Nothing is impervious to Him. Nothing is resistant to His words and letters. Nothing. We all burn, we all scream from a place so deep that mouths are opened but nothing is heard. Our core wants to hope. We want to believe that an escape from Shawshank is possible but sometimes to hope for something too beautiful in a place so ugly carries the fear of failure. What if it doesn’t happen? Is this all that there is? What if it’s all a dream?

Nothing is impervious to Him. Nothing immune to His love. There is a redemption from this Shawshank. There is a hope worth trusting in. His library of books as essential as His spirit that turns the ignition barrel of my soul engine. I am alive. I am not in control.

Wird ja langsam wirklich lästig, in diesem Alter. Schön war -wirklich schön- dass mir mein Vater einen gigantischen Blumenstrauss geschickt hat! Ich habe noch nie im Leben einen Blumenstrauss geschickt bekommen! Ich dachte ich spinne, als der Postbote da dieses Riesenpaket angeschleppt hat.

Ansonsten, die Feier mit den Nachbarn war echt süß, wir mussten allerdings schon um 16:00 starten,weil einige Leute nicht so lang bleiben konnten, d.h. das Fass war um 20:00 leer und Ende der Party. Hat aber auch gereicht, ich bin gelinde gesagt ganz gut angeschickert. Dann kamen auch noch Moni und Martin vorbei, kaum dass ich wieder zu Hause war, das fand ich nun wirklich extrem nett! Wir haben also noch eins geköpft und ich bin langsam bettreif, mein Gott, um 10! Früher haben wir da eher bis am nächsten Morgen um 10 gefeiert. Man wird jetzt wirklich alt!

Und die Traurigkeit habe ich noch immer nicht ganz los. Ich habe grad noch etwas passende Musik gesucht, und das  passenste ist immer noch das unten anhängende. Was ich im vergangenen Lebensjahr an Genickschlägen hinnehmen musste hat ja schon alles übertroffen, was bisher da war, und leicht war es noch nie. Erstaunlich eigentlich, was man alles überlebt! Wie auch immer. Dass man dabei noch gesund bleibt, keinen Herzinfarkt bekommt oder zum Alkoholiker wird. Oder zum Psycho. All das hat sicher im letzten Jahr in einem gewissen Quantum auch stattgefunden, aber gottseidank so, dass es nicht ausgeartet ist. Gottseidank ist gut, nachdem ich nicht an Gott glaube. An was denn eigentlich? Auch so eine philosophische geburtstagsspezifische Frage. An was glaube ich eigentlich noch?

To engage. To start. To begin. The enjoyment, the satisfaction of being the first in the pool, ripples where no ripples had been. The first to walk on the snow, footsteps where once there was blanket white. To commence a new notebook, pages crisp, potential limitless. To start a new job, to open a new breakfast cereal, to wear a new outfit. Yes.

The mundane of the same, the pool becomes crowded and noisy. Changing rooms crammed. The snow turns to a black slush, everyone has walked. Notebooks don’t transpire into the document that would save my bacon, jobs are lost, cereals are finished and clothes become old.

Life is short. Life is long. This dilemma is the the very struggle of the core. We are physical. We are spiritual. Life is finite. Life is eternal.

My heart knows that there is a stage of completion in me. That I have begun, am engaging and will be restored. Completed.

Snow will be snow again, and with that the return of my wonder, for all things.

In my heart and in my hope I know that He began all of this and that He will finish it.

Position.

When steam restricts my view, when fog masks the landscape. When life obscures what is tangible, my heart can sink. I search for my foothold. My core needs a home. Somewhere to rest core bones, somewhere to call heaven. A place that doesn’t change but changes me. A word that is constant but that is constantly changing me. A love that is buried with my hurts and rose with my hope. When obscurity enters my life, I know where to stand.

The hope of up.

To lift, like the fisherman hauling up a net full of fish, lifted up, high for everyone to see.  To bring into ascendancy a broken man, a fearful man. To make him complete. Like Mephibosheth, expecting the worst and receiving the best. A dove that soars from a river scene. A star that rises in the night sky, a compass for some, a threat to others. A wave that swells over a boat. A friend raised from a dark cold place, love died and found a way back again. Rose up. Me. Raising the hope of a life without an end.

Free energy.

It all comes through to me, positive and negative, I have no control over my greater circumstance.  I could choose to burn when I have been burnt. I could choose hurt when I have been hurt.

