The Jesus Cantata

I have used this song in blogs before, but I can assure you dear ones, this is not a reblog.  It is Saturday, July 27, 2019.  I like the 727 part, as God has been speaking to me through numbers for over a year now.  It isn’t anything New Agey:  I don’t run to my lap top to dig information on the numbers, nope, been there?  Done it.  You all know how I feel about anything New Age, and that’s not what this is about so I’ll start another paragraph.

Today was a day of exile, indeed.  From the moment I awoke, on the bad side of a weed whacker beneath my bedroom window (I can prove he did it on purpose, by the time I was up he was working on the other side of the house) I sensed a distinct inner raucous.  I had no patience.  I felt the spirit of anger come upon me, rage really.  And by the time I had realized it was grief?  The cards were dealt, the door slammed-I’m sorry if I left the lunch meat out while I was scrubbing your filthy refrigator!!!!!

And then, hold onto your hats, he began making fun of the material I was listening too, and asked me to…..turn it off.

Okay.  Raise your hand if you can explain why our significant others appear to delight in our reactions to their horrible choice of timing.  That’s one thing.  The other?  Okay, I won’t blame an entire race of men for this, but in the case of my man?  He becomes angry and obnoxious when he’s frightened.

What is he frightened of, you ask?

Well, one of the symptoms of my PTSD is hand shaking.  Some days I don’t notice it at all, but once in a blue moon it will cause Dwain alarm, he is convinced I should see a doctor.  This is also a symptom of Lyme, but the tremor came way before the infection.  I always attributed it to withdrawal from alcohol, go figure.

And there is the change he senses in me.  A relentless drive to live an authentic and joyous life, but with that being said-you have to climb the mountain to see what awaits on the tippy top.  He hates that I write when he’s around, but a five year old understands that you don’t just sit.  and.  write.  No, for crying out loud that shit takes the coming together of a perfect storm:  desire, material and inspiration.

Not willing to deal with it, I climbed the stairs to my little slice of heaven on earth-my bedroom.  She is full of every memory, antique or thing of beauty that I have acquired in my entirety.  A gold framed photograph of a little girl, long in the curls, dressed in white-praying next to her golden retriever.  If there is any one treasure I have acquired along the way, that could put it all in a nutshell for you?  It would be this gorgeous beast.  Black and white photo, heavy gold frame.  I remember well the day I purchased her, a snowy day last Christmas.  It took two payments and a few irritating reminders for me to finally get them safely home.

Vintage hats and clothing, Carnival glass, vintage lace adorns a rocking chair by the well lit window, which pours out the sun onto the hardwood floors.  My Persian knockoffs on each side of the sleigh bed.  My fireplace, adorned with pictures of my parents, angels, an old painting of Jesus.  Candles and my tiny led lights cheer the room on rainy days.

Alas, I spend very little time here.  Which got me to thinking about how much time I used to spend here-depressed, forlorn, drunk, hung over, ill with a tick borne illness perpetuated on us by our very own government.

Not going there today, don’t worry.

I fell into prayer, praising Jesus for the triumphs.  If you only knew how good it gets, you would never, not for one moment lose hope.

So, as often happens when I give myself time to think, the raging pain of my past comes upon me like a behemoth.  Most poignantly?  The people who have been the cruelest, the soulless perps who walk the lonely streets of my shattered heart?  All I ever wanted to do was love them.  That struck a nerve and I wept freely, sitting at my childhood desk.

I turned to see what had fallen from the chair to touch my back.  I felt a pat, a gentle touch.

The chair was backless.

Could Jesus have allowed me the miracle of feeling his touch?

And then I closed my eyes, and was given a vision of a glorious, golden light.

I heard the aria in my head, a hymn of old?  Not a song I had heard before, but uplifting and ethereal.

Rejoice, rejoice Emanuel, he comes, he comes, the King of Israel.



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