This is Story

I met her at a show.My hands slipped through her hair.She listened to my story.Said I've heard all about you.Well it seemed she was sincere.But the conversation fled.He spoke through the prophets.Crucified for our salvation.He suffered and was buried.And on the third day he rose born again.She held my hand.Now wrinkles are for thinking.Old and weak I've become.The saint became a poet.That poet wants to fly.So show me the Kingdom.Where the angels come undone.As they marched into the rainbow river sky.Heal the wounded singer.Now he's on his way.They were dancing to the music.The shadow of the season.We tango'd through the sacrifice.Climbed the virgin hills.Walked straight up to the sunrise.Never had a reason.We released the blood upon the peasant land.She held my hand.
~Steven Delopoulos

An entire book can describe someone's life, but only a few lines of poetry are needed to describe one's experience of it. And only there do we find the real story.

You can sit with me for two hours talking about your past, but it will be that look on your face that can only be yours that tells me your experience of it. And in that look I find the real story.

Walls

The time change offered me another hour in the morning before church this sunday to finish up my sexual development paper. I hashed out the last bit of the sticky, rather-not-be-talking-about-this kind of paper and headed to church, still very much in it. The major theme that kept coming up was relational distance - what felt like an impenetrable wall separating me from the rest of the world.

In the room, in the people, in the singer, the words of the song, all came head on with the blockage, the feeling like no one had gotten through, the feeling that no one will ever get through. All a part of being so caught in the moment that certainty was bellowing from the room, but not a certainty of being right, but of hoping so much in what will be that it felt like it was already here.

The words spoke about a veil being torn, and that it is done. The symbolism slapped me in the face, and a feeling, or a voice, speaking over and over that it does not have to be this way. There was access. Intimacy was possible. To be known was possible. The wall has been blown to pieces. There is access and there is intimacy, and things do not have to be the same, because it is done.