In A Mood

I am in a mood.  A mood that will not be made better by any human being dead or alive. The sort of mood where you don't want to be happy.  Where you like scrutinizing everyone in the world because when you are synical, you are devilishly clever.

This is the sort of mood that begins at 9 o'clock AM when your sister barges into your snug room, grabs your iphone and announces that your mother wants you awake.  This is the sort of mood that cannot be alleviated, even when your father comes in and tries nicely to wake you up by giving you a back rub.  Even the shower, which usually gives you such great enjoyment, only makes you happier for a little while. 

This is the sort of mood that can be hidden and almost forgotten about all day long as you go about your day.  Not hidden enough to make you unlazy however (yes that is now a word).  You try to finish your diagnostic essay which is due in less than a week, but you're really bored and you don't care about your essay. 

This is the sort of mood where you really don't want to walk your dog.  You don't want to smile and wave to your neighbor as he walks by with his dog.  You raise your eyes to heaven and thank God when you see the neighbor is on his phone.  You keep your mouth shut and you keep walking.  The dog will not poop.  So you stand, ridiculously to the side of the road chanting "go poop, go poop, go poop."

This is a mood where you feel sorry for every crouchy person you have ever encountered.  You understand the source of Clifford's neighbor's woe. You understand why Lassater despises Shawn Spencer.  You feel like you are the tight lipped, no nonsense chief who doesn't trust Shawn in the least.  You know that grouchy people are just people who don't want to be bothered.  People who are eternally trapped in a bad mood.  So you sit down with your lap top, and you write a blog post about your mood.  You don't bother to give it a happy ending because that would spoil your perfectly good bad mood.  Quite frankly, you are tired of writing posts where you start out depressed and end up happy.  So you stop writing,  and you close with these words.

Fresh Air

During a storm, houses are shuttered up and doors locked tight.  The air is trapped inside.  No light or warmth enters.  Then the storm ends.  The clouds vaporize into the blue sky, and the world cups the rain, using it to turn the plants a splendid shade of green.  The houses open their shutters and doors, and the pure, clean air rushes into the stuffy rooms. 

Writing has the same effect on the brain as opening a window in a dank room.  When no one's around to listen, or when I'd feel like a heel making any poor soul listen to my issues, the blank document sits quietly.  Waiting, watching.  It listens.  It takes in my thoughts.  My fingers fly across the keys, the emotion in my heart spills out.  There comes an appex point.  When I'm so involved in what I'm writing that any interruption would anger me. And then, the Denouement begins.  My fingers slow, the words in my brain that I could not express are on a document that I don't have to show anyone if I don't want to. For a little I breathe heavy, as if I've just run a race.  I feel lighter, the world is brigthter.  The rain clouds reveal that they're only made of vapors that blow away with a slight breeze.  All I had to do was open the windows of my brain to let in the fresh air. 

Sin and freedom

There are days when I despise myself.  There are days when my thoughts are so black I can feel dark nasty goo seeping from my ears.  There are days when I don't feel fit to live and I wonder why God doesn't just strike me with lightning or smash me under a 20 ton pile of rocks. 

I hate sin.   More and more, with every passing day I am realizing how much it holds me captive.  I can feel the chains jiggle with my every step.  It seems sometimes that every word I speak is governed by it and every thought that enters my head is concieved by it.  It presses in.  It takes over my bones and it moves me to do things I regret with all of my heart.   I am weak.  I am so inconcievably weak.  My heart lays itself at sin's feet and does it's bidding.  I am tossed around by the whips the guards bear.  I am beaten and tied. 

I lay in sin's grimy prison cell, curled around my heart.  Tears of pain and shame stream down my face.  I am a weak, weepy pile of skin and bones that can do nothing.  Then there is a whisper.  A soft quiet whisper saying "You, are a child of the king."  Other prisoners, in other cells hear this voice too.  Not all, but many.  They rise and raise their hands.  The guards cannot control them.  For this is an uprising. We sing and shout.  We sing for we know something the guards do not.  The king, He is coming. 

They can beat me.  They may succeed in getting me to betray my Lord.  They may have my actions,  But they do not have my soul.  They only have the weak, embryo version of me.  My shadow.  My reflection wavering in the murky depths.  Someday, someday I will be free of this body that can be held.  Someday my body will collapse and my soul will fly from their prison.  And on that glorious day, My King will stretch out his hand and swing me onto his pure white stalion.  He will take me to his white palace , and I will serve Him.  I will not be held by sin and shame.  I wil not wrong my brothers and sisters.  I will bathe his feet, I will kneel at his side.  The dirt and grime of this world will be obliterated.  I will be the full person God has created me to be.  I will be crazy in Love with my savior. The Longing will end.  The joy will begin.