behold: i am of small account.
behold: the Man.
behold: the Man.
i stood on the highest point of my roof and watched the light show: 360 degrees of fireworks, sparklers, bottle rockets, fireflies, the orange glow of city lights to the north. no stars. but full of light. this weekend had soul. listening to ella fitzgerald last night making coffee and sitting on the grass around a little bonfire with roshini and jono and maria talking about why Christ is worth it. worth everything. listening to nina simone tonight making art for the first time in a whole week praying for another 11-hour monday at work. challenging. but full of grace.
quite recently i realized that if i don’t see grace here, when i’m by myself, when it’s difficult, when it counts, i have no business waxing poetic on grace walking to a religion class on campus surrounded by my best friends. if i don’t praise Him in this storm, i have no business lifting my hands at the well on a clear thursday evening in september. so i’ve been looking for the light where i can’t see the stars. seeing jazz chords rather than dissonance.