I choose to take it all, good and bad, feed it all in and employ hope energy. A hope of a life that lives, it doesn’t die. A hope that springs back at rejection, hurt and disappointment. Like a car transferring momentum, I can transfer negative into positive. Some time ago an illustration similar to this took place at a wedding. The plentiful was turned into the scarce. The scraps into a feast, the few into many.

This is my journey from distortion to gem stone. From water into wine. From broken loaves and fishes into overflowing baskets, from an acorn to a tree. Planted in a well watered garden. Hope. Breathe.

Honesty.

How much distance between the truth of the world and where I rest my head? Neighbours or ends of the earth? Truth? Yeah, lives two doors away. Always coming round for a cup of tea and a slice of something squashy. Not the easiest of guests to be around but one of the most affirming.

Accept all.

Acceptance must be universal. Like roads we travel on or the bin bags we pack. Like sunrise and sunset, like hope, like restoration. They are for all, and treat all with parity. Acceptance must be universal, in those I see and those I do not. In the fabric of my relationships with everyone, acceptance must be universal.

Peri Peri Scope.

A mirror fixed somewhere in Heaven reflecting onto this troubled market town. A moving mirror, spotted in a market town attached on a word that became flesh exposing Heaven. A mirror on my heart, desperately seeking the word, to reflect, to shine, to glisten for a few moments in a troubled market town with word from Heaven.

My faith a periscope, a collection of prisms and mirrors. Seeing things that are otherwise out of sight. A revelation of what is above and up up and away. A tangible hope.

A mirror fixed somewhere in Heaven reflecting onto this troubled market town. A moving mirror in a market town fixed on a word that became flesh exposing Heaven. A mirror on my heart, desperately seeking the word, to reflect, to shine, to glisten for a few moments in a troubled market town with word from Heaven.

My faith a periscope, a collection of prisms and mirrors. Seeing things that are otherwise out of sight. A revelation of what is above and away. A tangible hope.

Acceptance must be universal. Like roads we travel on or the bin bags we pack. Like sunrise and sunset, like hope, like restoration. They are for all, and treat all with parity. My shopping bags do not argue with my load anymore than yours.

Acceptance must be universal, in those I see and those I do not. In the fabric of my relationships with everyone, acceptance must be universal.

How far from where I live? How quickly can I get there? How often can I see? At what point do I need to make travel plans? How far do I live from truth? How much distance between the truth of the world and where I rest my head? Neighbours or ends of the earth? Maybe it changes, the truth about others I can live closer to, but the truth about myself, that needs distance? Or the other way round? Or keep it all far away.

Far and lost.

I know truth is somewhere up north, but I haven’t kept in touch. Been such a long time since we last saw each other, I do send a Christmas card every year but to be honest, I have don’t have any intention of visiting.

Close and found.

Truth? Yeah, lives two doors away. Always coming round for a cup of tea and a slice of something squashy. Not the easiest of guests to be around but one of the most affirming.

Read from a book called Titus. I explore energy.

Energy like the momentum of a car travelling at speed and suddenly breaking, energy reaches me in all manner of ways. From positive to negative. Where I distribute that energy once it enters my life is part of the decision making process that needs to take place in my core being. How I choose to utilise that energy is the core understanding of who I am. I need clarity at all times to make those choices. I need clarity because without clarity the wrong choices can be made. Without clarity the wrong solutions employed.

It all comes through to me, positive and negative, I have no control over my greater circumstance. However how I react with the power that life affords me is a completely different supposition. I could choose to compound the rejection of parents and friends by rejecting others. I could choose to burn when I have been burnt. I could choose hurt when I have been hurt.

I choose to take it all, good and bad, feed it all in and employ hope energy. A hope of a life that lives, it doesn’t die. A hope that springs back at rejection, hurt and disappointment. Like the car transferring momentum, I can transfer negative into positive. Some time ago an illustration similar to this took place at a wedding. The plentiful was turned into the scarce. The scraps into a feast, the few into many.

This is my journey from distortion to gem stone. From water into wine. From broken loaves and fishes into overflowing baskets, from an acorn to a tree. Planted in a well watered garden. Hope. Breathe.

To lift, like the fisherman hauling up a net full of fish, lifted up, high for everyone to see. Raise profile like a politician, exploit virtues, cover up faults. Raise the standard like an athlete, pushing and breaking. To bring into ascendancy a broken man, a fearful man. To make him complete. Like Mephibosheth, expecting the worst and receiving the best.

