Birth Day
I blow out the morning candle with a smirk as I utter “Happy birthday” into the stale air in the cabin of the RV. It’s early. Must be five by now. Today, I am standing. My knees usually hit the floor first thing upon arrival into a new morning. To praise God. To thank God. To ask for forgiveness. Guidance. Strength. Courage. Today I stand. And just recently, I hucked out a beautifully crafted live-edge makeshift altar that I’d been using for my morning practice for a few years now. It added unnecessary juju to my life so, though I admired it greatly, I tossed it out.
So here I am, no altar and I'm standing. This change of routine is sure to get the finest autopilot into a downward spiral. That… is the benefit of mixing things up. Not being on autopilot adds a little je ne sais quoi to a person's life, known as… living. So, I blow out the candle, say happy birthday, and grab a pen (that’s a euphemism for begin typing):
Every day. A celebration of birth.
Because without it, there would be no today.
Not my birth, the obvious precipice.
The curse lifted. The jury swayed.
The birth of Christ. His ascent in me.
Each day, He takes to climbing.
I supply the gear.
Every day, He makes the trek.
Travails through water and wind.
Travels far, near.
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In the morning, on the horizon.
Life awakens in this being.
Regardless of the Eve, He’s there.
Up, and Adam
As He breathes life into me.
Rise and shine.
Maranatha.
Rise, O Lord. Rise.
Through the turmoil and tribulation,
Tears feeding the souls.
Laughter from cries.
That’s… the celebration.
Worth celebrating.
That’s… the revelation.
Worth revelating.
That’s the good news worth shouting
And from the mountaintops I do proclaim:
Come, Lord Jesus. Come.
You are love, by another name.
Amen.
