Barefoot Soccer

This, this is not beautiful, not good; I cannot believe that. As God glanced over creation, a day of rest was deserved, but these scribblings on tortured wood are none such, not the perfect world. They are refined silver, not even gold, not yet. And it’s the first day, and five remain before I rest, before the coup de grâce following the fall from cleverness. Then is Sabbath, if I flood the world not, nor destroy it in fire, and I deem it worthy to breathe life up from dusty pages into my own.

oh, the doe, how graceful in motion

across the grasses, I envy your blur

of elegant, tangible wind

and the kite, swooping low,

up again, swimming in sky,

I jealously admire every dive -

and what of I?

barefoot in spotty grasses,

a long-limbed fawn

with wobbly legs,

existential mud between my toes -

when the spirit moves,

I imagine it thus: lovely

and untouchable, I feel it

tugging every string of me

asking me to run

as it brushes by with eyes

bluer than the heavens can be

melting my heart, my being,

by someone I cannot

imagine leaving I’ll never see again

Schrodinger, why me?

I crave what’s killing me

because it’s keeping me alive

holy spirit, have mercy on me

Where are you going, where do you go?

Are you looking for answers, to questions under the stars? (Dave Matthews)

Playing soccer as evening drew to a close, the sunset lighting the tips of the evergreens with slow fireworks, ribbons of red, streamers of purple cloud, golden sparks flying between the branches, roman candles celebrating the end of day. And the short green grass; the goals like the pearly gates of heaven: nothing can stop me entering; the laughing voices and comraderie, ah, it is everything.

If this is not heaven, what can it be? I’m just thankful Yeshua is on my team, because I’d hate to lose when everything is drawn so exquisitely.

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/barefoot-soccer/