I am losing my self awareness, not realizing when I am staring at someone for too long.

The woman was smiling at her phone and I was intrigued. Too intrigued apparently, she could feel my eyes on her and looked up from her video.

Naturally, I acted like I wasn’t looking and darted my eyes towards ANYTHING but her.

It got me thinking.

Why do we feel people’s eyes on us, but not God’s?

omniscient

/ämˈniSHənt/

Means to know and see everything.

God is said to be this, and I believe it. Then why do I feel as though He forgets me? Or can’t see me? Like I’m behind some spiritual warfare bush (or hedge as the baptists say).

I watched The Shawshank Redemption on the flight that I committed the heinous social crime.

(Don’t read this next part if you don’t want spoilers)

There is this point in the film where Andy is sitting out by a stone wall, explaining to Red how he would have moved to Mexico if he were free. You see the hope he had spoken of earlier seems to have lost its pigment in his tone. The despair Red felt had now crept into Andy’s mind, and you begin to believe it will claim his life.

But you’re wrong. The man who has been wrongfully imprisoned and beaten to the edge of his life has held fast to a plan he had no sight of but full intention and effort towards. All escalating to the moment of stale courage in a cell where Rita Hayward might as well be the Pearly Gates.

Of all the bewildering things that happened in this film, it was his hope that was offensive.

After the death of his wife, and imprisonment, and rape, and lies, and friends being killed in front of him, Andy still went through with the plan. He remained.

My life, like many others’, has been full of unfair pain.

But there is still that sense, of Someone’s eyes on me. That’s the thing that reminds me of the plan. To hope. He is still watching. And more than that, He is moving towards me.

This is my very long way of saying, don’t give up on yourself. He hasn’t.

And unlike me, He wants you to know His eyes are on you.

Four boys, a mother, a father.

They would walk out of line of one another, weaving amongst themselves, almost in a graceful way, and always ending up right back where they had originally formatted.

The second oldest boy would leave the most. He would stop and pull out his camera to take a photo every couple hundred feet. It was sweet to watch someone enjoy something so much, they had to keep a portion of it for later.

There was a part of me that was sad he wasn’t just experiencing this walk without his phone. But this conversation with GOD came from my misunderstanding of the situation.

My folly in the observation of the boy was the metaphorical eye-roll I gave at the thought of him posting all of these photos on social media. It is here that GOD reminded me: He has always intended to share with us what He finds beautiful.

There is a common cycle of conversing between GOD and I.

He will give me an understanding of something, immediately I want to share it with everyone I know, and then I become annoyed at the assumption that my heart is in the wrong place.

It is endearing to an extent, but I have always disliked this about myself; that is, until today.

Do not misunderstand me, I believe there are dialogues meant for the secret place and they should stay there. But it has come to my attention, as of my walk this afternoon, that GOD Himself wished to share beautiful things, and made others to enjoy it with Him.

GOD is an artist. He designed, mechanized, and furnished this entire universe, let alone the planet we call Earth, and the humans He gave dominion to.

There are parts so beautiful, people have decided to worship them. Other corners so dark, our feeble minds make up narratives of evil. The complexity to His pieces are indescribable. They are the original gallery in which we draw our inspiration and personal definitions of majesty and horror.

So why am I saying all of this?

Because this little boy was the catalyst GOD used to show me He was the first to show others His art and mind, and that is why we do that same thing.

We are made in His image; creatures created to generate life and beauty and mystery and love. If He wants to show others His collection, why wouldn’t we?

Whether it be your own art, or someone else’s that moves you, we ought to say something. Why not be loud over a glimpse of glory?

I’ll quit it now. All I am saying is I don’t think I will view an Instagram post the same way ever again.

But I have always enjoyed the view; the clouds beneath me. So why this terrible juxtaposition of passions?

Simple; I love control.

I have noticed, the thing that actually makes my palms sweaty and my breath short is the fact that I am not in the captain’s seat.

And even if I was, I would not have a promised safe landing. Engines go out, people get in the way, and so on.

But then I look:

The way the sky and the earth sandwich a wonderful array of purple, mauve, and orange.

