Because a part of my head is saying I would give my life to build this church.
And I would. But I don’t know how. All of it is a movement of the heart, a thought in the middle of a song, an echo in a mostly-crowded chamber.
The words that should be easy — because I’m a writer, dammit — aren’t coming, though they’ve been percolating for days; weeks, to be honest. But it’s been stuck in my head.
I would give
What would I give? What wouldn’t I give? I have nothing to offer but a song. A list of songs. A head that misguidedly thinks I’ve got this. I can do better than that. I can bring you, all of you, to places where you can almost see, almost touch, almost hear, and all you have to do is press in again. Because He’s waiting.
I don’t know if I still can. I don’t know if I should. I just know that what has been given needs to be given in return. And it’s all I have to give.
I don’t have a life. I have a weekly routine consisting of working Mondays, lazy Tuesdays and jumbled every other days, going where the wind blows, where capriciousness takes me. I am a mess of optimism and pessimism, both sure of my path and convinced of failure. I have been left behind in more ways than I can count.
There is no rhyme or reason; not that I know of anyway. But still, I am here. I’m still doing what I’m doing, with no assurance of success, no way of knowing if this path, this route, this life is the right one. I do not know how to discern; may have never known how.
Maybe this life is a mistake.
Do I build? Or do I just waffle? All I have is empty words. I have nothing to build with or on. The dream flees and fades with every grasp.
I don’t believe in the church; have stopped believing in it a long while ago. So why should I give all I have for a thing I do not need, do not trust, do not understand anymore?
But the other part of it is saying This is mine. I’m not giving this up.
Though I should. Because it’s cold and it’s empty and all it is is a distraction, an addiction, a way to live vicariously all the things I cannot have.
This is mine.
This life is mine, empty as it is, to do as I will. In a battle of the spirit and the flesh, the flesh will prevail because it needs, it craves, and it’s so easy to distract, to addict, to fill with petty little things. Not because I need to, but because I want to. Because I can.
And it’s petty. But it’s the only way I know how to rebel.
I’m not giving this up.
Because I’m stubborn and foolish and what I want most in the world is for someone to say that it doesn’t matter. I love you anyway.
And for me to believe it.
Yet Jesus gave his life for the church, his bride, so who am I to give anything less?