Untitled Booked Excerpt

I would not say I envy them. I would not wish to be one of them. 

The countless ounces of sweat they spill, the pain that is a requirement of living, which none asked for. How easy their hearts break and their trust that pours over like filled buckets of water. How easy they turn to evil and their bodies used as battlefields for wars they don’t even know, robbing their bones. The wails of mothers loosing their sons, and pure grief of widows burying their men. The sharp agony of sutures and surgery, and the weakness of their bodies to follow their souls. They’re vulnerable extremities susceptible to all kinds of torment. 

I do not envy the pain they endure. Even the richest of them all, even the luckiest, all bend to the perimeters set out by Father. 

Plenty weep for them, plenty endure the pain with them and open their hearts to the crack of the whip. 

But with the enslavement of death they still rise. With the shattering of ones heart comes the restoration from one another. With broken bones and wailing cries come the lushest forests and bluest waters. With the submission to creation come the gifts of being. Sprinkled nights with specks of dust and their dream. 

Yes they die, and how horrible they die. My cousins have not been kind to them. Sharp objects able to pierce their delicate organs expelling metalic wine from their bodies. 

The demise of their physical selves. And goodness, the wars, the battles and weapons they have been able to concoct from their imagination. The same imagination that brings forth art and songs, life saving productions and creation itself. 

I may be envious of their ability to create. Father saved that for them. I frankly don’t know why. Whatever goodness they have possibly produced they have stubbled into a heap more of evil. To be quite frank, we are all envious of their inheritance from Father. While it may be a shadowed similarity, the touch of God is upon them. Every time they turn thoughts into production, hatred into Love, sorrow into joy, and life into love, vengeance into sanctification, jealousy rises from our bellies. 

Us, our devotion is to existence. Not creation. Not enjoying the conclusion of grace by the Father, but the eternal commitment to witness.