Somehow We Become
(For all my writer girlfriends)
"As Jesus left the house, he was followed by two blind men crying out, "Mercy, Son of David! Mercy on us!" When Jesus got home, the
blind men went in with him. Jesus said to them, "Do you really believe I can do this? They said, "Why yes, Master."
"He touched their eyes and said, "Become what you believe." It happened. They saw." (Matthew 9:27-31, The Message)
Somehow we find each other in the dark. You are blind, and so am I. I hear you screaming and make my way to you. You hear me begging
and make your way to me.
Somehow we stumble toward Jesus, tripping and falling, and bloodying our raggedy knees. It's not like we get much help. We're often
misunderstood, you and me—a couple of blind chicks, trying to see Jesus, trying to write for him, in spite of our infirmities.
Somehow we understand each other. We are laughter pouring like fresh lemonade in the summer, down dry and thisty throats. We are
wind, blowing through dreadlocks and straight hair, a little bit freeing, a little bit wild. You pray for me, and I pray for you. I offer you
my meager substance, and in return, you feed me from your hand.
Somehow we find Him as he's leaving a house. We mourn what the dwellers there have lost. When Jesus moves, we want to move with Him.
He doesn't mind it that we're blind. He loves like that. He loves like He's blind, too, only better.
Somehow we find ourselves before him. We've followed him, straining to hear his voice and footsteps. We've moved beyond the teachers
who have said, "He's over there," as if we could see the direction they were pointing.
At His feet we lift our anxious, dirt-stained faces upward to the Father, smelling the the scents that linger where Jesus lives. I am glad
that you are here with me. It is fitting that we are together when we cry in one voice, "Have mercy on us."
"Do you really believe that I can do this?" Jesus asks, and we answer what we have known our entire lives. If we hadn't known, we would
not have looked for Him.
"Yes, Master."
Jesus touches our dead eyes, and suddenly we are blinded by the colors swirling about us. Images startle and surprise, and we weep. We
hold each other, because it's hard to understand all there is to see. Hang on to me, sister. Don't let me go. I need you.
I need you.
And it happens. We are what God has designed us to be. Pick up your scroll, your pen, your laptop. Write the vision. Make it plain. Be his
voice. Be the sound of wind, and the sweet nectar of the rain.
We leave His house, but not His home. We clutch each other's hands, smiling our secret smiles, but keeping our secret…
even though we tell it to everyone we meet.
(For all my writer girlfriends)
"As Jesus left the house, he was followed by two blind men crying out, "Mercy, Son of David! Mercy on us!" When Jesus got home, the
blind men went in with him. Jesus said to them, "Do you really believe I can do this? They said, "Why yes, Master."
"He touched their eyes and said, "Become what you believe." It happened. They saw." (Matthew 9:27-31, The Message)
Somehow we find each other in the dark. You are blind, and so am I. I hear you screaming and make my way to you. You hear me begging
and make your way to me.
Somehow we stumble toward Jesus, tripping and falling, and bloodying our raggedy knees. It's not like we get much help. We're often
misunderstood, you and me—a couple of blind chicks, trying to see Jesus, trying to write for him, in spite of our infirmities.
Somehow we understand each other. We are laughter pouring like fresh lemonade in the summer, down dry and thisty throats. We are
wind, blowing through dreadlocks and straight hair, a little bit freeing, a little bit wild. You pray for me, and I pray for you. I offer you
my meager substance, and in return, you feed me from your hand.
Somehow we find Him as he's leaving a house. We mourn what the dwellers there have lost. When Jesus moves, we want to move with Him.
He doesn't mind it that we're blind. He loves like that. He loves like He's blind, too, only better.
Somehow we find ourselves before him. We've followed him, straining to hear his voice and footsteps. We've moved beyond the teachers
who have said, "He's over there," as if we could see the direction they were pointing.
At His feet we lift our anxious, dirt-stained faces upward to the Father, smelling the the scents that linger where Jesus lives. I am glad
that you are here with me. It is fitting that we are together when we cry in one voice, "Have mercy on us."
"Do you really believe that I can do this?" Jesus asks, and we answer what we have known our entire lives. If we hadn't known, we would
not have looked for Him.
"Yes, Master."
Jesus touches our dead eyes, and suddenly we are blinded by the colors swirling about us. Images startle and surprise, and we weep. We
hold each other, because it's hard to understand all there is to see. Hang on to me, sister. Don't let me go. I need you.
I need you.
And it happens. We are what God has designed us to be. Pick up your scroll, your pen, your laptop. Write the vision. Make it plain. Be his
voice. Be the sound of wind, and the sweet nectar of the rain.
We leave His house, but not His home. We clutch each other's hands, smiling our secret smiles, but keeping our secret…
even though we tell it to everyone we meet.