To raise a flag, a marker for the masses in safety to see that the path is clear. The path is safe, the ripping and snapping of fabric unfurling against the elements, represents the sound of liberty. The land is free, the land is ours.

A dove that soars from a river scene. A star that rises in the night sky, a compass for some, a threat to others. A wave that swells over a boat. A friend raised from a dark cold place, love died and found a way back again. Rose up.

Me. Raising the hope of a life without and end.

When steam restricts my view, when fog masks the landscape, when an obstacle blocks my way. When life obscures what is tangible my heart can sink. I search for my foothold. Grass worn down, my place. I could find somewhere else to stand. I could move, and constantly be on the move. For my core though, it needs a home. Somewhere to rest core bones, somewhere to call heaven. Somewhere to name peace.

A place that doesn’t change but changes me. A word that is constant but that is constantly changing me. A love that is buried with my hurts and escapes with my hope.

When obscurity enters my life, I know to stand. Tall. Big on soul radar. Stand.

Ahh, the week that was began with an issue of equality. In Eden the measure was set, In the image of the three, He created man and woman, equal.

Moving into Wednesday I explored the five faces of hope; in words, in love, by demeanour, in faith and with integrity. To live only in words, would cause my hope to collapse, to live by love only would create a one dimensional object. To only live by demeanour would would cripple my soul. To have faith and no love would be like a heart of stone, to have integrity and nothing else would reduce me to a good man and not a God one.

By Thursday I was exploring the concept of who is my brother? who is my sister? A radical exploration in examining how I could interact with the world outside of my home. On Friday I looked at a spiritual bureau de change. Saturday, a day I decided to run for all might. Run away from that which destroys me. Run to that which restores me.

Yesterday I mused on living in a global society that is addicted to control and allergic to hope.

Restore me as I run into another week. With the faces of hope and a spiritual currency in my pockets that does not weigh me down but makes my soul lighter.

These hours are difficult to live in. A global society that is addicted to control and allergic to hope.

Where can I look for measure and consistency in a twisted world? There are no straight lines in a distorted map, only zig zag. There are the God stories, so solid that they retain a consistency that feeds order, and yet so fluid that they can dance by my side as age races me through life. God stories that retain their meaning but change their context.

These stories are the plumb-line. They remain straight, a standard measure. When hope allergies reach epidemic heights, when an outbreak of faith fear spreads, then the measure of God Stories will correct the in balance.

Stop. Read. Listen. Breathe. Adjust. Coronation. Run. Stop. Read. Listen. Breathe. Adjust. Coronation.

I am Catholic.  I converted to Catholicism in my early 20s and hold the faith close to my heart for many reasons.  But I have become increasingly disillusioned by the Church’s treatment of victims of sexual abuse, pro-choice Catholics, and LGTB people.  One thing that has motivated me to retain my Catholic identity is the good works the Church does through Catholic Charities.  In Denver I volunteered in a Catholic Charities Head Start program and saw how important their services were to low-income populations, particularly immigrant communities.  Catholic Charities has programs for the homeless, provides childcare, health care, legal services, and adoption services, and runs food banks and soup kitchens among other things.  There are a lot of good people doing a lot for social justice in the name of the Catholic Church.

So it felt like a punch in the gut when I woke up one morning to see that the Archdiocese of Washington is threatening to suspend all its social services in D.C. if the City Council passes a law allowing same-sex marriage.  (See WaPo article)  While I have long disagreed with the Church’s views on homosexuality, I never in a million years would have thought it would go so far as to use the community’s most vulnerable members as pawns in its quest to discriminate against gays.  These actions are so far removed from the teachings of Jesus, I am mortified that, as a Catholic, this was done in my name.  The only thing I could do was fire off an angry email to Jane Belford, the Chancellor of the Archdiocese.

Dear Chancellor Belford:

I am a Catholic living in Washington DC.  I attend mass at St. Augustine church.  I assure you, I will never attend another church in this diocese or give another dollar to the Church if you persist in your outrageous extortion of the D.C. City Council.  Discriminating against LGTB folks is despicable enough, but using the Church’s charitable work as leverage is truly reprehensible.  Today I am ashamed to call myself Catholic.  If something doesn’t change, I no longer will.

Sincerely,

Jenny Knopinski

Run away. Sprint from this place, to a better place. A 100 meter dash from the rubble to the Ritz. A race from distortion to gem stone. A scenario unusual in so many ways. A race that allows me to run back to the start. A race that has routes that will never take me to a finish line.

