Asthma, Christian Living, Daily Life, Writing

In This, the Foul Age of the Man Bun

In earthen measurement of time it is the 14,780th day I have opened my eyes to reality. I awoke this morning free in spirit and alive to God though I remain bodily counted with the beleaguered residents of a worm-eaten world searching for answers and meaning from Google and Wikipedia and Fox News, always bowing their heads to smartphones. I’m due to upgrade my phone soon but I’m thinking about taking a step back to join the “dumbphone” movement, allured by the notion of an existence without bleeps and blinks and constant notifications. Plus I get excited when I think about not buying things.

Sister Linda encouraged Sikki and I prophetically in church on Sunday, confirming a lot of the sentiments we’ve expressed as we lay in the darkness, whispering together before sleep. She basically said things were going to be alright. After the service she mentioned something about “redeeming the time.”

This time away from work represents an opportunity I haven’t had for ten years. I found it impossible to wake up at 3:30, focus my best energies on a corporate dead end job for 12 hours, and then come home at dinnertime or later with anything left over for writing, other than petulant whining in an online journal. There were many summertime evenings when I didn’t get home until 9 o’clock, with just enough time to shower and sleep for four hours or so before getting up to do it again. I’ve been granted time to write, and I aim to use the time wisely: I will treat the writing as a job, as if I were going to work.

Writing is what I always figured I’d do if money was no consideration. And actually money is something I rarely think about, though I don’t have much. But time is something else.

Time is precious. Every single day I reflect on the limits of time and my personal energy and ability to get things accomplished. This is a moment to see if I can write every day with discipline and drive, and whether I will still enjoy it. I have an advantage over a lot of other writers: I look at the act of writing as being a kind of channel for God to speak through for His own glory and purpose. This is also true when I read, talk with the kids, go to church, make love to Sikki, walk on the beach, listen to music or watch a movie – I have internal antennae that are seeking attunement to the Word of God and the nature of reality, the reality He spoke and wrote. Writing about God and His goodness is like “preaching to myself,” especially considering the theme He led me to in the dream several weeks ago.

The book will be about devotion to God in common, ordinary life: the “supernaturalness” of God’s design, plan, purpose and glory in everyday “normal” existence. I worked on a rudimentary outline this weekend. I’ve got several chapters in process, which seems stupid. I feel like I need to finish one chapter and then move on to the next. But I’m not really arguing with it right now. I’m just trying to get used to writing regularly. If the whole first draft turns out crap, I can edit crap.

I feel a certain amount of pressure, of course. My sales route has been posted by the company and will be filled. I had my fourth Xolair shot yesterday – two months on the medication have passed – but I haven’t really noticed any significant change in my lungs. There really isn’t anything to do but trust that God knows what He’s doing.

Meanwhile, my fellow Christians – feeling hopeless and fearful – are throwing yeas and amens behind Donald Trump, an unprincipled man who all his mortal days has loved and served mammon. Like old Israel, the American Church will meet with deserved disappointment as long as she seeks answers from Egypt and places her expectations in Babylon, as long as she trusts in the strength of the horse in which the Lord has no pleasure.

But the path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, That shines brighter and brighter until the full day. – Proverbs 4:18


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