The plane wing begins to rattle; panic swells in my chest.

God: “Look at the sky.”

My eyes meet the moon and the one star accompanying it.

“Do you think you can enjoy the beauty and not be in control?”

Hmm.

Interesting.

Challenging to my heart, honestly.

But I believe I am beginning to understand what He is saying.

There are going to be some things I get to enjoy only through letting go of the idea whether or not it will work out the way I want. And even more so, I will rarely control the things I enjoy the most. Pleasure of a moment or situation is not contingent on the measure of power I possess in it. Rather, my “power” in said moments is measured by my ability to remain.

By this I mean, the strength that one has to “leave it be” and yet stay, without the need to have a say in the outcome or a sense of personal gain.

Like staring into the field of clouds. I cannot do anything about whether we make it home or not. I did not make the sky or tell it how to look that day. And honestly, the sky has nothing to do with my survival of the experience at all.

But God does. And He made the clouds. And he knew which ones I would be looking at that evening. He has everything to do with my making it home.

What a good reason to let go. And to take in the beautiful things I cannot control, receiving the gratitude that I never will.

Now isn’t that funny.

He has changed my mind yet again. :)

Here in wastelands of deprivation freckled with battlefields, one begins to question whether they can go on.

“Don’t you let go.”

The Voice of The One in the wilderness. So gentle, one must be focused and quiet to hear. I believe that is the point of His tone. Not to test. Rather, to give the allowance of choice.

You do not stumble upon being quiet, you make the decision to soften your speech or shut up entirely, in order to listen.

Rebuked by life, I had almost forgotten the scene of my soul that so evidently lies within the torturous stale. I was quickly reminded this afternoon when I asked God, “What is it to yearn?”

I was shown an armored man drenched in blood, standing on a hill of corpses he had slain. One hand shook on the hilt of his sword, the other steadied the sheath. I could smell the burning of flesh from the lies blazing his trail of thought, poisoning his mind.

Faith was dwindling for the battered one.

Then a moment of light raced across his eyes, as though he had a memory or saw a glimpse of glory. The corners of his mouth fell as though kissed by gratitude, softening the grit. Not yet a smile, but a sigh of relief.

Tears and sweat blinded him as the strength returned to his feeble knees. I feel the sting in my own eyes.

The memory of his Lover like a revelation, whom he knows is not just waiting for him past the massacre, but is the very Sun from which he is given vision to go on. A love so strong it causes Jacob’s ladder to break through the dark night of the soul. The kind of Love that demands of the romantics, and confront the cynic a dare to hope.

Triumph shedding light to see that The Blood which covered him was not conceived from his own wounds, but the wounds of his Lover. The One whom would not see him let go.

“Don’t you let go.”

This vision being such a moment of all the great antagonists, I feel the breath taken from me as He calls me just that as we conversate on a swivel chair in my little corner of the windowed office. What a dream: to know every morning, I get to wake up next to The Love of my life. The Lover who won’t let me let go.

“Those who are brave are the ones who yearn. And in turn, the yearning makes one brave.”

So in the efforts to be truly one minded with Father, I will be setting my mind and collecting my thoughts on beautiful things.

Just as the architect of the temple, I will craft something precious to present before my Lord that He may dwell amidst the very mind and love of which He gave me. I simply am offering it back to Him, like a love letter written on the page of a journal one was gifted: in part mine, originally His.

He reminded me of Sarah.

She had forfeited so much peace in waiting, only to be proven wrong: God is in fact a Man of His word.

I thought about this for a while, when He then brought Eve to mind. How the fridges of humanity hung on an insecure decision.

“You can be different.” He whispered.

The concept is sinking into my skin the more I meditate.

Christ being the second Adam, that delegates us, His bride, to be second Eve.

If you are unfamiliar with this name of God, allow me to explain.

Jesus came and showed a way to live that Adam failed to fulfill. Therefore taking the place of Adam, and correcting his incompetence

Jesus, son of God, and son of man.

Now in turn, with the reality of new life through the living blood of The Lamb, we as His beloved betrothed get to do this very thing.