I am running away from my childish coping mechanisms, I am running away from my kiddish petulance. I am running into a maturity, one that is centred around my faith, like a jedi, like a monk, like an athlete, like a dancer. I run into a hopeless situation that is full of faith, I run into an army of peace, I run into an ocean of hatred that somehow has love flowing in its current.

run.

Wealth. A currency that transforms from Sterling to Euros. From Euros to Dollars

Wealth. Rich in a currency that transforms from faith into blessings. From hope into joy.

A choice, on earth to invest wisely. A soul bank deposited with diligence and wisdom from within my heart.

Real wealth is transferable from earth to heaven, anything else is counterfeit.

My relationship with those outside of my family home? Good friends and not so close friends? acquaintances and comrades? Buddies and true friends? In some ways this too like so much of the space in between humanity has been distorted. So many true aspects have been shoved in a wardrobe, forgotten in a drawer, left dormant in the attic. My relationship outside of the family home? Brothers and Sisters, Father and Mothers; family.

If a sense of family existed in the world, would I be so eager to trick my own brother? Con them into a sale? Flirt with my own sister? Lie, cheat, abuse or disempower? Seeing the world as family will not cure the distortion, no, only He can make all things new. With Him and in Him seeing the world as family can stop the decay and begin to turn back a tide.

True change can only work if it is instigated in the core of my being. My core belongs to Him. There is no grey or middle ground. I make no apologies for where I stand. In Him who was a word, then became flesh and slipped into humanity through an open stable door one night.

Make me whole. A prayer for a Thursday.

In word. In love. By demeanour. In faith. With Integrity.

A position, taken up when I was born maybe before. A position that needs to guarded, not in a defensive manner but in an expression of humanity. I could leave. I could relinquish my position to a decaying landscape. I could retire to a warmer, dryer, sunnier, more comfortable position. But this is my position. This is where I belong. A discipline to remain true to who I am and how I have been designed.

In this position to express Hope in words, in love, by demeanour, in faith with integrity. To live in words would only cause my hope to collapse, to live by love only would create a one dimensional object. To only live by demeanour would would cripple my soul. To have faith and no love would be like a heart of stone, to have integrity and nothing else would reduce me to a good man and not a God one.

I need the five a day in my life, everyday. To speak and in speaking those words matching up to my actions, which in turn match up to the way I hold myself or behave. What I put my trust in needs to connect with how I live my life and that will facilitate living a life of transparency, clarity and boundaries.

This is my journey, I take deeper into Him, the more I lose myself the more I learn about myself through Him. The journey is not linear or regular. Some days I am on a rocket and others I walk. Some days I feel I haven’t journeyed more than a few centimeters and other days I feel I have travelled a light year.

Looking in the mirror, I tell myself to stay focused and disciplined on the five a day, on my journey, from distortion to gem stone.

Man and woman created as an image of Him. Not separate but in unity they become a whole representation of Him. The aspects and virtues that come into focus a reflection of the aspects of a trinity that breathes and moves in 2009 as much as it does in 9Ad.

Equal, made to reflect the entire image of God. A connection. Like the connection we are brought into this world. Connected to our mothers until we are freed to seek another connection. Free to seek connections of the heart and of the soul.

Man and Woman, two parts of one. Designed to be one. Authority and leadership exist with men and women at the helm.

My wife will never be part of a small minded creche and neither will I.

This week that just past me, felt like a train rattling through on the opposite track. No sooner have I gone to sleep on a Monday full of work than I am here again on Monday morning. I am going to slow my clock down. Double up on days. A week lasts three days and one. Montueday, Wedthurday, FriSatday and Sunday.

I started the week looking at hope. To hope in hopelessness. This is faith. I will pursue with a hope like this. I must. In all situations.

On Wednesday I thanked God. For everything in my life. For the good and the bad. For the opportunity to see the bad become good and for the opportunity to thank Him for the good.

By the time I was at the Thursday part of my week I was thinking about, compartments that delineate. I don’t want any. Everything is spiritual. Everything.

Friday and the contemplation of order drifts into my thoughts. I like it. On Saturday I was drawn to write about that which is real and that which is counterfeit. Sunday a day of prayer. The power for hope and faith to shape words from my soul and for those words to go to Him and then back to me, not necessarily changing my circumstance but always changing me.

To hope, to thank, to see that everything is spiritual, to create order, to pray for an uncontaminated love, to pray.

