The Social Porcupine

Psalm 30:11 "Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness" When the music begins, when people rise to dance and worship and sing, where would you be? Would you laugh as Michal laughed, calling foolish what is delightful to God? Or would joy pull you to dance?  I've attended so many churches these last couple years. I've loved them all, if not only because of the people. It's not so much that I like interesting people, rather I find people interesting. But my heart yearns for something beyond that, beyond the intellect and bickering of denominations. Is it not what we all yearn for? To be one in our fellowship? To weary ourselves with gladness? To feel exilherated long after, fully, not tickled by the Holy Spirit's presence, but immersed in love.  When I was told that this place I visited danced, I laughed. Then I saw. "Oh." I watched the congregation rise, and I remembered M

  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God Matthew 5:8 Young conservative woman: *gets a job working around rough, worldly men*  OK, you guys. Y'all don't be cursing, and don't be speaking about any filthy things around me. I gotta stay pure. You hear? I need you all to think about that and respect me.     *   *   *  I live this sort of weird conundrum where I embrace and rebel against my upbringing all at once. I don't really bother much trying to convert leftists or communists or atheists. But I do feel   compelled to call out hypocrisy among my fellow Christian conservatives.  deep, deep inside I feel this strong desire to not be that typical conservative gal that's all about my purity. In fact, if I find anything absolutely repulsive and vulgar, it is purity culture.  Not that I find purity disgusting, but that I find the idolization of purity degrading to the true nature of what it means to be pure. I desire to be pure. I do not want it to be mist

No, you may not see my thoughts.  Yes, it's a wondrous place—there are many pretty things inside my head. A few weird, all interesting and wonderful and happy things. Oh, yes, it's a beautiful place, this place of mine. Like an open meadow? you ask. Well. Yes. Except it's not so open, definitely not meant to be inviting. This place is all mine, after all. I do not have wildflowers free for the picking, nor herbs for the healing; there are no cool streams for your comfort.  I suppose you could describe it— my head —as a dragon's lair, brightly packed with all my hoarded gems.  Mine to keep . Not that I don't let things get out of my space, and away from me.  When I need more space for my lovely, growing collection, I give much to the peasants. Anything that makes my heart unhappy is theirs... yours. Anything worthless must be out so my mind and soul and heart can remain happy and free and elated. I dig to make the hole deeper, safer for my gems... all the excess dirt

A copper tea kettle whistles on a freshly stoked woodstove, announcing "Time for cheer; 'tis tea time!"  But none hears. It waits, shrilling out invitation, begging to serve. It shakes and jumps. And then it quietens.  The drink it would have offered dissipates, joining the faded smoky stillness of the abandoned livingroom, where but a few moments before held every thing, everyone, needed to make it a room for the living and for beauty.  Blackness grabs at the the undersides of the kettle. Scorched patterns rise up its barren body. It cracks, then explodes into a useless vessel unable to ever hold water again. The fire submits, too, at last accepting that there are none left. None left at all to tend and feed and cherish.