Black Keys Melody

It may have taken far too long, but I have come to realize who the true enemy is.  I don't know what Satan calls the tactic, but it must have a powerful name. What title could you possibly give such a wretched yet cunning work of subterfuge? I would call it Soul's Shadow.  Satan plants demons everywhere in this world, lurking and waiting for a passerby to cling to. The common populace is aware of so many of these waiting demons that Satan must plant them farther down and deeper into the subconscious of our society for them to truly work his will. They lurk up between workers, between friends, straining and threatening the ties that hold teams and families together. Like monstrous worms, they devour connection and destroy carefully crafted artistry till monuments are dissolved to rumble and relationships splinter and fall apart.  But no devil, no demon, is so well devised or so well planted as the Soul's Shadow. That demon is planted in the deepest subconscious like a silent

I pity the other children—men and women alike. For, they must rely on other equally flawed men and women to pen their story, give their eulogy, and carve their epitaph. They leave others, just as broken and confused, to gild their legacy.  Such is not for me.  I have chosen the unbounded celestial Author of all the universe for my writing. I give Him, and Him alone, ultimate authorial and editorial power over my person, my life, and my legacy.   What a story a supreme God spins!  What a symphony an unlimited God composes!  By His own admission, my life is measured only by the integrity of His heart and the skillfulness of His hands—utterly perfect.  How holy is my shroud!  How breath-taking and majestic is the gauze of wonder He has spread over my mere existence!  How invincible the utopian gold from which my soul is forged!  By blank stares and dropped gazes, I infer that I am not perceived as I believe to be. Knocking knees, feeble shoulders, a burdened brow, and tear-reddened eyes—a

Remind me, God, when I get so caught up in this life just how ethereal it is. With a merciful and light hand, Almighty, please, remind me how unsubstantial the dross will be. Remind me that each and every thread will weave together for my good.  When I get caught up in the details, chasten me by the way of Your magnitude. Enlighten my eyes with the gravity of the infinite. When I am paralyzed with fear, whisper reassuringly in my ear Your title as Author and Finisher both. When I grow tense with indecision, wrest the pen from my white-knuckled fingers and teach my hand to trace Your holy profile instead.  Remind me, God, that this life is the blinking cursor before the story starts. This is my prologue. This is my liminal space.  God, let me feel You here. Come down in all that You are and reside not only inside of me but on me. Be just as present on my mind as You are in my heart. Release me from my chains and revive my spirit. I am all too weak and despondent. Lift my eyes to see the

It is impossible to mistake the complete frailty of man. Whoever suggested the idea of the unbreakable human spirit studied a far different portrait of mankind than I do. I see men and women all through the ages given over to the lowest of fates and the cruelest of natures. I see thousands of empires—told and untold, both known and unknown—collapsing in a spiral of dust and ash only to spring to life again in some fashion that mocks the golden age that came before and leads the “intellectual” to wonder how truly golden that era really had been.  For what is the peak of civilization? Rome?  Who was the peak of man? Augustus Caesar? Surely every step away from the garden of Eden has led us down a darkening path. Does it grow dimmer? Or does man continue in a circular fashion, bound to repeat his past errors?  It is as Solomon said; there is no new thing under the sun. And man is not new. This generation is not wiser or better, and I fear that it will prove to be just as uncivilized as th

There is something about You, God, that is full of incomprehension. You are so magnificently just and yet so boundlessly merciful. You are perfect yet touched with the feeling of our infirmities. You are high, holy, sanctified apart from this world, and yet, You take up residence inside Your children. You are the Diviner and Creator of all things, yet You are so forsaken by the works of Your hand. The entirety of the universe revolves around Your finger—You are so high and lofty above it, yet Your own forget Your all-consuming presence.  You are a searing fire and a gentle wind.  You are hidden in the folds of a lightning shrouded mountain top and the breath of a singular whisper.  You are a Triune God—three Aspects and three Persons all equal, all One, still all distinct.  You are above me, inside me, and all about me. You work around me, through me, and in me. There is not a space on this earth that You do not fill, and there is not a time in all infinity where You are not present—pr

I have come to the point of liberation. I ask simply for a quota free life.  Every single aspect of my life is measured and weighed in some way. Every decision I make is held up in comparison against my past choices and every choice others have made in my place. I live in the shadow of people I’ve never met, people I care nothing for, people no longer living on this earth. How can I be so abundantly chained? I am rigid under the restraints of number and time and, above all, expectation.  People—everyone—asserts that expectations are healthy and standards are essential, but somehow, I find them bleeding and creeping through my skin until the very breaths I breathe are measured and scarce.  I want success, but the road to it is measured in a distance I cannot cross. I want joy, but it requires far too much of me. I want fellowship, but the quota of friends keeps growing without a single one making any mark on my soul. I gorge myself on these things I require, exerting all my energy to ob

Plant in me an unquenchable desire to stay. Found in me the audacious desire, the spectacular courage of permanence. Oh God, that my tabernacle would be grounded firmly on this earth with its windows thrown open to the heavens. That I might stand, feet firmly on the ground but eyes trained on the beauty of your throne room. This is Your world, my Father’s world, and You have created it and will rule it according to Your will.  How beautiful to see a sunset in all its glory. How devastating to see a democracy on its knees. Nothing here is elegant, God. Nothing here is as I dreamed or as I was taught. This world I have inherited is broken, and the ideals that I was given are archaic and out of practice.  To dream, my God! To hope, my God!  As I watch the crude flames of the future burning at the hems of my visions, I marvel at the fragility I feel. I see all my thoughts for the future balance on a knife’s edge.  You have told me to wait on You. You have asked me to hope in You.  I would

They gather around me with their neat personalities and orderly personas. They are, each of them, so composed in who they are. Some are quiet; some are leaders; some are kind.  By their very presence, the warmth of them huddled so close around me, I feel a buzz like a live wire in my gut. I cannot stop the surge of adrenaline: the rush of realization that this social gathering is now a life or death situation. It is now, sink or swim.  To simply exist within the group leaves me feeling crippling loneliness. I thrust myself into the thick of the interaction, trying to keep at least one set of eyes on me at all times. One pair of eyes is all I need to feel wanted. I invest so much thought into everyone else, uncovering so much of them and leaving myself so much a mystery. They seem to show no interest. In a genuine way, they never do. I wonder how startled I would be if I were sought out, known so deeply as I know others.  So many sorry’s.  So many apologies. I apologize for mistakes, op