The breadcrumb trail leads to a single prayer. The cards that built the house fell from a detached prayer making its lone journey years before. A collection of words born in the heart of a man, like a bouquet of flowers thrown up to the heavens, they are fashioned and clothed. Words that come from the heart, not perfect, not clever, not attention seeking and not pious. A prayer birthed on the lips of a congregation, a community with a resource of power rarely used. Prayer more effective than shaking angry fists, more transformative than campaigning for reform. Prayer a collection of drops that make a storm, teas spoons of matter that created the earth poured out from a bag of prayer.

Prayer, the oldest conversation to have existed. Before time began, before my heart thumped, there was prayer. Before I came into being He prayed for me, to me, in me. Prayer the longest dinner conversation, the broken bread and the sipped wine dipped into prayer.

My life needs wrapping, like a Christmas present, in prayer paper. A gift, all this life can cope with. A gift to all around. That somehow. In some way. Life. Will. Connect.

Prayer, nature has always maintained that relationship. The seasons pray, the tides pray, the hibernating slumbers pray as do the flocks of migrating birds. In the DNA of every breath is a prayer. The universe breathes and prays.

My destination is love, uncontaminated by self-interest or counterfeit faith.

Honestly I sit at the mirror, what part of my love is contaminated by self interest?

What part of my love is contaminated by counterfeit faith?

I pray for an uncontaminated love in my life.

I prefer the room to be tidy. A priority that changes when other factors are introduced into my day. There is a threshold for me, a point at which I will let go of the grasp to clean the room. My threshold is particularly low. Other people have much higher thresholds. Other peoples thresholds are so high that you can almost guarantee they have a tidy room every day. Other peoples thresholds are so low that you can almost guarantee they will not have a tidy room every day. When the room becomes so untidy it rises up the priority ladder and gets sorted out to a good standard.

I spend a small percentage of a working day looking for stuff; chargers and hard drives, codes and numbers. Maybe if my threshold were higher in tidying up the room, I would misplace less stuff? Maybe the sense of consistent order maintaining a tidy room would somehow permeate into maintaining a tidy life? Could there be so much significance in picking up clothes? Could my life really be connected by the threads of laundry and wardrobes?

I am reminded by the way of the Benedictine Monks, the order that was maintained. From the order comes a dialogue with Him. This room is the most important room in the house, it’s where prayers are prayed, it is where bibles are read and it is where dreams are dreamed. If this room is in a state of chaos physically what kind of spiritual terrain does that create?

I am inspired to create order, simplicity and fashion a consistency into creating a room with order and reverence. From the core of this house I want to create a place where the spirituality is in rhythm with the physical state.

Order. Dialogue. Rhythm. Hope

Unseen realities. A presence undetected. A truth hidden. A background love, like the backdrop of life we find ourselves in. As constant and as fluid as the seasons themselves. The mighty and the mundane, they sit together on the same sofa. The high powered and the incidental share the same pot of tea. The super courageous and the submissive constant eat from the same plate.

What is this that stretches beyond the scope of my pinhole camera vision? This? Why this is life said the voice, laughing like an angel.

I was taught at an early age that life moves fast and I need to move with it. My life always packed in boxes, always ready to go. This year, I unpacked everything. There are no boxes. Spiritual is everything. Everything is illuminated. Everything is everything.

Thank You. Thank You. I am here on earth, November 4th 2009 and am so grateful to Him for my life. Thank you for my wife; her formidable intellect and fairy tale beauty, her diamond faith and extraordinary love. Thank you for my eldest son; his capacity for goodness and honesty, his heaven kissed morality and his releasing consistency. Thank you for my youngest son; his passion and strength, his freedom of movement and his pollenhonesty. Thank you for my daughter; for her security and laughter, her prophetic voice and joy giving presence. Thank you for my life. I am so blessed to be alive today.

Somehow because I caught a glimpse of the end of the movie, no mater how far the scene looks from the final resolve, I continue to trust in what I saw. There are times when I worry that maybe it was a celluloid piece of trickery, that actually I never did see the end of the film, or indeed I did see the end, just not for this particular movie.

To hope is difficult enough, to hope when there is hopelessness is faith. I trust that His bridge will hold my weight, my faith. I know what I saw and because of that, I am happy to live my life. With hope and faith. Wrapped in love. I trust. I trust the ending, which means I can live holding onto life a little loosely. There will always be questions about the validity of the ending, however I wholeheartedly believe that the qualitative content of my life has improved so much that even if I am wrong about the ending, it still would have been worth it. Still.