With Kevin on the phone, on the porch last night. Roughly 10:20pm.
With Heather on the phone, on the sidewalk and then the entryway. Roughly 12:10am.
The social construction of prayer, or maybe it’s just Morgan’s monolith of excuses and no-focus. But I don’t wanna, and I don’t wanna, and God help me, but somehow just verbally spewing out all the crackerjack in my head to the oak trees and double parked red SUVs and Dora the Explorer backpack wearing pedestrians–I wimp out, pout, refuse to acknowledge the GLORY of God incarnate in the 7 TRAIN, the glazed-over 6am sleepyhead eyes, aquel panadería en la esquina, the mosque-Kingdom Hall-church lineup on la calle Nacional, yeah because my scarf is strangling my neck and I have my phone out my thoughts about where am I going to live in three weeks? where am i going to get a job? am i going to have enough money? what is enough money? have i lost my priorities? what is my purpose in the world? am i serving my purpose? wait, what is your purpose? and so I don’t deal, don’t chime in my thoughts to being whose existence POWERS the universe, and instead let the mundane invade My Thoughts, all those little men left, left, left, right, left. Ground troops of myopic little paradigms, why do I let myself be subject to you?
And when I pray, when I say hey, when I vocally recognize this God, my thoughts, like pick up sticks that had spilled on the shaggy carpet of my brain, become parallel paths.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise God all creatures here below.
Praise God above ye Heavenly Host.
Praise God, our Savior of the universe.