it does.

And it’s time.

My word for this year is devotion and I refuse to cling to it. I’m not going to hide in it. This is the fucking hell side of love. Where destruction is the story. Burning and broken. Desolate and damning. And there is this hum I can’t get away from. It’s hanging there, and I want to run. I want to vanish.

But I don’t, and I won’t.

I pick up a stone.

Rock by rock.

I am tucking them into the secret places still bleeding.

Thank you for listening. I am okay. I know. It’s dark in here. But I know where I am. I’m not lost. I promise. I’m sorry to send you such a bleak letter. The part of you who worries is probably scrambling, but the part of you who knows, is not. And you do know. I know too.

Thank you for being there, even when you’re just an icon on my screen as I say goodnight. It matters I’m not alone in the dark.

So thank you.

xT

p.s. I promise I’m okay.