In the face of disappointment and misunderstanding, we get the opportunity to be trusting, reverent, faithful.

Rather than mock our God with ill assumptions of intent, we may yet remain resilient in the opinion that He can only be kind. He can only be good.

So in light of this revelation, I now plea that He would give me grace. To love Him better, and trust Him more.

It was a black 1971 Plymouth Cuda. Mr. Short had an eye for cars, I gathered. He picked up the American Classics Calendar and began to inspect.

"I once owned a Cuda. I would drive all down 71. Girls would wave and do that thing. Before I met my wife, I was known for my car. Little baby Cuda. I passed by my wife a couple times.

She told me she would see me go by, and would always say 'I want to drive that car!'

So one day, a buddy of mine was talking to this girl and he says to me, 'Hey my girl's got this girlfriend I want you to meet!'

And I says to him, ‘Naaaah I ain't going on no blind date!’

Boy says 'Please just do me this favor. Just do it for me?'

‘…Alright fine!’

So I get myself all ready and drive over to this girls home. Turns out I had taken her sister on a date before. Sister comes running out of the house screaming ‘I’m not Melinda! Im not Melinda' I don't know. Something like that."

There was a brief pause in conversation for him to sign a couple of documents (the reason he was sitting in my small corner of the office). I could not help but wonder in my bewilderment if he had ended on good terms with this sister, but my curiosity was never satisfied.

"Now let me finish my story.

So she ran back inside to get her sister, and Melinda comes running out. I had just started walking back to my car and I hear her say, 'It's you!"

I swiftly turn back around. "Your that car! I've always wanted to drive that car.’

Well you can't drive it, I says. 'But you'll sure get to ride.'

So I take her to go bowling at the alley down there, and I tell her I need to get her back by 10:30.

So we go and have a good ole time and I get her some food and we get back at 10:30.

She goes, 'When do I see you again?’

And I go, 'I'll think of a time!’

That following Sunday, I call my mom up and ask, 'Hey are you cooking dinner?' She goes 'Yep!"

And I say, 'Can I bring someone?"

Next thing I'm calling Melinda and asking her to come to dinner with my family.

Two weeks four days later, we get married! Hah!

And you know what? She got to drive that car.”

And I think I found a sort of deliverance.

The depiction of hatred towards my heritage was shockingly personal.

And that may be a shock to you that I was shocked.

But let me paint the picture.

With every racist jab

I felt it in my blood.

The blood of my people restless by the utterance of the name hitler.

Pain and suffering I have not felt myself

Yet somehow could empathize with?

Then revelation fell like a gentle rain.

Blood does speak.

God says this all the time.

But tonight He spoke slowly and gently.

How we really do carry generations in our veins.

And if The Blood of Christ speaks a better word,

Then even generations have to bow

At the deliverance of The Blood of The Lamb.

No matter your history.

Your parents, your shadows, your pain.

If Christs blood is in your veins

“He speaks a better word.

David is not actually his name. But let's just say it is.

He called to see about a John Deere tractor of his.

The front of the old thing had just completely been destroyed in a circumstance I can barely recall.

He had that old folk kind of talk about him.

The kind where you don't really understand, but the tone demands so much respect that you say you do.

I had quickly found the answer, but he was quicker than I with a story starting with his oven, as though the John Deere had interrupted an ongoing conversation between us.

"I had a young man here fixing my oven and I told him how I served in the Vietnam War. I got two Bronze Stars. Two Bronze Stars. I don't ever tell anyone about that. Just started to not a week ago. Kid didn't know what that was. So I told him

'Google what you got a do for a Bronze Star.’ An the kid came back and told me 'I can't believe you got one of those! Let alone two!'

Horrible. Terrible things you have to do to get a Bronze Star.

Fighting for your life. Nothing fancy or nothing, just trying to stay alive. You can't change back to who you were. They say you can only stretch a rubber band so far without misshaping it. I can't go back. You hear all these things about us bombing Iran, and I tell you, you'll never see a Vet starting a war. You'll never see a Vet start a war... I got drafted when I was 19. Well I sure appreciate your help, now. What was your name?"